#tenebrixs

Misguided as he was in his infinite loyalty to those who foolishly allowed the vague, mysterious words of the Norns to warp and twist their concern into something closely resembling fanatical devotion, zealous in their efforts to prevent the prophesied advent of Ragnarok. 

Arrogant in his belief that they knew better. That evil would visibly mark the outward appearance of one of its strongest advocates. 

So foolish. 

So naive.

“We are such supercilious, blinded fools,” Tyr—the only god brave enough to place his hand in the gargantuan maws of a wolf, knowing full well he would lose it—murmurs into his palm, a few errant strands of golden blond hair brushing his hand as he peers through his fingers at the unnaturally still, bound form of Fenrisúlfr. He hasn’t moved or howled or threatened or done much of anything since Tyr first sat near the rock face that acts as part of Fenrir’s prison, having chosen to keep said wolf company rather than break his fast with the others in the hall of the gods. 

Choosing  ( even )   to forsake the comfort of a warm, crackling fire amidst the resplendent hall where the Aesirs gather to commune in their free time and the strong, nigh euphoric feeling of camaraderie he once embraced like his oldest, closest confidante. 

That is, before he realized how easily one can fall prey to peer pressure, a mortal invention. 

A tendril of shame breaks free of the shackles that have anchored it to the farthest, darkest reaches of his mind and wraps around his heart, constricting. Indelible. Hurting.

Indeed, it hurts, the guilt that continues to tear away at his heartstrings, stripping him of everything sublime and beatific and without fault. 

“You despise us, do you not?” He says dully, not expecting an answer as he is already convinced of Fenrir’s deep loathing for what they have forced him to endure throughout these many, torturous years of imprisonment. “I do not blame you. We have certainly earned your wrath a thousand times over.”

“No.”

The growl is so faint that Tyr nearly misses it. 

But then the growl deepens, a rumbling force much like the stampeding frenzy of the draugr whilst in the midst of a hunt. 

His head snaps up in surprise, his hand dropping to his lap as he stares in almost stupefied disbelief at the strangely calm countenance of Fenrir, those piercing, lupine eyes spearing through his bewilderment and turning everything he knew  ( or assumed he did )   on its head.

“Do—not—hate.” Each word rumbles like thunder, like loose gravel bouncing around inside the bellows, rattling him to the core.

“I do not understand—”

“You. Are. Different.”

Tyr’s lips part, already on the verge of forming the denial dancing on the tip of his tongue. But the fierce look in Fenrir’s eyes stills his words, his mouth snapping shut as he rubs the back of his neck, the wolf’s words ringing with a truth he wishes he could deny.

“I allowed them to trick you...even offered to be part of it,” he whispers, deeply ashamed of the role he played in Fenrir’s unlawful confinement.

The wolf slowly lowers his massive head to the ground so that his snout nearly brushes against the Aesir, casually sniffing the air as if to test the sincerity underlining Tyr’s tone. “Had. To...Brave.”

Brave? Is that really what he thinks of him? “You can’t mean that.”

Fenrir cocks his head questioningly.

“Brave would be letting you go. Brave would be taking the others to task for imprisoning you. I have done neither.”

“Yes. Brave.” The growl is surprisingly soft for one his size.

Tyr’s eyebrows squish together, agitation paramount in the way the electric blue of his gaze skitters away from Fenrir’s. “You can’t mean that,” he repeats pointedly, striving for stoicism—practically willing the other to retract everything he has said thus far. Retraction would, at the very least, air the possibility of dubiety. And dubiousness could possibly lead to fallacy. A fallacy he is determined to embody, as he refuses to accept that he is different from his family. He was there when they trapped him, after all, which essentially makes him guilty by association.

“I am so—”

“Don’t,” Fenrir huffs tiredly, his strength beginning to leave him, as it always seemed to do at this time. The curse of Gleipnir.

Tyr heaves a soft sigh of resignation at Fenrir’s growled demand, settling in for a night of comfortable, companionable silence and deep reflection. 

But when the much larger male exhales his own sigh, a burst of warm breath gusting across the blond’s face, Tyr lifts his hand, extending it toward Fenrir until his palm comes to rest against the slightly quivering snout of his companion, finding comfort in how quickly the wolf calms at his touch.

“I’ll bring you venison next time. A bountiful supply of venison, freshly caught.”

Fenrir grins that wolfy grin of his, tinged with mischievousness, a terrifying sight to behold.