{"sf1_id":1722065,"sf2_id":"rn9pd0mD","title":"Ragnarok - XXV","author":"Rob MacWolf","words":2576,"posted_at":"2021-05-25T18:15:00.000Z","tags":["Epic","Iambic pentameter","Poetry","blank verse"],"url":"https://fse.anthro.fr/stories/1722065-ragnarok-xxv","original_url":"https://sofurry.com/s/rn9pd0mD","image_url":"https://cdn.sofurryfiles.com/submissions/thumbnails/86/c4/86c4afd6-8a14-48af-835e-1e1333fd0067","description":"#26 of Ragnarok\n\nCW - Death, Animal Cruelty, Torture, Claustrophobia, Online harassment, Multiple Sclerosis\nIn order to reach Varr and the Old Man, Shane must force his way through the Sulfur Carrier's soul.\nApologies for the rough content, but it's necessary. I had to think of examples of the urge to destroy something for literally no reason.","content":"Darkness, and the stench of rotten eggs\n\nTo make his eyes water. If he had held\n\nHis hand before his face, Shane could have seen\n\nNo glove, no fist, no color or outline.\n\nHe did not bother to. He blinked the sting\n\nOut of his eyes, and strained toward the depths\n\nTo which the bittersweet was pulling him.\n\nAs when he had plummeted through high clouds\n\nSo white they made the lightning flash look dark\n\nHe felt their coolness stroke him, like clean sheets,\n\nSo now he felt the brush of coils of smoke\n\nHeavy and oily, reeking of decay.\n\nInstinctively Shane knew the urge to cough\n\nFor a trap, meant to make him lose the sprig\n\nOf bittersweet clamped in his teeth, and told\n\nHimself that he was dead, and had no need\n\nTo breathe. And soon the urge to cough had passed.\n\nAnother bank of smoke, and on his chest,\n\nHis shoulders and his face, and down his shins\n\nAnd everywhere that plowed the smoke head-on,\n\nAn itch spread like salt-water up the sand\n\nWhen tide rolls upward, dark, devouring.\n\nIt ground his skin until it seemed that he\n\nWas covered in red ants. Shane clenched his teeth\n\nAnd told himself his body turned to earth\n\nBeneath a stone, under grey frozen grass,\n\nThat he himself had seen not long ago\n\nIn a city he'd never see again.\n\nThe itch passed over him, and soon was gone.\n\nAnother plume of smoke, thicker this time,\n\nAnd suddenly Shane could not feel the wind\n\nRush past him as he fell. He could not feel\n\nHis body's motion onward, nor the wide\n\nAnd empty spaces spun beneath his face.\n\nThe smoke around him seemed petrified, and\n\nHimself entombed, barely able to move,\n\nWithin a tiny crack no wider than\n\nHis body in a flawless, featureless\n\nAnd infinite expanse of solid stone.\n\nAs does a caver, delving in the depths\n\nWhere sun has never shone, nor wind has stirred\n\nSqueezing his way through some deep place, stop short\n\nAt sudden realization just how much\n\nThe mountain heights above him weigh, and feels\n\nHow very little needs the rock to shift\n\nTo bring each pound of it down on him, trapped\n\nFor days, for weeks maybe, while he is crushed\n\nMillimeter by millimeter in\n\nA light-starved place, so did the smoke hold Shane,\n\nHis muscles straining but motionless, his\n\nHeart pounding but barely able to beat.\n\nBut through his teeth, he felt the bittersweet\n\nPull, wiggle, wax and wane, and with a swell\n\nRelief first, then of anger, knew the cheat\n\nThe claustrophobia practiced, for the sprig\n\nOf autumn's flower told him he yet moved.\n\nAnd as he felt the rigid closeness melt\n\nAnd slip behind him, he did not hear but feel\n\nA voice under the smoke _'So you are brave._\n\n_That will not matter. Bravery burns too._\n\n_And brave man's ashes are no different_\n\n_From cowards'._\u0026nbsp;Though it seemed the voice was close\n\nEnough to whisper, far ahead a glow\n\nNot of light made, but light reflected, like\n\nThe eyes of some wild beast in the wide night\n\nThat does not dare to show its face past dawn,\n\nLike distant headlights. _'Do you think you can_\n\n_With all your strength of purpose, all your will,_\n\n_All of your bravery break through my hold?_\n\n_You are a fool. The world you seek is mine_.\n\n_And like all that is mine, soon it will be_\n\n_Ashes and smoke. And those too I shall burn_\n\n_Until there is nothing but dark nothing_\n\n_Forever and forever and amen.'_\n\nShane felt it giggle, and its laughter was\n\nLike fingernails upon a chalkboard, like\n\nThe grinding of bone fractured on itself,\n\nLike biting down too hard on splintered wood.\n\nShane clenched his fists and fanned his anger hot.\n\nAhead of him, beneath the lights there shone\n\nA sawtoothed mouth, malevolent and pleased\n\nWith its malevolence. The gaping eyes\n\nAnd shark's grin glowed with the same sick, soiled light\n\nAs if all were but shaped holes in the iron\n\nOf a hellish lantern. _'You cannot win_.\n\n_There is the worlds, and me. The worlds are small_\n\n_And fragile and ephemeral, and I_\n\n_Am an infinite emptiness that spreads_\n\n_In all direction around all of them._\n\n_Each second do I eat inward, until_\n\n_All is eaten away, then every thing_\n\n_Will be alone in an infinite room_\n\n_Of blackness, with me standing just behind_\n\n_And smiling at them for eternity.'_\n\nShane seemed no nearer, but now he could see\n\nImages flicker in the gleaming eyes\n\nLike momentary portents in a fire-\n\n-A man in a grey raincoat waited in\n\nA screen of bushes. Within easy reach\n\nWas the sidewalk. Soon the young girl\n\nHe had been following for weeks would come\n\nThrough the sulfur-hued streetlights. If she was\n\nWith friends or family, then he would watch\n\nIn silence, and go silently away.\n\nIf she was alone, then there would be\n\nThe screams, and then the blood. And he would smile.\n\nHe would return each night. Eventually\n\nShe would walk past alone. He was patient-\n\n-The foremost of the surging horde stopped short,\n\nFor on the monastery door there had been carved\n\nA statue of a saint. His eyes were wise\n\nAnd sad, his hands were slim and graceful, and\n\nHis beard was carved into delicate folds\n\nLike curtains in a gentle breeze. Before\n\nHe stooped to join his fellows in the sack\n\nAnd plunder of the sacred riches, he\n\nBrought down his axe upon the marble face\n\nUntil it was but shapeless pebbles- -In\n\nThe warm not-quite-dark of the summer's night\n\nThrough the green pregnant fields drifted a whiff\n\nOf black cancerous pollen. The gold ears\n\nThat autumn would be bloated with the weight\n\nOf slow, flavorless poison- -In the high\n\nBack stair, where light was dusty and smelled stale\n\nThe flies who did not comprehend why they\n\nCould not fly through the windowpane were caught\n\nCarefully, one by one, by a small boy\n\nWho delicately pulled off each small leg\n\nAnd then the one wing, and then the other, and\n\nWatched fascinated as in agony\n\nThey wrothe helpless toward a helpless death-\n\n-In half a dozen rooms lit only by\n\nThe wan cerulean of computer screens\n\nThe men who did not know eachothers' names\n\nMade plans to ruin the career, the home,\n\nThe reputation, and the friendships of\n\nAnother man that they had never met.\n\nOne said perhaps this one would take his life\n\nAnd all the others laughed aloud- -Behind\n\nThe double-wide, blue-painted, brick garage\n\nA woman held a garden hose to wash\n\nHer hands of fear urine, and thought of the\n\nSmall puppy sealed inside a plastic bag\n\nThat she had left out in the woods. The boy\n\nNext door did not yet know his dog was gone;\n\nThe dog was not dead yet. It would take hours\n\nTo suffocate completely, and those hours\n\nShould be enough to bring the boy from school.\n\nIt would amuse her, were the times to match.\n\nShe smiled to herself, turned off the hose,\n\nAnd went inside to make a cup of tea-\n\n-In the high temple, firelight and gold\n\nIllumined the proud faces with the strict\n\nPrecise profiles of highest birth in rouge,\n\nIn robes of finest silk, in silver chains,\n\nWith diamonds dripping from their necks and brows.\n\nFine wines were there, in lapis studded cups,\n\nAnd delicate pastries. But no music.\n\nMusic would have obscured the infant cries\n\nAs they were thrown alive into the flame\n\nOf the immense bronze furnace- -The shop girl\n\nHad been watching the counter for long hours,\n\nAs artist upon artist came to her\n\nFor paints, for canvas, for quill and foolscap,\n\nAnd each talked of the great things he would do\n\nTill she was sick to death of beauty quite.\n\nWhen one spoke of a stained glass window, she\n\nGushed flippantly how stained glass always made\n\nHer wish to see bricks thrown. None laughed, and she\n\nEmbarrassed, shrugged and said it was a joke,\n\nAnd in her heart she itched to throw the brick-\n\n-A man lay sleeping, sheets tangled around\n\nHis feet like pasta on a fork. The fan\n\nSpun on the ceiling almost too slowly\n\nTo stir the thick dark air. The orange streetlights\n\nShone slanted up the wall. And in his brain\n\nThere was treason. His blood slowly burned out\n\nSmall patches of his mind, like cigarettes\n\nPut out scorching against the carpet. He\n\nWould one day soon wake up to find his eyes\n\nWere dead, or that he could no longer walk,\n\nOr that he could no longer swallow food,\n\nOr that he would no longer wake at all,\n\nUntil that day the traitor blood rotted\n\nSilently and unstoppably- -The saw\n\nWith which his great-grandfather father cut the trees\n\nThat built the house in which his grandfather\n\nWas born and raised, sat out upon the porch.\n\nThe rain and wind beat down on it. The roof\n\nAbove began to buckle and to rot.\n\nThe saw itself was older than most men\n\nLive to remember. Things were made to last\n\nBack in the days when it was forged. From time\n\nTo time the young man would pause as he passed\n\nAnd give the saw a long considering look,\n\nAnd then ignore it once again. The rust\n\nWas close now to the center of the blade.\n\nA month more, and it would be finished- -Deep\n\nUnder the mountain's heart, a lightless hole\n\nWith every precious thing was full: red gold,\n\nWhite silvers, gems of each color and cut,\n\nWrought into rings and cups, strung upon crowns,\n\nThe storied wealth of countless kingdoms past,\n\nAll lost. Upon them brooded a grim shape,\n\nBat winged and demon clawed. The only light\n\nThat ever glinted off the facets was\n\nThe dull reflection of its molten breath.\n\nIn ages past, it had plundered the lands\n\nAs far as it could fly. Too heavy now\n\nTo rise aloft, too thick to even leave\n\nIts riches-mattressed catacombs, it lazed\n\nHoarding more stolen fortunes than a king\n\nCould have imagined in his dreams of greed.\n\nFor all the use they were, they might as well\n\nHave all been dirt and gravel- -In the wide\n\nCicada haunted summer twilight, the\n\nSmell of dry jasmine turned to gasoline\n\nAnd on the porch the dark eyed man threw down\n\nThe empty fuming can. He struck a match.\n\nHe watched the upstairs window through the flame\n\nAnd, smiling, hoped someone was sleeping there-\n\n-Somewhere the skeletons of weeds were rank.\n\nSomewhere the iron brambles tangled grey.\n\nSomewhere the almost rain hung overhead\n\nSullen and solid, hunkering upon\n\nThe low hilltop that pulled horizons in\n\nAnd made the universes nothing more\n\nThan this shallow depression in the weeds.\n\nA small boy crouched beneath a withered ash\n\nGathering tinder half dry-rotted. In\n\nHis hand he held the lighter he had been\n\nForbidden from touching, and on the ground\n\nHis little sister's favorite doll lay\n\nFace down. Its hair was carefully braided.\n\nIts dress was smudged with mud. He snatched it up\n\nOnto the tiny woodpile, and he flicked\n\nThe lighter expertly. The flickering\n\nPainted his slow, wide, sharklike, joyless grin\n\nA sulfur colored jack-o-lantern orange-\n\n-Shane shook himself aware. The voice had been\n\nWhispering at him for some time. Did it\n\nKnow he had seen into it? _\"You are wrong_\n\n_If you believe\u0026nbsp;the Old Man, he'll not help.'_\n\nHad he been meant to wallow in them, and\n\nBe swallowed in the hypnotizing hiss\n\nAnd digested in visions of despair?\n\n_'He is not who you think he says he is._\n\n_He is not who he lets you think he is.'_\n\nOr was there no intent, and nor no plan?\n\nShane hardened in his mind that everything\n\nThe lies, the miasma, the thousand forms\n\nThat malice showed him, were the Enemy,\n\nAs much as fists and heart and soul were him.\n\n_'If he is playing Odin, I play Surt_\n\n_and Fenrir, and the Worm Ouroborous.'_\n\nNo nearer, and Shane knew not how to push\n\nCloser through the unlighted emptiness.\n\n_'And you are here alone. How does it feel?'_\n\nBut his anger was all awakened now\n\nAnd anger in its fullest righteous bloom\n\nIs all senses unto itself. It told\n\nShane he was close enough to spit. He did.\n\nHe spat the sprig of bittersweet into\n\nThe gaping molten maw. It snapped fast shut.\n\nThe whispering cut off. Around him the\n\nBlank emptiness convulsed, and the fell voice\n\nDissolved into long screams broken by coughs.\n\nNot heeding the impossibility\n\nShane pounced, fists raised, already raining blows\n\nAnd on the first few impacts, the darkness\n\nCrumpled and crunched, like dead leaves underfoot.\n\nThe seeming hugeness looming over him\n\nDissolved like cobwebs in a burning house\n\nAnd for a split second Shane clearly saw\n\nThe Sulfur Carrier. It was not large.\n\nIndeed, it had the stature of a child.\n\nIt was not broad. It was sickly and thin.\n\nBut still its eyes shone hate. Shane did not slow\n\nHis charge. He stuck its seeming fragile bones.\n\nIt howled again in pain, it flailed its arms.\n\nShane felt the flash of pain across his chest\n\nAs one thin claw touched him, but he was past\n\nCaring for pain, for life or death. He did\n\nNot even feel his anger, and he fought\n\nAs if time were asleep. He did not need\n\nFear or anger. He had no fear and he\n\nWas anger. Now the Sulfur Carrier\n\nCame at him from the right, and seemed to take\n\nAn age to bring its claws toward his face.\n\nHe simply bent his knees, and its long arm\n\nWent harmlessly above his head. So he\n\nPushed off with his back foot, and buried his\n\nStrong right fist in its famine-lined ribcage,\n\nAnd even as he heard them snap, he had\n\nEnough time to observe that it had more\n\nRibs than it ought, and they did not align.\n\nNow came its left, from underneath, to claw\n\nOpen his stomach and rip out his bowels.\n\nShane dropped his left hand like a bomb onto\n\nIts wrist, and crushed it on the unseen floor\n\nAnd when it stumbled forward, shot his right\n\nUp underneath its jaw, shutting its grin\n\nSo hard that shark-like teeth eachother ripped\n\nOut of their roots. Now both claws came at once\n\nOne right behind the other. Shane stepped toward\n\nHis foe, bending an inch out of the way\n\nAnd then within the circle of its arms\n\nLaid three quick blows, felt them echo along\n\nHis arms. The Sulfur Carrier tried to\n\nSnatch at his throat, but racking coughs again\n\nErupted from its chest, and paralyzed\n\nIt could but whimper as Shane knocked it flat\n\nWith a sole uppercut. Again it came\n\nNow bruised and broken, and Shane beat it down\n\nAgain, deftly and effortlessly, like\n\nA diagram of how to box against\n\nThe devil. A third time it arose and came,\n\nHowling in hate, bleeding brimstone in pain,\n\nAnd spasming at bittersweet inside.\n\nShane almost felt the moves he made before\n\nThe time had come to make them, as a man\n\nWho every song has mastered can forehear\n\nThe song's next note inevitably. It\n\nFell battered and bruised over his shoulders,\n\nAnd Shane stood, only barely out of breath.\n\nHis triumph singing in his blood, so that\n\nHe missed the meaning of his victory.\n\nAnd blinked bewildered when he realized\n\nHis foe was fled, and now he was alone\n\nWith no more bittersweet to guide him on.\n\n  \n  \n\n","series":{"name":"Ragnarok","previous":"https://fse.anthro.fr/stories/1721656-ragnarok-xxiv.json","next":"https://fse.anthro.fr/stories/1722326-ragnarok-xxvi.json"}}