Wolf Thoughts

Beginnings are odd things.

I always have trouble with them. I can generate the grand scenes, develop the plot, write down the history to the nth degree... but actually starting the story? God forbid.

So I shall obey the piece of wisdom that my mother always imparts when I struggle to say something: burble.

Some of you may know me, some may not. It doesn't particularly matter. I have many, many names - some might know me as Shard, some as Mortis, and some even by my real name, Joshua. Here, in this strange little world of ideas and thoughts that I hope to create, I am Fenrissen.

So your first question, no doubt, is "Why Fenrisian Ashes? What does it mean?"

I've always been fond of Norse mythology. Although I enjoy the old Greek myths, and have some fascination with Egyptian legends, it is the Norse gods that I always return to. Zeus always seemed complacent; the guy had no challengers, all the old wars over, and he was able to transform and ravish any woman he liked. Compare that to Odin, a solid bastard who literally sacrificed an eye for wisdom, and who was destined to die fighting the great wolf, Fenris.

Which brings us to Fenris himself. The son of the trickster god Loki and a giantess, the brother of Hel, Queen of the Dead, and Jormungand, the serpent so great that it encircled the world and swallowed its own tail. The wolf that never stopped growing, and could only be bound by a ribbon made from the roots of a mountain, the breath of a fish and the beard of a woman.

Safety tip: dwarves are sneaky buggers.

The story of Fenris was one of my favourites. He broke every shackle placed upon him, until the Asgard despaired of holding this creature that they were beginning to fear so; and so they went to the dwarves, and obtained this strange ribbon, made from things that supposedly do not exist.

Fenris eyed the ribbon suspiciously, and refused to be bound in it, suspecting trickery - for every time before, the binding had been something of a game. The gods persuaded him by allowing one of their number, Tyr, to place his hand in Fenris' mouth - and when the great wolf realised that he truly was bound to the spot, he tore the hand off, before being left to wait until he was set free.

Which brings us to Ragnarok, the Norse apocalypse myth. Fenris breaks free, and Odin goes to fight him - but the wolf has grown so large that he swallows the King of the gods in one bite, before himself falling to vengeful rage of Thor. Then, as the death and carnage reaches its peak, the world is burned to ashes by a giant. But it's ok, because a man and a woman are safe within the burned trunk of Yggdrasil, the World Ash, and they emerge to make a new world.

This last part made me think, and led me to write a poem that I have, sadly, lost. It retold the story of Ragnarok, with a little twist; the idea that it has already happened, and the world that we live in is the world rebuilt from the ashes.

Everyone at my creative writing club thought it was your average teenage emo depression poem, which is where I learned the truth of the stereotypical poet's cry: "Nobody understands me!" In truth, it was an answer to a question; why do I write?

The short version is that... well... the real world is fundamentally dull.

There are other stories I could tell about how I ended up writing this, but they can keep. For now, my dear readers, consider your own wolves...