His Flesh burned away, and about his bones the flames seared the Old Pattern: the self he had worn before the First Memory, when he had first leapt from the Primordial Sea and Became. In the moments before he was stripped of all that he was, as the nulltides of his unmaking rose to erase his name, then alone did Ashushtar surrender to the dream.
He remembered the wolf.
It stood before the host of heaven, under the light of Sun and Moon, and held fierce vigil all the same, as a living cliff. It rolled its heft through its litheness, effortlessly as it approached the First of the Titans. Its eyes were as embers buried in storm-dark ash, its breath as hot as the forge-winds of Anu.
We each saw the echo of the Sun within the Great Beast. He was as blinding as his forefather, and we were in awe of the Wild, for she had made what could not be made. She had painted the story of The First and now there were two.
Under the moonlit winds, its fur glistened and stirred, and its violence was stark and true. When Sin placed a gentle palm upon its reddened maw, its hunger and teeth were made known, and she saw its truth.
But the Sun spoke without pride.
“You are my shadow, strong and fierce. The flame that burns in your belly and would strike before it bends; it is my own fractured heart.”
And The First of her champions had turned to face its father, and under the rays of the sun, it softened. Awash with golden fury, it softened. And the embers of its eyes drew still, as though awaiting its inheritance. The First of Titans placed his hand upon the brow of The First of the Great Beasts.
An unusual restraint took him as he spoke. We did not know why. We did not know what he intended when he said:
“If you are made in my image, let none mistake what I see when I look upon you. I see a flame that shall drive back the dark. I see the beacon lit in the night, that your brothers may follow in faith. But I see that your flame shall not warm your brethren. You are mighty. But might alone is cold beside the dying.”
In the deep glades, the Wilds stilled for their mother, who returned with the Great Beast. Wind slipped through branches and sung sweetly, for her mood was gentle when she came forward. The wolf nestled in the cradle of an oak, and Ninhursag nestled into his fur, and she had shed the mantle of the warrior from her.
Two of her many arms smoothed and fluttered to thin, delicate wings – as those of her songbirds, and the light above passed through them and formed iridescent patterns upon the glade floor.
Her countenance was sweeter, and it was known only to her children; for only they were made to be her equals.
We misunderstood her. We knew not of her art. We were wrong of The First, The Wilds, and The Beasts. For though The First was of the Sun’s pattern, his heart was unmistakably of his maker. And so she spoke, leaning into him:
“Yes, I had made you thus. I gave you his strength, so that you would stand without retreat. For I did not serve him for his victories, but for when we had felt the trembling of the seas, he remained.”
We remembered the shiver. It was cold and drew from all around, for the foul creatures dragged it from the sea foam from whence they spawned. We felt the earth tremble with the seas, and we knew immediately of the coming darkness. We did not all choose the same side.
“While others counted the dead, he remained. When grief hollowed out his ribs and filled them with ash, still he remained.”
And she wrapped her arms around the Great Beast’s neck and said:
“You are no mere creature of rage alone. You are made for that quality in him that chooses to remain, so that you might always come to my side. Will you answer my call, whatever may lie ahead of us?”
And the wolf closed its eyes and rested, as though this was an answer in itself.
“You are...the thesis of my love. And so, I love you dearly.”
Yet ages passed, and the earth groaned beneath blood and silverlight, and all things made in defiance would one day meet defiance in return. We knew this, but we could not foresee that the hands of our unmaking would be our own.
So came Sin, pale sovereign of the cold and watchful dark, who held slender beauty not unlike the poiseful viper, coiled at the edge of the still water beside the grave. And in her hand she bore no great spear nor roaring flame, but a blade so thin that it seemed a line of moonlight.
And we witnessed an offence so great that henceforth would the name of Sin be stained, such that its invocation came to mean transgression against the sacred law.
Before her stood the wolf, older now, vast and shaped by its scars. Its fur was now matted with the memory of war, its breath slow with the burdens of endurance, and though it knew it could stand no longer, it remembered the serenity of the glade. She was harsh, for war had scarred her just the same:
“Your love is but an ill-begotten monument, unwilling to bend. When choice hardens thusly, it is nought more than tyranny,” and her breath was laboured. “And should even the noblest of beasts not bend...”
The First lunged.
“...then it shall break!”
And it bore its teeth, in ancient faith, as though each battle belonged to the first cause for which it fought.
But Sin moved as the winter chill moves across the open field – without haste. Without mercy. And her thin blade passed through the air unseen.
And entered the wolf at the brow, and set itself within the great oak.