Story:
Traditionally, the ‘Hour of Wolves’ was anywhere between 3 and 5 am. Supposedly, it was the hour when Wolves would gather around the front door, presumably waiting for some fat human being to come tumbling out. It probably made sense in the days where privies hadn’t gotten any further than a latrine and a book with really soft pages. In this day and age, the concept of an ‘Hour of Wolves’ was ridiculous.
Wolves didn’t need to go for the door.
They lived inside minds.
The triplet wolves of fear and doubt and guilt circled Ilmarinen’s mind, haunting his every step. That was what the true Hour of the Wolves was; it was when that hour rolled around, giving you just enough reflection on the day before to realize your mistakes and feel horrible for them, and dread for the day ahead when you’d make more. It didn’t matter what had happened that day or what the next would bring; the wolves didn’t care. The mind didn’t care. Being human was basically going through life in a cesspool of anxieties. That was what the wolves did; they preyed on such things, bringing them to the surface. They were the things that held people back when they could've been something more.
A candle flame flickered, trying desperately to chase shadows away. The shadows refused to be frightened, and simply danced on the walls. ‘Walls’, they were called; they were thin enough that Ilmarinen could hear everything going on in other rooms (much do his dismay). Hell, he could stretch out his limbs and still touch two out of four of the walls. It was just a tiny room with a bed in it.
Even if it had been the biggest room in the world, it still wouldn’t have been large enough for Ilmarinen’s cramped mind. Admittedly, his work wasn’t helping much. Bits of paper were strewn around the room, crinkled up and tossed away, retrieved, flattened, and then crinkled up and thrown away again. Music wasn’t working very well as a distraction, but he was trying anyway. White hot terror streaked through his thoughts, no matter how he tried to chase it away. It was terror without words; it was the sort of thing that defined 'terror'. Oh, people tried to put words around it. Dictionaries and such. But this was the true raw deal, the emotion that came straight from the marrow.
What if the Wolves really are back? fear ate at his mind, chewing on his neurons at any chance it could get. Dad said that what happened was probably just an insane human who went mad from being alone in the woods too long. ‘The natives of Usana call it Wendigo,’ he told Ilmarinen once. ‘A spirit that invades men who have gone too long without food so that they turn to their own species for sustenance’. But Mum said it was Wolves. ‘Look at the footprints’, she’d always insist. They found footprints of Wolves the next morning, or so the rumors said.
Granted, they were only rumors. According to rumor, all sorts of things were going on.
‘Dogs’, Dad said. Had to be some particularly large dogs.
Ilmarinen wasn’t sure. Nervous fingers smoothed out another piece of paper and he hurriedly placed a few blobs of notes. The inspiration wasn't there. It wasn't even particularly good fear-music, the kind that made the blood race and heart pound, the inner ears of the brain hearing hounds at the bay.
Look at you, a voice in his mind sneered. The wolf of guilt chose to make an appearance, voice sickly snide, like a snake. Writing pretty tunes and lovely music, oh yes, that will protect people. What will you do? Threaten to play the fiddle at him?
It’ll come here, eventually.
You won’t be able to see it, because you’re pathetic.
You won’t be able to protect anyone.
Ink splattered on the page, completely obscuring the notes. It didn’t matter. It had been s**t anyway, at least according to doubt. Look at the page, all splattered with ink; even before the ink spilled, Ilmarinen’s handwriting was shaky and nigh illegible.
Ilmarinen let out a shuddering sigh and pulled his knees close to his chest. There were militias now. Men----and even a few women! Oh the scandal that was causing…----who joined to learn how to fight, so they could defend what was theirs. But they’d probably take one look at Ilmar and laugh; he was short. That was almost certainly pointed out by the wolf of doubt, the tiny little voice that always tried to stop people from being extraordinary.
The coppery-haired young man looked out the window. Snow plastered itself to the glass, like birds with really poor directional skills. The winds howled in sympathy with the triplet wolves. On nights like this, people vanished, swallowed up by the blizzards. Sometimes, they were found again. Sometimes, not enough of each person was found.
Ilmarinen's breathing steadied and he kept his gaze fixed on that snowy window, on the night sky just beyond the smeared glass. Fires burned. He'd never given up on anything in his life and this was a poor time to start. He sat up and put his feet flat on the floor.
Something was out there. It didn’t matter whether it was Wolf or man, it was dangerous and it had to be stopped.
Forget what the militia would say. He’d make them listen. He was Ilmarinen Dixon, for crying out loud! That meant never giving up. In fact, in his private dictionary, 'difficult' just translated to 'try harder'. 'Impossible' didn't exist at all. He glanced back at his music and carefully piled up the pages, hands now completely steady. Music and art would come later. Right now, it was time to fight.
Sooner or later, the Wolves, metaphorical, real, or simply just some poor insane sod, would come to the door.
Ilmarinen would make sure they burned before they got to his family or friends.
