Mikael was not brave, he was really nothing special. He’d struggled in most situations in his life and he doubted it would be any different here. He descended the steps to the room where the weapons were housed with slow caution, he felt like he should be afraid but he wasn’t. Instead there was a thrill of adrenaline he didn’t understand, it lifted him up from the mire of hopelessness he’d been inhabiting since he woke up and set him on his feet again. It was almost certainly dangerous but he simply didn’t have time to be worrying about things, after all for all he knew it might just be another dream. So he went on, meandering down into the dim light. It smelled like a museum, heavy with the smell of clay and dust with the atmosphere of a library layered on the top. Even his breathing felt like sacrilege in the silence, and though he was alone, he could swear he was being watched.
He passed rows and rows of tablets, some with strange patterns he could not make out, and wondered how he was supposed to know which was intended for him. Maybe they’d throw him out if he couldn’t find one, he thought hopefully, maybe he could just say he had no luck and they’d send him home again. After all none of these tablets seemed right for him, even the thought of touching them repulsed him as too personal.
Just when he was considering leaving the cove, he stopped in his tracks. There was that smell again, a rich damp smell of undergrowth, of leaves and trees after rain. It was so alien to this place and to the boy himself that he was momentarily overwhelmed by it, unsure whether to be impressed or afraid. And the smell seemed alive, twisting from rich loam and peat into the crisp smell of snow. It drew him forward as if he was being pulled by a tether and all his uncertainty was cleaved away. There was no more worrying about going home, no more anxiousness, simply motion.
He hadn’t spotted the tablet before, nestled in a low corner, but he saw it now as if it was the only tablet in the room. Emblazoned with an enormous wolf with a human hand clenched in its jaws, it called to him and he approached it.
A deep and deadly serious voice spoke directly into his thoughts, it spoke in a language he did not understand but bypassed the need for him to as it communicated meaning directly into his thoughts.
the Fenrir for we are many. But all of the pack are Fenrir. I permit you to call me Varg for that is your word for my kind. You will earn the right to call me my name. Until then you will turn your throat before my fangs, you will show me your belly or I will tear you from stem to stern. >
Mikael cowered though there was no one there, and seemingly satisfied the voice spoke once more.
And using instincts he was sure had never been present before, he called the weapon to hand. It was long and lethal, all swoops and sharp elegant lines.
“A rifle?” the boy asked, shocked. He was sure it was illegal for someone his age to have a gun. It was unmistakably a sniper rifle, beautiful and deadly.
He desummoned the weapon once more at its mental urging and did not voice his doubts. He did not think he could be any of the things the monster wanted of him, it seemed impossible, it seemed ridiculous. It had to be wrong.
<I do not doubt.> And the snarl rang out, all teeth and curled lip, visceral and primal, dragging icy talons along his spine, making him whimper aloud.
He left the cove and tried not to doubt himself further.
