Silent Gods

The place was called The Drowned Stag.

The name was written on a sign of rotten wood, hung crooked above a scratched metal door. The paint was chipped, the letters almost illegible, as if someone had tried to erase them and the place had resisted. The neon light above the entrance flickered, a blue glow that seemed on the verge of going out for years.

Askel hadn't read the name.

He didn't care.

He had gone in because the door was slightly open, and from underneath came the sound of distorted guitars.

A call.

Or a hole in the world where you could disappear.

Inside it was dark.

Real dark.

Not the kind of dark that bars fake for atmosphere.

Cellar dark. Secret dark. Dark of things that don't want to be seen.

It smelled of old beer, sweat, burnt cigarettes, and something deeper: a smell of salt.

Of sea.

Of wet wood.

The counter was made of dark wood, marked by scratches and scars.

The bartender had a long, gray beard and eyes that asked nothing.

Eyes that had seen too many people walk in to escape something.

Askel had sat down.

He'd ordered a beer.

Then another.

Then another still.

The music was low, distorted, as if someone had recorded a song in an empty room and left it to rot.

Askel didn't listen to it.

He used it.

Like he used the beer.

Like he used the silence of the other customers.

They didn't talk to each other.

They didn't look at anyone.

They were shadows.

And he was one of them.

The place seemed to breathe.

The walls trembled slightly, as if there was an engine underneath.

Or a heart.

The rune on his back was cold.

But not entirely.

It was like a closed eye that dreams.

A restless dream.

Askel didn't know how long he'd been there.

An hour.

Two.

Maybe more.

The beer was warm.

His head heavy.

The world outside felt distant, as if New York were a memory and not a city.

---

Then, all of a sudden, the music stopped.

Not slowly.

Not with a click.

It stopped as if someone had ripped the cord from the wall.

Silence fell over the place like a weight. Askel felt the emptiness in his ears, a white hum that hadn't been there before. His head throbbed. The warm beer in his stomach.

He looked up.

The bartender was staring at him.

Not with hostility. With something worse: with recognition. As if he knew him. As if he'd been expecting him.

Askel opened his mouth to say something. Nothing came out.

But before he could speak, a girl approached him.

She was drunk. Very. Glassy eyes, crooked smile, her body swaying like a ship in a storm. A half-empty glass in her hand, the liquid almost spilling with every movement.

"Hey…" she said, dragging her words. Her voice was slurred, slow. "You're… handsome. Or strange. Or both."

Askel didn't answer.

She laughed. A broken sound, without joy. She came closer, too close. The smell of alcohol and cheap perfume entered his nostrils.

"Come with me," she whispered. Her mouth was close to his ear. "Come on. I want… I want something different."

Askel could have ignored her. He should have. But the rune on his back pulsed — a dry, sudden beat, like a punch against his spine.

The girl took his arm. Her fingers were warm, damp.

"Let's go to the bathroom. No one will bother us."

Askel didn't want to. But the rune pulsed again. Stronger. A wave of heat that rose up his back and exploded at the nape of his neck.

And he stood up.

He followed her down the narrow hallway. The walls were of dark wood, scratched, covered in writing. The lights flickered. The bathroom door closed behind them with a dull sound, like a coffin being shut.

The girl leaned against him. She was laughing. Her body was limp, weightless.

Her hands traveled over Askel's pants.

"Let me see…" she said, pulling at his hoodie. "Let me see what you're hiding."

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Askel tried to stop her. He grabbed her wrists. "This isn't a good idea."

She didn't listen. Her hands slid over his back, under his shirt.

And they touched the rune.

The contact was immediate. Violent. As if she had put her hand on a red-hot iron.

The girl screamed.

A high-pitched scream, full of terror. The sound bounced off the bathroom tiles, cut through the air like a knife. She pulled back, stumbled, fell against the wall. She looked at her hand as if it were no longer hers.

The skin was red. Burned. As if she had touched fire.

"What the fuck are you?!" she shouted. Her voice was hoarse, broken. "What the fuck are you?!"

Askel didn't answer. The rune burned. His head spun. The beer in his stomach had turned to acid.

The bartender came running. He threw the door open with a jerk. He looked at the girl. He looked at Askel. His eyes were hard, scared.

"Out!" he yelled. "Get out of here!"

Askel tried to explain. "I didn't mean to—"

"I don't care!" The bartender shoved him. His hand was strong, angry. "Get out of my bar! Now!"

Askel reacted on instinct. Fear. Confusion. The rune pulsing like a crazed heart.

The punch came by itself.

It wasn't elegant. It wasn't controlled. It was just a blow. Dry. Brutal. The bartender's jaw snapped to the side with a wet crack that echoed through the place like a breaking branch. Blood sprayed from his lips, a black trickle that ran down his chin and stained his shirt.

The man staggered. His eyes went blank for an instant. Then he hit the wall. A purple bruise began to swell on his cheek, the skin already taut and shiny. He slid to the ground, slowly, as if his legs had stopped cooperating.

But a hand grabbed him by the collar.

A cold hand. Too cold. An impossible hand.

And it dragged him out of the bar as if he were weightless.

The door swung open. The New York air hit him. Askel was thrown onto the street. The hard asphalt beneath his back. His head hitting the ground. The pain spreading like a wave.

In front of him, standing under the flickering neon light, was Mia.

The Valkyrie of the Moon. Eyes too light, too clear. Dark coat. Runes pulsing like dead stars on the fabric.

"Enough," she said.

Her voice was a whisper. And an order. It admitted no reply.

Askel tried to get up. Mia's hand stopped him. A dry gesture, like a cut.

"The sea can feel you, Áskell." Her voice was low, sharp. A blue flash crossed her eyes. "And now is not the time to let it know where you are."

Askel breathed with difficulty. The rune burned. The bar behind him was a hive of voices and fear. The city hummed, indifferent.

Mia leaned toward him. Her face was close. Her eyes were two abysses.

"Get up. You can't stay here."

Askel looked at her. The neon flickered. His head throbbed. The rune on his back was a red-hot iron.

Askel stayed on the ground for a few seconds, his breath short, his back burning where the rune pulsed like a crazed heart.

The neon above him flickered, spitting blue light onto the sidewalk.

"Are you getting up?" said Mia.

Her voice was calm.

Too calm.

As if she hadn't just thrown a twenty-one-year-old kid out of a bar with one hand.

Askel tried to pull himself up.

He failed.

His head was spinning.

The beer was rising in his throat.

"Christ…" he muttered. "You threw me down like I was nothing."

Mia looked down at him.

There was no satisfaction.

No pity.

Just a statement.

"You were drunk," she said. "And slow."

"I'm a man," Askel retorted, spitting the words. "You're… I don't know what you are, but it's not normal."

Mia crouched in front of him.

Her eyes were too light, too still, too ancient.

"You are not a man, Áskell."

Askel laughed.

A broken sound, bitter, full of anger.

"Yes I am. I want to be. I want to be normal. I want to drink, I want to fight, I want to fuck without someone burning themselves touching my back."

His voice trembled.

The beer rose in his throat.

He leaned to the side and vomited on the sidewalk.

Mia didn't move.

She didn't look away.

She waited.

When Askel wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, she spoke.

"Your blood is not normal. It never was."

"I don't want it!" he shouted, his voice broken.

"I don't give a shit, you got that?"

The wind changed.

A sudden gust, cold, salty.

As if the ocean had breathed into the heart of Brooklyn.

Mia looked up.

Askel followed her gaze.

From the sky, carried by the wind, came feathers.

Small.

Dark.

Hawk feathers.

They fell around them.

On the sidewalk.

On the street.

On Askel's trembling hands.

He looked at them, confused.

"What… what the fuck is this?"

Mia picked up a feather.

The rune on her bracelet glowed for an instant.

"It's a warning," she said.

Askel gripped the feather between his fingers.

It was warm.

As if it were alive.

"Leave me alone," he said.

His voice was a whisper.

A last attempt.

"Go away.. whatever you are, Mia.. get out of my life.."

Mia stepped closer.

She knelt in front of him.

Her presence was a weight, a promise, a condemnation.

"I can't," she said. "And you know it."

Askel closed his eyes.

The feathers kept falling.

The sea wind blew through the buildings.

Mia placed a hand on his shoulder.

Light.

Cold.

Inexorable.

"Get up, Áskell. Your spirit is rebellious… it just needs to be tamed."

His head was spinning.

The beer burned in his throat.

"Tamed?" he spat. "By you? By them?"

Mia didn't answer.

She looked at him the way you look at a wounded animal that doesn't know if it will attack or run.

Askel laughed.

A broken sound, bitter, full of contempt.

"Do you know what I think of my bloodline?" he said. "That it's a curse. That it's a joke. That it's just shit that's been falling on me since I was born."

Mia tilted her head.

"You can't change what you are."

"I don't want to change it!" he shouted. "I want to erase it! I want to be normal! I want to be free! I want you to leave me alone!"

The hawk feathers kept falling around them.

On the sidewalk.

On Askel's shoes.

Between his trembling fingers.

He looked at them, confused, furious.

"Here!" he shouted. "Here's your cheap magic! Always following me! Always watching me! Always pissing me off!"

Mia stared at him.

Her eyes light, still.

"It's not me who follows you, Áskell."

Askel took a step back.

"Fuck you," he said.

His voice was low.

Broken.

Real.

"Fuck you, the sea, the moon, the valkyries, the gods, the bloodline, everything. I don't want any of you."

He turned.

Walked away.

Staggering.

Breathing hard.

Mia didn't stop him.

Didn't call him.

Didn't follow him.

And as Askel walked away, a thin smoke rose from his clothes.

From his hoodie.

From his jeans.

From his skin.

It wasn't cigarette smoke.

It wasn't steam.

It was something older.

Deeper.

More dangerous.

Mia watched him disappear into the night.

"The fire is waking up," she said.

A whisper.

A omen.

And the moon above the city baptized New York with its presence.

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