Freedom
Pain. Excruciating pain.
Malgor did not know how long had passed; he remembered only the pain. The heat pressed in on him like a snake, attempting to crush his very essence. The molten rock inside Mount Hunter did not physically harm him — he was a god — but he still felt the consequences of his mistakes.
The mountain rumbled its ominous reminder of his imprisonment. Malgor, though, did not mind the pain. Pain he could endure. Pain he understood. But the silence — the silence was unbearable. It took his mind off the boredom that would otherwise have consumed him, trapped in this prison of lava. Pinned beneath the molten weight, unable to rise, unable to move, unable to escape. A prison of his own making, yes — but still a sentence handed down for nothing more than being what he was born to be. For his curiosity, which had led, as always, to chaos.
Thoughts ran through Malgor’s mind as he squirmed and wriggled, unable to free himself. How long would he be trapped here? Hours, days, centuries — it no longer mattered. Would he ever again taste clean air? He struggled, sinking deeper with each movement. In frustration, a howl left his muzzle, reverberating around the walls in words that only gods would understand.
“Father! Please. Help me.”
Only the roar of the molten lava answered him. He howled again, long and deep — not out of despair or anger, but out of misunderstanding — of injustice.
“I have done nothing wrong. Why will you not help me?”
Mount Hunter shuddered from a heavy impact, sending ripples through the lava. A shiver ran down Malgor’s spine as a voice sounded inside his head.
“There, there, my son,” the voice was deep and thundered around Malgor’s mind like a hurricane. “You would choose to live on the mountain of fire. Should have moved, long ago. I told you you’d fall in, in the end.”
In response, the mountain itself seemed to grow silent. Malgor did not answer. He had called for his father, but he had not believed his cry would be answered. The words sent his head spinning. How could the father of the gods think he had simply fallen into the volcano?
“F… Father?”
“Yes, you clumsy fool. I’m here.”
There was a great splash as Varlun, father of the gods, drove a huge, clawed hand into the depths of the liquid rock. Malgor felt the great talons grip him tight and pull him from the lava with ease, as though he weighed little more than a feather. Then Varlun released him gently onto the ledge overlooking the fiery chasm below. Malgor saw Varlun’s mighty arm but nothing else — he was so vast that he could not fit through the cave entrance.
Varlun withdrew his massive arm from the cave, leaving Malgor alone on the ledge. After a moment’s pause, he followed the passage down towards the outside world. Dim light streamed into the dark tunnel as he neared the exit. As he stepped out into the open, he squinted, his eyes trying to focus, shifting from the brightness of the lava to the darkness of the tunnel and then back to the dim light of a weakened sun.
Ash still filled the air, blocking most of the sunlight. Malgor looked out across the barren landscape. Dirt and ash covered everything, and the lands that had once been lush farmlands and forests were now grey and rotting; the skeletal remains of the trees stood like crooked scarecrows. A cold breeze blew across his fur and he shivered. He did not recognise the lands.
“How long was I in there?” Malgor’s voice was a whisper in Varlun’s mind.
“How should I know when you fell into your own mountain?”
“I did not fall. Ilbien and I fought,” Malgor admitted. “I think I caused this.”
Malgor pointed a paw towards the landscape and then shook his fur to relieve his tension. His great wolf form was as black as coal, yet still untouched by the molten heat of Mount Hunter.
“You fell in there before the land turned to rot?” Varlun’s voice was gruff but soft inside Malgor’s head.
The great wolf nodded.
“That was five hundred years ago. Why did you not call before now?”
“I had no idea it had been so long.” Malgor’s voice was suddenly tired. The weight of centuries settled on him like fresh stone.
“Yes, yes. Never mind — you’re out now. You should make up with your brother.”
“No. We always end up like this. I always cause chaos, and he craves balance.” Malgor lowered his head to the ground. “We cannot live in the same world. It will only end badly again.”
“Then I will make you your own world, if that’s what you want.”
Silence spread between them as Malgor weighed his father’s words. His head tilted to the side as he concentrated, before his voice entered Varlun’s mind again.
“You would make me a world?”
“Yes, yes. I can make you a world just like this one for you to shape,” Varlun answered, waving the question away with his massive, clawed hand.
“So you created Algarle?”
“No, but I’m sure I can make you a convincing copy. How hard can it be?” Varlun drew back his leathery, scaled lips into a smile.
“Then who created Algarle?”
“The first god,” Varlun said, turning to look at the landscape. “He has long since disappeared from this world. Off to start a new world. Or many worlds, as it happens.”
“Well, if you didn’t create Algarle, are you sure you can make another world? Just like this one?”
“I’ve created worlds before. It’s really not that difficult.” Varlun shrugged his huge shoulders. “It’s a matter of will and precision. Just got to get the up-and-downy bits right. Then the wet-and-dry bits. Then the green-and-blue stuff and you’re done. A new world.”
Malgor stared at his father, tongue hanging from his mouth as it gaped open. Surely making a world took far more than his father was making out, but he did not want to argue. The idea of his own world — one he could shape to his will — was inviting. He closed his mouth, shivered, and then nodded.
“Okay.”
