The jungle was silent at midday—eerily so. No birds. No breeze. The leaves hung heavy in the heat, as if the very air was holding its breath.
Then, from between the trees, came a figure. Barefoot. Calm. Ancient.
He was tall and broad-shouldered, his skin a soft ash tone that shimmered faintly under the sun. His long white hair flowed like threads of mist, and his arms—bare and strong—were wrapped in silver-scaled skin from elbow to wrist. There were no weapons on him, no bags or ornaments. Just a woven belt around his waist, and a patient, almost playful glint in his eyes.
He smiled when he saw the village.
"I'm bored," he said softly, to no one in particular. "Let's see what my little brother's hammering these days."
Maela, tending to a fire near the village edge, froze as the man stepped into view. She felt no fear—only a pull, a thrum in her blood. Something old. Something sacred.
"Who… who are you?" she asked, her voice cautious.
The man grinned. "A brother. A wanderer. Just thirsty." He nodded toward the forge. "Take me to Ogou."
Within moments, word spread.
Ogou stepped out of the forge temple not with alarm, but with laughter rumbling in his chest. "You always find a way to ruin a good silence, Dambala."
The pale man spread his arms. "And you always find a way to make a mess of the skies."
They embraced like two old souls who had fought and laughed through a hundred lifetimes. Then Ogou conjured a simple stone chair beside the forge, poured a heavy red wine from a jug, and handed it over.
"For the road," he said.
"For the memory," Dambala replied.
The sky dimmed, and the fire cracked deeper.
The two gods sat like elders from a forgotten village — but the world didn't forget them.
As they drank, the jungle held its breath. No insects buzzed. No birds sang. Even the forge flames bent toward them, not out of fear, but reverence.
Zaruko stood at a respectful distance, arms crossed, his eyes sharp. He'd seen power before—generals, storms, weapons that could end cities. But this was different. Power without effort. Authority without noise. Just… presence.
Ogou noticed.
"Stop staring and come sit, soldier."
Zaruko blinked. "Yes, sir."
Dambala raised a brow as Zaruko approached. "You've made yourself a servant?"
Ogou smirked. "He made himself a warrior. There's a difference."
Zaruko said nothing, but nodded once. Dambala watched him closely, like reading a forgotten book.
"I felt your spark the moment I entered this world," Dambala said. "You wear fire, but not flame. Steel, but not edge. You're not from here."
Zaruko hesitated. "I was born somewhere else. But I belong here now."
Dambala's smile faded. Not in anger, but in recognition.
"Blood remembers, even when the body forgets."
He reached toward Zaruko's chest and tapped a single finger against the sigil etched into his skin.
"This mark… you didn't earn it here. But someone earned it for you—long ago, in another war."
Zaruko's chest tightened. "You know?"
"I know of men who marched with machetes and courage in 1804. I know what they sacrificed to bring gods like Ogou across the sea. Your ancestors carried gods in their marrow. And some gods… never left."
He leaned back, sipping the blood-fruit wine.
Ogou chuckled. "You're getting poetic in your old age."
"I'm older than age," Dambala said simply. "And so are you."
The fire cracked.
Villagers peeked from huts, from forge alcoves, even from the trees. Whispers of "another god" passed between lips like smoke. But this one — he didn't demand anything. Didn't roar, didn't strike. He just sat and drank and talked.
Later that night…
Dambala and Ogou sat side by side on the temple's stone steps, legs stretched, drinks still in hand.
Above them, stars blinked cautiously. Thunder grumbled, far away.
"You're changing things," Dambala said.
"Things needed changing," Ogou replied.
Dambala gestured at the distant jungle. "These gods you devour — what happens when there are none left?"
Ogou shrugged. "Then I've built something stronger."
Dambala looked into the firelight. "Or lonelier."
They drank in silence.
Then Dambala turned to Zaruko again. "You carry war. It's in your walk, in your silence. But remember, little fire — war is only holy when it ends in peace."
Zaruko didn't reply. He didn't know how to.
Before Dawn
When the drink was low and the coals dimmed, Dambala rose.
"I should go. This world is loud, and I like my quiet."
Ogou stood with him. "You just got here."
"You're not as fun as you used to be," Dambala teased. "Too busy hammering legacies."
He pulled something from his belt — a small silver scale, no larger than a fingernail. It shimmered with a pulse that seemed to beat slower than time itself.
He handed it to Zaruko.
"If the ground ever hums with something you don't understand… press this into it. It won't save you. But it'll let you hear what's buried."
Zaruko took it with both hands. "Thank you."
Dambala nodded. "Don't thank me. Just remember."
He turned. No wind, no flash. Just steps into the trees.
As if he'd always been part of the forest.
The Next Morning
Ogou stood alone at the forge. Zaruko approached, unsure of how to speak.
Ogou spoke first.
"My brother talks too much. But he's not wrong."
Zaruko waited.
"I chose you," Ogou said. "But I didn't build you. That fire inside you — it comes from blood, from sacrifice, from every ancestor who refused to kneel."
Ogou turned, the forge's glow carving deep shadows across his face.
"This world doesn't know your people. Doesn't know your stories. You're going to teach them."
"How?"
"By surviving. By making it impossible for them to forget."
That Night: The Forge Grows
The villagers saw it first — a slow expansion of the temple. Not built, but grown. Walls stretched. A second anvil appeared. A third hearth.
And something new:
Three stones laid in a triangle. A place to sit. A place to speak. A place to remember.
Maela stood at the edge of the circle and whispered, "He's not just a god of war."
Zaruko nodded beside her. "No. He's a god of memory, too."
🜂
And somewhere far beyond the jungle, beyond the cliffs, beyond the lands they knew — a different god felt the weight shift.
A god who had not forgotten the ancient wars.
A god who knew the taste of thunder — and would not be devoured so easily.