The Forging of the Second Sun

Druigr, God of the Second Sun, Lord of Righteous Anger, was not always so. As with all elder Gods, his Domain has expanded, shrunk, shifted, and expanded once more. Midway in his reign in the Divine, he was the God of Dreams, Rightful Regent of Eternal Slumber. And he was betrothed to an ethereal Goddess with hair of golden flax and eyes that matched the crimson of a setting sun. So far back was it that there only hung the red sun —Troya. The Goddess’s name was Dreya, and Druigr loved her more than any dream he had forged.

Such was his love that he would spin Dreya’s fantasies into her mind's eye. From frolicking in a meadow of mystical flowers to fighting the fiercest beast, he would allow her to live her dreams every time she shut her eyes. There was a single dream Druigr could not give to Dreya. He could not grant her desire to be as beautiful as Troya’s light, rosy and soft. Dreya was enamored with the sun's rays. She claimed they warmed her soul and brought her new life. Druigr had attempted, once, to give her what she sought. He wove a tapestry of dreams, giving her golden hair a tinge of copper and her soft skin the rosy shade of Troya’s light. Her eyes became every shade sunset could bring, and her mouth a vermillion so vibrant Druigr wished it was real so he could lay a kiss upon it. He forged that dream for seven days and seven nights before he gave it to Dreya, hoping it would satisfy her. And oh, how Dreya had loved that dream. She loved it so much that she slept for the entire season of spring. Even then, Dreya had fought waking with all her might.

When she opened her eyes and saw Druigr’s stricken face, her expression crumpled and she dove for his feet.

“Oh, my beloved!” Dreya wailed, “Send me back, please. Make me as beautiful as our red star. I beg of you! Druigr, God of Dreams, Rightful Regent of Eternal Slumber —send me back.”

With a haunted look, Druigr began to understand Dreya’s illness. Her inability to see how her own beauty caused her to shine.

“My love, I cannot give you what you seek. My powers are but an imitation of life —even Primus himself would struggle to grant your wish.” Druigr mourned what he could not give Dreya, and so he maligned himself, “My dreams are not truth, they could never compare to reality. I hold no control over the sun’s light or its hues.”

Dreya pulled herself up from Druigr’s feet, ceasing her begging. She had heard him, after all. And so Dreya wrapped her arms around Druigr and laid a kiss upon each cheek, “Thank you, thank you! I won’t forget this.”

In his confusion at these turn of events, Druigr simply stood as Dreya showered him in gentle kisses. It took him far too long before he realized something had gone awry. And by then Dreya had long laid the final kiss across his cheek and left Druigr’s presence. Thank you, she had said. But all Druigr had said was that he paled in Troya’s light —that not even Primus, God of Light, Lord of the Forge, could wave his hand and give her what she desired.

Oh. But Druigr hadn’t said that at all, had he? He had said Primus would struggle, not that he would fail.

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Primus was less of a man by virtue of being a God. With bulging muscles and a harsh look, he oversaw the Divine Forge that consumed Troya’s flames. At dawn he would collect her cool tones and prepare jewelry fit for a Goddess. At dusk he would take her raging crimson light and forge weaponry fit for a God. It was by his might that Troya burned so beautifully. It was by his skill that Troya shone in her rosy hues. Such had been the way for millennia upon millennia, civilizations had risen, crumbled, and risen again in the time that he had been crafting Troya’s light. Long before Druigr was born of the summer storms, or Dreya was grown from golden wheat. Before Mera had slain her father, before the twins of Order and Chaos overtook Hinez’s domain, such was the power of Primus, first of his name, that he could keep his power without fail.

It was a hot summer day when the golden goddess Dreya brightened Primus’ forge. Her smile was gentle and her dress flowed freely with the wind. Her sandals were made of molten gold and her eyes were a rich crimson that matched Troya’s deepest dusk.

Primus was enchanted so thoroughly he did not hear her praises for Troya. He needed no flattery to be drawn to Dreya, to allow her wishes to become his own. Yet still, once he found himself, he basked in Dreya’s praises for the rest of the day. It was nighttime when, finally, Dreya asked if Primus could help her become as beautiful as Troya’s light. If he could help her go from golden to vermillion with his power over Light.

Primus, leaning in close to Dreya, so close he could smell the fresh scent of dew on her skin, said, “I will give you your heart’s desire. I will forge you into a Goddess so beautiful even my star pales.”

His voice was husky and Dreya found herself leaning towards his voice —before blinking and coming back to herself.

“Will you, truly?” She smiled, ethereal and Divine, as her warmth spread to the world around her.

“I will,” he nodded, running a finger across Dreya’s cheek, “But you must give yourself to me. You must allow me to re-forge you as my own and only then can I give you a piece of Troya’s heart. Once you do that, you will shine as bright as Troya in all that you do.”

Taking a step away from Primus, Dreya’s face crumpled, tears of crystal pricking her eyes, “I cannot give you myself, for my heart and soul belong to Druigr. But I will give you anything else you should want.”

Primus, rage filling his belly, nearly spat, “There is nothing I desire but you. Do you not want to shine with Troya’s light?”

“Oh, how I crave such a thing!” Dreya cried, “I can give you the crisp taste of winter winds —or the shade of coral I grew from my blood, with its soft pink hue! I will sacrifice the indigo flames of my hearth or the flax of my hair!”

“I crave none of this —for all I desire is you. Is your dream worth so little? Can you not give me a single night?” Primus put on a false face and pleaded with Dreya, falling to his knees and gripping her thighs, “One night and all you desire shall be yours.”

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“No -No! My dream is my everything, but I cannot betray Druigr! He is my heart and soul, as I am his!”

But Primus, close as he was to Dreya, cried into her stomach, “Oh but I could be that for you. I could be your everything.”

And Dreya wept at the knowledge she would never sway Primus. Then she wept because Primus was gripping her viciously now. His fingers dug into her rib cage and his body pressed into her. She wept and begged and still Primus did not release her. Not until the morning sun broke the sky.

“Now,” Primus hissed, anger and hate and lust still in his voice, even after taking what he wanted, “I will take from you once more.”

But Dreya was broken, unable to weep any longer, and she no longer had it in her to respond. So, as Primus reach up to her face she did not flinch. And when her eyes were plucked from her head she did not scream.

“For having the audacity to look like Troya as you reject me for another, I will send these to your lover. And I will share with him memories of our night. And never again will you be his heart and soul.”

The grin on Primus was a cruel thing, an act of malice in itself. But Primus got what he wanted —Dreya found it in herself to weep again. While Primus wrapped her eyes like a present, bow and all, Dreya summoned a dagger made up of the summer breeze. But the summer breeze was meant to be gentle and kind, so the dagger was a malformed thing with jagged edges and a hilt of lush green leaves that rustled with the force of her grip.

Primus was filling the box with memories of Dreya’s flesh when he heard a gentle rush of water behind him. He paid it no mind and he sent his delivery off with a ray of light. When he turned around to face Dreya once again, he screamed in horror and rage.

“How dare you, you pathetic excuse for a Goddess,” he growled, pulling fire from his forge as he rushed to Dreya’s collapsed form.

Her golden blood was pooling from a wound on her throat, and her head laid in a pillow of the same lush leaves from earlier. Life was draining from her and Primus roared once again.

Primus would not lose Dreya, like he refused to lose Troya eons before. Primus was not so weak as to give up without a fight, and so he channeled his Divine Might into the red flames in his palms and gave it more of Troya’s light. And then he shoved the ball of flame into the socket of what had once been Dreya’s right eye.

“Become consumed by me, Dreya,” Primus hissed, “Orbit me like I’m your world. I will grant your heart's desire, you sorry Goddess.”

Reaching up, Primus plucked a piece of Troya out of the sky and slid it into Dreya’s left eye socket. As Dreya absorbed the heat of the sun, Primus began to laugh. Primus was going to have Dreya in whatever form he could. He had won, once again.

As Dreya’s golden body erupted in yellow flames, Primus began to forge. First he melded her arms in flames golden as her hair, then he forced her legs to become round, and finally he tucked her head into her body. And then, once she was the shape of a small star, he threw her into the sky and placed her below Troya and a little to the left.

Dreya became a second sun. The Second Sun. And she was as beautiful as Troya. Together they gave off an orange light that cast the world in perpetual sunrise.

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Druigr looked up at the sky, with its two suns, and worried over Dreya’s departure. She had not returned to him. It was as that thought struck him that a ray of light deposited in front of him a golden box with a bow of clouds. Curiosity overcome Druigr and he ripped into it, thinking it a gift of thanks from Dreya after her hasty departure.

As he pulled the top open Druigr felt a rush of memories whirl through him. Memories that turned his stomach and filled him with rage. Not, as Primus had wanted, towards Dreya.

Immediately, Druigr looked to the Second Sun and knew. He knew it was her. His love. His heart and soul. And he wept tears of rage and grief. Then he moved. For Druigr was not always the God of Dreams. When he was born from the raging storms of Yrua and Orpal, lightning was in his blood. And the lightning brought with it rage and anger so visceral he could feel the electricity in his veins.

Without abandon, Druigr launched himself through the sky. No longer was his body of flesh and blood, now he was a storm cloud rolling through the sky, lightning raining down on the mortal world below. This became known as the Folly of Primus, but at the time, it was called Druigr’s Rampage. No mortal land was spared in his anger and many perished at the will of his Divine Might.

It was mere hours later when Druigr had crossed the World Barrier and found Primus sitting atop his forge, staring up at the dual suns. There were no words exchanged when Druigr laid eyes upon him, no taunts or questions, simply violence.

Lightning rendered the earth beneath their feet unsteady, and thunder shook the forge Primus sat atop. Flames erupted from the forges pipes at the beck and call of Primus. Then the fight truly began. Trees were ripped from the earth, flung across the Word Barrier and knocking chunks out of mountains. Lakes boiled and burned the nymphs living within, leaving husks of the women behind.

But Primus had just forged a new sun, and he was not as young as he had once been. And Druigr was in his prime and filled with an all consuming rage.

Even still, Druigr knew he could not kill Primus. But he could wound him. And so, with fingers laced in lightning, Druigr waited until Primus flagged just enough —that was it. The moment when Primus looked to the left when he should have looked right, and stumbled. That was when Druigr ripped out Primus’ eyes. They were a shining gold, just like Dreya’s hair had once been.

Druigr was not a smith, not in the way Primus was. But he could forge and weave eternal dreams. Dreams of the future and the past. Dreams of love and hate. Dreams of heaven and hell.

Crushing Primus’ eyes would have felt hollow, Druigr knew. So, while Primus clutched at his empty eye sockets, gushing the golden blood of a Divine, Druigr began to craft a dream. It was an ugly thing, of suffering and damnation and hate, but it fit Primus well. Druigr brought himself close to Primus, so close he could smell the strain of his Divine Might, could feel the tension in his body, and he filled Primus with a dream so horrible he would never wake.

Watching Primus collapse into a heap filled Druigr with a new kind a rage. A righteous anger pooled in his gut. Druigr had done no wrong, not when he rid the world of such a God. And all the heavens turned away as Druigr set to work ensuring Primus would never wake.

First, he laid him upon his bed, dropping him roughly —for he deserved not consideration. Druigr used the remnants of the summer breeze to sew Primus’s eyes shut. It would not do to be caught because of missing eyes. Using Primus’s own forge, Druigr wove a tapestry of power unlike even his most tangible of dreams, and he fed it the stolen eyes of the God of Light. With a burst of embers, the tapestry flew into the sky and headed for Dreya’s light.

It would fuel Dreya’s final dream and then some. Her dream to be as beautiful as Troya’s light was foolish when Dreya had always been twice as captivating. So, sacrificing his domain of dreams, Druigr empowered Dreya and gave her all the Light that Primus had to give.

He wouldn’t be needing it in his slumber.

Dreya’s golden light grew to overcome the rosy hues of Troya, overpowering the original sun and casting the mortal and Divine realms in yellow light for the first time.

And so Druigr was reborn.

With a body made of the same golden tones of his beloved, he became the God of the Second Sun, Lord of Righteous Anger.