The journey to the old rail yards took Zélie the rest of the morning. The city gave way to sparse industrial scrubland, abandoned factories looming like skeletons against the horizon. The air grew progressively heavier with the scent of rust and oil, the green vitality of the world seeming to shrink away from this place of industry and decay.
The rail yards were a vast graveyard of progress. Derelict locomotives sat rusting on parallel tracks, their paint faded to ghost-like hues. The sun beat down, turning the metal into scorching hot surfaces. This was Ogun’s domain, a place where raw earth had been subdued and shaped by fire and force, only to be abandoned.
The sound of hammer on anvil cut through the silence.
Clang. Clang. Clang.
It was a slow, rhythmic sound, a mournful heartbeat in the industrial wasteland. Zélie followed the sound, stepping carefully over loose ties and twisted metal. It led her to an old maintenance shed, its corrugated iron walls flapping slightly in the hot breeze.
Inside, the light was dim and hot. A single forge roared to life in the center of the room, casting an orange glow across the muscular back of a man working the iron. He was tall, his skin dark and oiled with sweat, every muscle clearly defined. He wore simple trousers, his torso bare, his strength palpable even from across the room.
He did not look up as Zélie entered. He held a piece of raw, red-hot iron with massive tongs and hammered it with deliberate, powerful strokes. The Ase of the place was overwhelming here—a feeling of raw, unyielding will. Zélie recognized the presence of the god immediately.
"Ogun," Zélie said, her voice quiet.
The hammering stopped. Ogun slowly lowered the tongs and turned. His eyes were deep and intense, holding the weight of countless battles and endless labor. He was the embodiment of creation through struggle, of civilization built by force.
"You have the Trickster’s scent on you," Ogun said, his voice a low rumble, like distant thunder or heavy machinery grinding into gear. "And the golden Ase of Oshun flows beneath your skin. A strange combination. Why do you trespass in my forge?"
"The world is breaking, Lord of Iron," Zélie said, reaching for the Ogun stone around her neck. "The Veil Sickness is spreading. The river is dying. The gods are needed."
Ogun snorted, a sharp, bitter sound. He tossed the cooling iron onto a pile of scrap. "Needed? We were needed when men needed blades to hunt and iron to build cities. Now they build their machines from plastic and their wars with things that fly without effort. They have forgotten the sacredness of the forge, Zélie of the River."
He walked closer, towering over her. The heat emanating from him wasn't just from the forge; it was divine anger. "I am the Orisha of labor, war, and the path forward. I forged the path for the other gods to enter Ayé. And how am I repaid? Discarded. My temples are dust and my name is a curse word for traffic jams and violence."
"Your Ase is still strong," Zélie countered, meeting his gaze with the stubbornness she was discovering was her inheritance from Oshun. "The stone you sent me guided my way. You want to be found."
Ogun paused. He looked at the stone hanging from her neck. "A messenger of Oshun carrying the symbol of Ogun. The irony is sharp as a newly forged blade."
"The world needs the path forward, Ogun," Zélie insisted. "It needs your strength, your will, your discipline. Without iron, there is no structure. Without structure, there is only chaos. The chaos Eshu loves."
Ogun walked back to his anvil and picked up a hammer, weighing it in his hand. "Chaos is a necessary state, child. It precedes order. Perhaps the world needs to break completely before it can be reforged."
Ogun stared at the hammer, then at Zélie. "If I join this futile quest, Shango will be there. The arrogant Lord of Thunder and Fire. We do not share the same space."
"You must," Zélie pleaded. "Your feud is centuries old, but the world is more important than your pride."
Ogun slammed the hammer down on the anvil with a deafening CRASH that rattled Zélie’s teeth. "Pride is all a god has left when worship fades, girl!"
He took a deep breath, the anger slowly receding back into that deep, centered strength. He looked at Zélie, truly assessing her spirit.
"The girl has Ase," he conceded. "And fire in her gut, despite her watery patron. Very well. I will go to Ile-Ife when the time comes. But I will not seek Shango's company. You must gather the others. My condition remains: I come for the world, not for peace with my rivals."
A faint light entered the shed, cutting through the gloom. Zélie looked to the door. Standing there was a figure wrapped in vibrant, swirling cloths of red and brown. She held a double-headed axe. Oya, the fierce goddess of the wind and storms, the wife of Shango, the gatekeeper of the dead.
"Good," Oya said, her voice like the whistle of a coming gale. "We wouldn't want it to be easy, would we, Ogun? The council awaits."
Ogun sighed heavily, a sound of ancient weariness. Zélie realized her task had just gotten exponentially more complicated. The pantheon was gathering, but the feuds were as hot as the forge they stood dying.
People are dying," Zélie said, her voice shaking slightly now, the sheer force of his presence overwhelming her human frailty. "The balance must be maintained. Olodumare set the world in motion, but we maintain the balance.
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