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Call Me Fenris

For Seven of Nine

Everyone forgets that Fenris wolf grew up in chains,

feared by gods for being something 

more than they could tame.

No-one ever asked him what he wanted.


War and death have been my chosen comrades in the dark, 

But was it choice or just a logical conclusion?

When they already think you’re bringing Ragnarok,

You’re safer if you wear the wolfskin, play the part.


Everyone’s a story that somebody gets to tell, 

A myth somebody makes. 

We rarely get to make ourselves.


I sometimes wish you’d take from me

my half-remembered terrors, and technicolor pain, 

hold me in the stillness, and softly say my name. 


Go ahead. Ask me what it is. 


I wouldn’t wish myself on anyone, yet here you are

Laying your tender wrist between my jaws

Trusting that I’ll let you keep your hand. 

Aggressively accepting what I am, 

With a frustrating patience that my scars don’t understand.

Why don’t you care that I’ll make you climb mountains

For every drop of grief I let you taste?


The wolf is just a story I let people tell about me

and I started to believe it.

No-one ever asked me what I wanted

And even if I told them, would they give it? 

Call me Fenris and I’ll answer.

But it’s not my name.


Go ahead. Ask me what it is. 

I want you to ask me.

I’m tired of the dark, 

And it’s you who holds the light. 

You, who wants my story

Told in verses I’ve composed

Written in my blood 

in a book that I’ve kept closed. 

You, offering your wrist and saying 

Tell me.


So let me start 

By telling you 

My name. 

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