He'd told them everything. Everything he knew or thought he knew.
He hadn't wanted to at first, as had been made evident by the way he reacted to the coming of the C.I.A. agents into his house, but as he'd started speaking, as he'd begun reliving those hurtful memories, memories of loss, of rage and then of grief, he'd given up on standing his ground, too weakened by emotions to stand proud in the face of Brankerfeld's interrogations.
He'd resultantly spoken about the arrival of the god's remains on Earth indeed, but also about all that had occurred thereafter. How he'd become - and he'd struggled to admit it - enamored with the majesty of the deceased creature, how he'd wished to, in some way or another, take a part of its divinity for himself and for his family, or at a minimum, for what was left of his family.
The blood, the bone, the ring, the ink, the pen, the carvings on that lustrious golden surface, the dialect of a race of conquerors undoubtedly, but a dangerous tongue that only those worthy of standing their ground against the universe awhole could've been fitted to speak.
And Igor, this fool, he'd given access to all of this to his daughter. A fragile young woman whose situation had been, when she'd still been alive, so incongruent with that of the reality of life, whose harsh moments and difficult situations she'd never once been subjected to, that she might have been the most vulnerable girl there'd ever been in Greenland at that time.
Ray had asked how all of these items : The blood, the bone, the ring, had indeed brought misery upon the tiny wooden house's occupants.
Akensen, battling inside his mind to not let out a tear, had answered that Ania, "that's the name of my daughter", he'd added,speaking about her as if she'd still been here, had welcomed the god's fluids and the god's rib with open arms, seeing these tools as what Igor thought they were : Weird, fancy gifts from a father to his child. She'd taken a liking to the items, for evidently, they were not only weird or fancy. In fact, they were absolutely not weird, and absolutely not fancy either.
Not weird because the existence of their powers and the magical properties which they held within themselves were clearly discernible, if only he who came upon them had but a semblance of good sense inside his head.
Not fancy either, because what was fancy about tools of murder and corruption?
Akensen had left his house in the morning, to go sell furs and skins he'd gathered from the remains of the animals he and his daughter had eaten in the past week or so, to a leather-boot-seller in the city.
And so he'd left Ania alone at home with the blood, the ink and the ring too, thinking, proudly, that today would be a happy moment for her, as she'd be writing in her room all day long using her new beautiful toys.
Apparently however, destiny had decided otherwise. He'd come back to his house atop the frozen hill only to be greeted by nothing more than an open door, which had let the frost and violent winds inside the living room and the first floor, had extinguished the house's lamps' fire, rendering the place foreboding and oh so dark.
But the worst of it all had been this : His daughter'd been nowhere to be found. He'd searched everywhere inside the house, but he couldn't find her. And then he'd seen it. Still open on the dining table, the notebook of the young Ms. Akensen.
And on the page which it was opened at, the same text as was carved on the golden ring. And on the floor, there'd been the pen. Ink spilled everywhere.
The hunter had failed to understand the details of all that had happened during his absence, but it'd been at this very moment that he'd realized inhuman forces had been at play inside his house a few hours ago, and that whatever they'd been, they were the ones responsible for the disappearance of his daughter.
Incapable of uttering anything more than a silent gasp, he'd gone to the basement to search for his biggest harpoon blade, had taken knives and a great coat, so thick it could have been called an armor.
Prepared to face the worst, he'd gone to see the carcass of the god, but with each new step he'd taken towards the shore, his heart'd been getting heavier and heavier with sorrow, for he knew, even before getting to the beach, that he'd arrive too late.
And too late he did arrive. But at least he'd understood. For you see reader, he'd immediately thought about entering the god's innards when he didn't catch a glimpe of Ania around the dead figure, yet as he was a man of actions, not of words, he'd immediately set the titan afire, in an effort to quench the darkness found in its bowels.
One could have called this act dangerous, for if Ania'd still been alive but trapped inside the colossus, then she could've burned before her father could've saved her.
But Igor, while not cultured or literate, was intelligent, as was said in the first chapter of our sad tale. As such, he'd known for long now that there wasn't a single human soul left to be saved here.
In his fury, he'd relished in the god's skin burning, convinced that the creature was indeed responsible for his child's demise, and sure also that by putting the giant's bones and flesh aflame, it would suffer as Igor had.
Yet, unsurprisingly, the deity'd taken the hit in stoic fashion, its blank and empty eye sockets, abyssal holes peering into the void, left unchallenged by this profane action.
And though all of its rotting skin had been reduced to naught but hot ashes, its bones, purged a pure white by the fire, had stood very strong still.
Inside the colossus' ribcage, which'd now been easy to access, there'd still be a great relic to discover, which Igor Akensen had, and then again, even given his hatred for the beast, he'd not been able to do anything more than stand on his two feet and look, in awe, at what was before him.
It's heart. The heart of the dead god.
It was the height of a giraffe, ink-black as the monster's blood.
And perhaps more terrifying, it was still beating strong.
