Wayward Footsteps

– The Sandman by Neil Gaiman –

The wayward path has been a diverse plot element in innumerable works of fiction since the invention of storytelling. The obstinate psyches that surround characters destined for intransigent lifestyles are so diverse and unique that they facilitate adjacent story elements by consistently challenging rival character dynamics. The path of the wayward son can be interpreted as rebellion, however, in my opinion, those unorthodox footsteps cater more towards the perception of freedom and selfness, which is why they so strongly oppose certain socially acceptable character capacities. In the case of The Sandman by Neil Gaiman, the wayward path is portrayed by Destiny and his unshakable desire to abandon his responsibilities and embark on a personal journey despite Dream’s reservations and disapproval. In the case of Aristeia – A Dance with Fate it is when Vulcan, God of Fire, disregards his holiness for a life of baseless debauchery. This is his story…


God: the perfect and all-powerful spirit or being that is worshipped especially by Christians, Jews, and Muslims as the one who created and rules the universe

: a spririt or being that has great power, strength, knowledge, etc., and that can affect nature and the lives of people: one of various spirits or beings worshipped in some religions

: a person and especially a man who is greatly loved or admired.

Vulcan: god of fire, god of metalworking, god of the forge

: the blacksmith, the first ugly duckling, the one to be cast off of the highest mountain, the Father of Russia, the king of incest.

An entire race of people fathered by a god who continually fucked his daughters throughout the millennia is not a mythology one would hear spoken in Russia, or anywhere else – not even from the mouths of the gods – but it is the truth. This is a secret lost in the sands of time long ago. To consider the possibility of this myth is unthinkable, perhaps even lunatic. Not even the Father of Russia understands the extent of his kingdom of incestuous fornication. In fact, this is not me speaking.

There was a god who was a product of incest, a vile looking thing who was thrown from a mountain by his mother to die in shame. It was during the freefall that the workings of his little brain shifted away from the psyche shared by the gods and made him different than the rest. These were the years of the ugly duckling: the deformed god-child that first found love in the hearts of man, and saw evil in the minds of the gods. Who is to deny that he became less divine during that fall to earth? Who is to say that that is a bad thing? The boy survived the three-day fall, and was raised by a simple farmer and his wife. But this child was no child, and that could not be ignored, so the farmer and his wife raised him and told him the truth of his history. They hid Vulcan away in the countryside and watched him mature under the perpetual shadow cast by the never-ending mountain. And what a sight that was (there is a myth that exists within this myth: that Vulcan fucked goats in his youth, and like any serial killer the satisfaction of an animal did not last forever. Some blame the freefall – how it altered his psyche. Others consider the habit to be caused by the beastial upbringing he received by humans. And there is also the theory that he inherited the incestuous gene from his parents. But the truth is that no one has even heard this tale). When Vulcan grew older he was unable to ignore the curiosity that attracted him to the endless mountain, so the farmer and his wife told him of the pilgrimage he was destined to take. He must climb! And so he did. He climbed for five days and nights, all the while thinking of facing those who cast him away. He would be strong and stern. He would show them the pain in his heart, but when he reached the top of the mountain he froze at the sight of expressionless faces. His brothers and sisters were awestricken. Their brains were overloaded with such an overwhelming swarm of thoughts and emotions that they could not immediately react to the sight of the creature before them. A few blinks and they had processed the information. Noise: Vulcan noticed it sounded differently this high up in the atmosphere. He did not turn away as they shrieked and laughed at his deformities, or as they started to mock his status as a wayward son returning to rekindle absent love. And he did not step as they urged him to jump off the mountain. Nor did he leave when they told him there was no space for him there. He stayed to take part in their lives, and eventually made a home there. These were the years of The Blacksmith. They were distant years, marked by uneasy relationships and apprehension, but in this time he mastered his element and made a name for himself. He was despised often, and almost loved once, and in his dreams he thought of goats and women. He followed in the footsteps of his father on numerous occasions, both literally and metaphorically. Father-son bonding at its finest. He enjoyed women and ruled the earth alongside the original gods. He forged gifts for mankind, and was worshipped by some. Vulcan enjoyed these years, and when darker ones came he was there to cower with his brothers and sisters: these were the years of Sidius the Stareater. In this time of war he outfitted the gods with weapons and armor to help fight the beast, and was blamed for every failure – blamed for every lost star. He was there when the gods faced extinction. And he was there when Jupiter defeated the Volcanic Beast. But he was not there when Minerva crawled from Jupiter’s brain, nor when the gods forged The Treaty. His curiosity had rebounded during those dark years, and his interests turned back towards mankind. He hid himself away in the lands that would soon become Russia, and no one seemed to notice. So he started fucking his way from Siberia to the Caucus, and back again, and even still no one seemed to notice. These are the years of the father. From east to west Vulcan impregnated scores and scores of young women, who in turn gave birth to scores and scores of boys and girls. Vulcan would enjoy two to three women a day, and it is common knowledge that a god’s seed is a powerful one. Two to three women a day for centuries – do the math. After sixteen years of pollinating, the first generation of Vulcan’s sons and daughters had matured and suddenly the years of incest were in rotation. When Vulcan returned to a town decades later how was he supposed to realize that a voluptuous young beauty was his daughter? Or how would one of his thousands of sons have known that he was bedding his own sister? For decades the pattern continued and multiplied to the degree that two thirds of sexual encounters were the product of incest. Vulcan was polluting Russia’s bloodlines with incestuous offspring that were continually reusing his genes. His sons and daughters reproduced over and over again until the same chromosomes were inherited by most people, all of whom shared the same lame, recycled faces, and over time Vulcan’s brutishness became a common trait among the people. So on and on he fucked away the years with his sons and daughters. And when foreign kingdoms would conquer the lands he would enjoy the debauchery with the new arrivals, fucking their women as they raped his daughters, and killed his sons. It may be possible that something special evolved throughout the ages – a divine gene perhaps – but there is no telling by the appearance of the common Russia. Perhaps it was passed down to the goats…

About Connor Wilkins

Quickly, quickly... take your seat. Our storyteller is about to begin. Shhhh. Listen... His pipes are fluting emotions of myth and fable, but don't be fooled by fantasia for there are truths hidden within his unworldly tellings. We're drifting now... back in time to a world only he remembers.
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