The gods, despite their immense power, often carry a deep sense of grief. Their grief manifests not only through their cosmic responsibilities but also through the sacrifices they make, the battles they fight, and the worlds they leave behind.

Nanahuatzin grieves quietly, with acceptance. His is a grief of invisibility. Even in his final act—throwing himself into the flames to birth the Fifth Sun—his sacrifice is met not with glory but with indifference. Nanahuatzin grieves for a world that never truly saw him, for the gods who looked away even as his skin burned. His grief is not explosive but internal, like a fire that burns unnoticed until only ashes remain. He doesn’t ask for recognition; his grief is in the knowledge that sometimes the most vital sacrifices go unseen.

Ra’s grief is ancient and weary. Every night, as he descends into the underworld to battle Apep, he feels the weight of the universe pressing on his shoulders. He doesn’t fight for glory or honor but because he must. His grief is a slow, aching burden—the grief of knowing that no matter how many times he defeats the serpent, the battle will begin again tomorrow. Ra grieves not for himself but for the endless cycle of light and darkness that he is bound to maintain. His grief is heavy, like the oar he grips in the celestial river, and it ages him more with each passing night.

For Māui, grief comes in moments of silence. Though he is known as a trickster, always laughing, always scheming, his grief is sharp and sudden, like the realization that even he—Māui, the great hero—cannot control the universe. His grief strikes when he realizes that the sun must die for it to be reborn, that his people will never understand the sacrifices he makes. Māui grieves for the lives he cannot save, for the days he cannot stretch long enough. His grief is in the letting go, in knowing that not every battle can be won with cleverness.

Skoll grieves in the chase. His grief is one of eternal pursuit. He never wished to destroy the sun, only to remind it of its fragility. But when Fenrir appears, hungry and unstoppable, Skoll’s grief becomes the grief of inevitability. He grieves because he knows the chase will end, that the sun he has chased for so long will fall, and that once it does, the universe will change. His grief is tied to the loss of purpose—what does a wolf do when there is no more sun to chase?

Fenrir, in contrast, grieves through hunger. His grief is not one of reflection but of primal need. He devours not out of hatred, but because it is in his nature to do so. His grief is raw, consuming—the grief of a creature who knows that once he has destroyed the light, there will be nothing left for him to hunger for. His grief is final, absolute, like the bite that extinguishes the sun.

Apollo grieves with music. His chariot races across the sky each day, bringing light and reason to the world. But as the sun’s path grows more perilous, as wolves draw closer and the light begins to dim, Apollo’s grief seeps into the melodies he plays. He grieves for the world that depends on him, for the inevitable end that even his music cannot delay. Apollo’s grief is one of beauty—it is in the songs that linger in the air long after the sun has set, in the notes that carry both sorrow and hope.

The fire around him was searing, but no one cared. The other gods were already watching the sky, expecting the new sun to rise, as though Nanahuatzin’s sacrifice was inevitable. He didn’t scream. He didn’t cry. In that moment, he felt the weight of being forgotten. They’d always seen him as lesser, sickly, the god whose scars would never heal. But now, as he burned to fuel the Fifth Sun, he felt a peace settle over him. His life, full of invisible suffering, was ending in the only way it could: quiet, unnoticed. His grief was for the life he never truly lived.

Ra felt the sun flicker behind him. His barque pushed slowly through the celestial river, the oar heavy in his hands. Each day, he carried the sun across the sky, and each night, he descended into the underworld, where Apep waited. The serpent always waited. Ra could feel the cold dread coil in his stomach as he prepared for another battle. He had fought for so long. Too long. But his grief wasn’t for the endless fight—it was for the day when he wouldn’t win. Ra could already feel his body weakening, his once-golden skin growing pale. One day, the sun would rise, but he would not.

Skoll ran, his breath steady, his paws striking the sky like the beat of a drum. He never caught the sun, but that wasn’t the point. The chase was all that mattered. As long as he chased, the sun would never forget that it could be caught. But now, with Fenrir in the distance, Skoll felt something he hadn’t before: fear. His brother was not like him. Fenrir didn’t chase to keep balance—he chased to destroy. Skoll’s grief hit him like a wave, crashing into his chest. He had always known his chase would end, but not like this. Not with the sun devoured.

Fenrir’s jaws ached with hunger. It was always there, gnawing at him from the inside, a need to consume. He had devoured Odin, and it had tasted of finality, of the end of an age. But it hadn’t been enough. The sun beckoned to him now, its light promising satisfaction. Fenrir’s grief was simple: he knew he could never be satisfied. No matter how much he consumed, no matter how much he destroyed, the hunger would remain. His grief was in his nature, in the unending need that defined him.

Māui stood at the edge of his island, watching the sun race across the sky. He had slowed it before, tethering it with ropes and beating it into submission. But this time, no matter what he did, it slipped away from him. The sun wasn’t running from him—it was running from something else. His grief was not in the loss of control, but in the realization that some things couldn’t be fixed. He had always been able to trick his way out of any situation, but this time, he was powerless. He grieved for the helplessness, the trickster brought to his knees by forces too great to manipulate.

Apollo’s chariot blazed across the sky, pulled by fiery horses, but his heart wasn’t in the race. His music, once bright and full of life, had become melancholy, the notes lingering in the air like a goodbye. He had always been the god of reason, of logic, but now, with Skoll’s chase and Fenrir’s hunger threatening the sun, he couldn’t find the answers. His grief wasn’t loud—it was a quiet, growing sense of loss. The world he had helped illuminate was slipping into darkness, and no melody could stop it. Apollo’s grief was for the things he couldn’t fix, the order he couldn’t restore.

Another night. Another battle. Apep waited, coiled and ready, but Ra no longer felt the thrill of the fight. His hands, once strong, trembled as he gripped his oar. He could see the sun faltering in the distance, but there was nothing he could do to help it. Ra’s grief was not for the sun, but for himself. He was tired—so tired—and the thought of letting go, of sinking beneath the waves and into Apep’s jaws, was almost comforting. But he couldn’t stop. Not yet. His grief was the grief of a god who had lived too long, fought too many battles, and couldn’t remember why he had started.

When Fenrir finally caught the sun, it was softer than he had imagined. He had expected resistance, but the light crumbled in his jaws like ash. For a brief moment, he felt satisfaction, the hunger easing as the sun darkened beneath his teeth. But it didn’t last. Fenrir’s grief was in the aftermath, the emptiness that followed every destruction. He had devoured Odin, he had taken the sun, but the hunger was still there, gnawing at him from the inside. His grief was in knowing that no matter how much he consumed, it would never be enough.

Skoll watched from a distance as his brother devoured the sun. It wasn’t supposed to end like this. His chase had been eternal, a balance between life and death, light and darkness. But Fenrir’s bite had shattered that balance, and now Skoll was lost. His grief was not for the sun, but for himself. What was a wolf without a chase? What was his purpose if the light was gone? Skoll’s grief was the grief of a being who had lost his reason for existing, and he howled into the void, not for the sun, but for the chase that would never come again.

As the sun disappeared, Māui felt a coldness settle over his island. He had always believed that with enough cleverness, he could fix anything. But this? This was beyond him. His grief wasn’t for the loss of the sun—it was for the realization that even gods had limits. He had spent his life tricking, scheming, finding ways to control the world around him. But in this moment, Māui understood that some things were beyond his reach. His grief was the grief of a god who had finally been humbled by forces too great to trick.

Ra felt the light return before he saw it. The warmth on his face, the flicker of life in the darkness—it was faint, but it was there. He had fought through the night, as he always had, and he would fight again tomorrow. His grief hadn’t disappeared, but in this moment, he allowed himself to feel the light, the small victory of surviving another night. Ra’s grief was the grief of endurance, of knowing that every battle would begin again, but also knowing that for now, the light had returned. It was enough.

Skoll watched as the sun reformed, brighter than before. He had lost this chase, but it wasn’t over. It never was. Skoll’s grief was not one of finality, but of acceptance. The chase would begin again, and he would be there, always a step behind, always reminding the sun that its light was fragile, that it could be caught. His grief was the grief of a being who understood his purpose, even if that purpose was to lose, again and again. But as long as there was a sun to chase, Skoll would run.