Fenrir: The Chain Breaker

The gods feared one creature above all, and it was not a giant or a serpent. It was a wolf.

Fenrir, son of Loki, grew so fast and so vast that the Aesir could not abide him. Twice they bound him in iron, and twice he broke the iron like rotten thread. So they turned to cunning and forged Gleipnir, a ribbon spun from things that do not exist: the footfall of a cat, the roots of a mountain, the breath of a fish. Slender as silk, stronger than any chain. The wolf, scenting a trick, would only submit if a god laid a hand between his jaws. Tyr alone was brave enough, and Tyr alone paid for it.

The binding was never meant to hold forever. Prophecy says that when Ragnarok comes, Gleipnir will fail, the wolf will run loose with his jaws stretched from the earth to the sky, and Odin himself will be swallowed whole.

This is that instant. The fetter splitting, the red eye opening, the unkillable thing remembering what it is. Printed heavy on garment dyed cotton, for the ones who were never built to be held.