The war was over. Ogún stood above the rubble, his onyx, muscled form slicked with sweat and blood. Yet his destruction was not done; anger boiled in his blood, and he brandished both machetes above his head with thick, powerful arms. A deranged, primal scream poured from his lips, as much a warning as a threat. Earth stood still; darkness descended. Those who could ran; others hid, and some just cowered before his wrath. Like a rabid beast, Ogún descended upon the town’s survivors, slicing any who dared breathe. Blood flowed, and death was quick to all in his path.
Oshún Ibù Yemú trembled in shadows; her frail body, weak with age and exhaustion, was barely enough to keep her standing upright, let alone face the wild warrior. But in the city she had many children, several of these priests, and she could not sit idly while Ogún, fed by fear and frenzy, wiped out her followers. Smearing honey on her lips, she stepped in his path holding both arms to heaven, and sang, “Gbajure aye e! Okonrin gogorogo ti ngbojuto iyade (Great warrior in the world, you whose size does not let you come without knocking down the door)!” For a moment, Ogún wavered as he saw the elderly Oshún before him; the words barely reached him, but the challenge of an elderly woman touched his soul. Again Oshún Ibú Yemú sang, her words more insistent, more earnest, and Ogún wavered. He trembled. The fog lifted from his mind as he looked around, his eyes opened to the great evil he caused, the needless death of those who no longer opposed him.
Ogún, exhausted, fell to the earth in tears. Ibù Yemú knelt beside him, cradling him against her breast. For now, her people were saved.