will you greet the daylight looming?

by ScreechTheMighty

Summary:

Learn to love without consuming? | The year after the end of the world, from Kratos's perspective. | MAJOR spoilers for Ragnarok.

Chapter 1: winter (prologue)

Slowly, the ravens began to come down from their tree.

It took some time. They still feared the Raven Keeper, it seemed. They needed to confirm that she was truly gone, that she couldn’t harm them again. The first to flutter down from the branches and rest on his shoulder said nothing; only stood there for a moment, examined the space, and flew back again.

He was sure it was the same raven who nested in his cloak’s hood now, carefully preening her feathers. The more time he spent in Niflheim, the more confident Kratos became that he could tell some of them apart. They gave impressions, glimpses perhaps of who they once were. It was why he was sure the one in his hood was a girl, even if he did not know her name. She was bold, considering what she’d been through. It gave him some hope for the others.

“The lake is beginning to thaw,” Kratos said. “I think…it is over.”

The raven rested her head on his shoulder and made a soft grunting sound–a near perfect imitation of his own voice.

Despite their somber surroundings, Kratos smiled.

Notes:

Fair warning this one is going to be slower to update than "ripe and ruin" was because it's more slice of life, very loose outline kind of deal and those always take me a bit longer. Also, "ripe and ruin" IS going to be majorly referenced throughout so you should probably read that one first if you want to see [REDACTED]'s POV for things (fair warning, that POV makes it way sadder). It's the fic before this in the series.

Chapter 2: spring

The snow cleared slowly. It made the winter seem longer than usual, but spring’s arrival was undeniable. Most mornings, Kratos woke up to sunrises no longer obscured by clouds and temperatures no longer so freezing that his fingertips went numb. He could walk without forcing his way through knee-deep snow. Rivers and lakes began to thaw.

And, one day, the flowers began to bloom again.

“Well, isn’t that lovely!” Mimir said. “When was the last time we saw flowers in Midgard?”

Not since Faye died. It seemed like much longer. Three years in the life of a god was usually nothing, but it had been a very strained three years. Kratos carefully touched the newly unfurled petals. He knew these flowers. Faye would dry them and brew them in a tea whenever he had headaches. Kratos never complained, of course, but she always seemed to know anyway.

You’re so tense, love. Were you carved from stone back in Greece?

His hand fell away from the flowers. Kratos surveyed the area, making note of the landmarks. He would return when they had matured.

It would be cruel to uproot them so soon.

 

Speki and Svanna adjusted quickly to their brother’s growth, accepting him back as if he’d never been gone. Fortunately, Fenrir had also learned to adjust; otherwise, their attempts at roughhousing would have far greater consequences.

“Don’t look at me like that,” Kratos said. Speki continued to look at him like that, a soft pleading whine coming from her. “You chose to battle a stronger enemy. Win or lose on your own merit.”

Speki huffed and trotted back. Svanna still struggled, growling and tugging on the end of a large branch. Fenrir held the other end. It looked like a twig in his mouth. He didn’t move at all, save for the slight wagging of his tail.

“He could go a little easy on them,” Agrboda noted with a smile, “but I think he likes being the strongest one again.”

“Hmm.” Kratos supposed he could understand. Fenrir’s illness had taken much from him. He had not been as attached to the wolf at the time, but it had still been troubling to watch his decline. The strength of this new form must have been welcome after so long spent ill. As he watched, Fenrir lifted his head slightly, leaving Svanna dangling off the ground. “Thank you for bringing him.”

“It’s no problem. He misses it here. He even misses you sometimes.”

“Sometimes?” Kratos raised an eyebrow. “What’s he been saying about me?”

“Nothing, technically. They don’t really talk, it’s more like…”

“Impressions. Atreus told me.” His chest still ached sometimes when he spoke of his son. Worry born of love. That would never go away, he knew, no matter how much he believed his Atreus could handle the journey. “What is his impression, then?”

“You’re cranky. But when he got sick you’d give him extra table scraps.”

“...hmm.”

Angrboda grinned. “So he wasn’t exaggerating that part?”

“He needed to keep his energy up.”

“Uh-huh.” She put her hands on her hips and examined him carefully. “You’re really not that scary, you know.”

Kratos huffed quietly. “You’re only the second person to say that.”

“Really? In how long?”

“However long you think and make it longer.” The branch broke; Svanna tumbled to the ground with her half, then promptly ran off with it, yipping excitedly around the mouthful of wood. “Are you well?”

He was hesitant to ask. They had not known each other long, and he did not want to seem as if he were fretting. She was clearly a competent young woman. But he had been to the Ironwood. He had seen how she lived. Angrboda’s isolation was familiar in a way he didn’t like. Despite himself…Kratos worried.

“I’m doing okay. It feels…different in Jotunheim.” She leaned over to pet Svanna as the wolf trotted over. “It was never that cold in the Ironwood, but…I can tell, somehow.” She met Kratos’s eyes. “Are you okay?”

That was a fair question. “It has been quiet. I am…adjusting. But…”

He stopped, a strange feeling settling in his chest. Angrboda nodded. “Yeah, I miss him, too. I mean…” She ducked her head. “I know, I didn’t know him as long…I don’t want to sound like…”

“I understand.” You could forge strong connections in a short amount of time. Kratos knew that better than most. “Do you know where he may have gone?”

Angrboda shook her head. “He’s got a lot of options. I know some went east. Some west. Anywhere they could go to get away from this.” She hesitated. “It is…safe here now, right?”

Safe was probably the wrong word. There would always be dangers–draugr, wild animals, the evil or the opportunistic. Jotunheim lay mostly in ruin; rebuilding would take some time. And he didn’t know how many of the Aesir still held a grudge against the giants.

But their two greatest threats were gone. And if any others did arise, he felt honor-bound to protect them. For their sakes, for Faye’s. For his son’s.

“It is,” he said. “It will be.”

Angrboda relaxed. For a moment, she looked much more her age: a young woman who did not have the full weight of prophecy on her shoulders.

The world did not feel so heavy on his shoulders, either.

 

He saw more of Thrúd than he’d anticipated.

The deaths of most other major Aesir left her mother Sif as leader. Týr, the true Týr, could have perhaps taken up the mantle, but expressed no interest in doing so. Kratos could not say he blamed the man for that.

He'd expected Thrúd to spend more time at her mother's side, but she still seemed determined to join the ranks of the reformed Valkyries. Whenever there was trouble with draugr or Hel-walkers, he found her there.

And the draugr and Hel-walkers had still been causing a lot of trouble.

"They just don't stop coming," Thrúd said irately. She kicked over one of the bodies, watching as it dissolved into frost. "Every time we find a hole down there, they just move on to another one."

Kratos grunted. “They are determined. You can always find an escape if you look hard enough.”

“You sound like you’ve got experience with that.”

“Yes.”

Thrúd stared expectantly. Kratos was used to that look by now. Many people tried to pry the story of his past out of him. He did not always feel inclined to answer. He liked Thrúd well enough, but she was not exactly in his confidence. So he stayed silent, instead scanning the surroundings for more Hel-Walkers. Thrúd gave up with a quiet sigh. “I’m gonna let the others know. They’re trying to see if there’s like…a pattern to it. Anything that helps. Hey, this isn’t weird, is it?”

“Hmm?”

Thrúd held up Mjölnir. “This. Since…you know…”

He had a feeling she only meant because my father tried to kill you with it, twice. Perhaps she’d thought to ask because of Atreus and Faye, because of what they were. Because of what that hammer had done.

For a moment, the Blades strapped to his back felt warmer, as if the flames were starting to spark. He ignored the feeling. “No,” he said. “It is not.”

Some weapons had complicated histories. Some vile things still had use…perhaps even use for good.

But as Thrúd gave him a relieved smile and flew off, he thought of Vanaheim. The crater left in the wake of a battle.

How strong Faye’s hatred must have been to fuel that kind of rage.

 

“You are being entirely too calm about this.”

“That’s what I keep saying!” Mimir said. “Three times before he’s done this! Not even a bloody flinch!”

“I can leave you at home if you are so concerned,” Kratos interrupted.

“I’m not concerned for myself.”

Kratos glanced Freya’s way. She didn’t seem concerned so much as surprised. Kratos wasn’t sure what to say. Helheim was a comparatively easier afterlife to escape, at least in his experience. Stating so would probably not make his companions less alarmed by his calm. So, he ignored the statement and opened the travel gate.

The action was mundane, but it felt heavy, mournful. The feeling was familiar to him now; he felt the same when he used the spear, or looked at the brand on Leviathan. All reminders of two friends lost.

Do not dwell on it. Focus.

“The Valkyries are sure of the locations?” he asked as they traveled along the world tree.

“Very.” Freya carefully scanned their surroundings. There weren’t many threats on this part of the tree, but Nidhogg’s offspring had become more active as the Fimbulwinter thawed. Ratatoskr insisted they were “only playing,” but their play tended to involve biting. They were not as gentle as the wolves when they played. “Same plan as always. You keep them distracted, I’ll close the rifts. This should slow them down for a while.”

Kratos grunted. They were very efficient by now. It was…comforting, he realized. Of course, he had not been truly alone since he’d met Faye, but the circle of people Kratos knew he could trust had been very, very small since he’d moved north. He was a long way off from his days as a soldier, a member of a syssitia, someone who was surrounded by competent men whom he could trust without hesitation.

And he’d missed it. He hadn’t realized how much until the fragile spring grew stronger. Once, he might have convinced himself the feeling was relief that tasks would actually get done and that he was no longer surrounded by squabbling, empty-headed fools. (He might have regretted how things had gone in Greece, but he stood by that assessment of Olympus.)

But there was no reason to lie to himself. He missed the companionship. Freya and Mimir were good comrades. They were part of the reason he was so calm about returning to Helheim.

He would not be attempting to leave alone, and that was a great comfort.

“Something on your mind?” Freya asked.

“Nothing burdensome,” Kratos said. He felt a sudden urge to thank her, though it was tempered by the knowledge that doing so might start a conversation he wasn’t ready for. Their doorway had appeared, anyway. Now was not the time. Later, he thought. “Are you ready?”

Freya drew her bow and nodded. The gesture was quickly followed by a smirk. “Age before beauty?” she said.

…fair.

“How old are you, anyway?” Mimir asked as they stepped into the frozen wastes of Helheim.

“How old do you think?”

“Er…”

Kratos huffed a quiet laugh. “Well?”

“I think I’ll keep that one to myself, brother.”

That was also fair.

 

It was one of his rare quiet days. Kratos focused on repairing the garden. It had long gone fallow over the Fimbulwinter. It would be good to see it productive again. The whining of the wolves alerted him to someone approaching. He thought it would be Angrboda, but instead…

“Need a hand with that?”

It took Kratos a moment to remember the blond’s name. Skjöldr. Midgardian boy, formerly a resident of Asgard. Atreus’s friend, about the same age. Kratos knew of him, but he didn’t come by as much as Agrboda, or even Thrúd. “I have it,” Kratos said. “Atreus…Loki is not back yet.”

“No, I didn’t think so. I…” Skjöldr moved towards the gate, then hesitated as the wolves stared him down. “...uh.”

“They are friendly.” Though he knew they likely didn’t look friendly. “Speki. Svanna. Here.”

The wolves stood and walked to Kratos’s side, fixing their attention on him. Skjöldr came in through the gate, keeping a respectful distance but seeming more relaxed now. “I wanted to talk to you,” he said finally. “I…I need to learn to fight.”

Kratos raised an eyebrow. He wasn’t sure what surprised him more–the fact that the boy hadn’t learned even the basics by his age, or the fact that he was coming to Kratos. “Why?”

“It’s…” Skjöldr gestured around him. “Midgard is great, and we’ve been doing okay, don’t get me wrong. But in Asgard…we were safe there, you know? Even on the other side of the wall, Odin kept a lot of dangers away from us. That’s really all I’ve known. Now I’m here, and there’s a lot of things that can hurt us. I want to be able to keep everyone safe.”

Kratos understood. It was another way Odin kept them reliant on Asgard. Why leave, when the world outside was so dangerous and they had no way to defend themselves? Why teach their children to defend themselves when that might encourage them to explore, to potentially learn some uncomfortable truths?

“It will not be easy,” Kratos warned.

“Oh, I know! I know. I’m ready. I’ll do whatever it takes.”

“Hmm.” Kratos might be more doubtful if the boy’s eagerness were not so…honest. “Is there anyone else?”

“A few of the others. They’re just, uh…”

Skjöldr hesitated. “They’re afraid of me,” Kratos guessed.

“A little bit, yeah.”

Kratos huffed, amused. He was not trying to be threatening, not anymore, but if this kept people away from him…he would not complain. “Come.”

Skjöldr’s face lit up in recognition that his request was being honored. He quickly looked confused. “Where are we…?”

“We start now. You will need practice weapons. We need wood.” He set aside his garden tools and nodded outside of the garden. “You will carry it.”

Nothing like hauling lumber to build up your strength. And if Skjöldr made it through without complaint, Kratos had a feeling he’d be fine.

 

“Just the spear heads?”

“They can make the rest. It is good to learn.” It was still so strange seeing someone else at the forge. Lúnda was competent, agreeable, but still unfamiliar. In some ways, she was the sharpest reminder of what they’d lost. Kratos tried not to dwell on it, knowing that it was unfair to her, but the thought lingered. “Have you seen Sindri?”

It felt wrong to ask. The dwarf was mourning. He had made it clear that he wanted his space. Kratos had been trying to respect that, but he worried. He was familiar with the pain Sindri was feeling. He remembered how the loss of Deimos had plagued him twice over, each time painful in its own way.

He remembered what it had nearly driven him to do.

“I was hoping you had,” Lúnda admitted. “He stopped coming to Nidavellir a while ago, and every time I’ve been by the house, he hasn’t been there. Or he’s been hiding.”

Kratos nodded. “I…haven’t been in some time,” he admitted. He was busy trying to rebuild his home in the Wildwoods, helping seal the holes to Helheim, and training Skjöldr and the others. It did not help that Sindri’s presence lingered in the corners of the building, watching him from the upper level that Kratos could not access, revealing itself in the lingering smell of damp wood and soap. It didn’t feel right to be there anymore. It felt intrusive.

And, if Kratos was being honest with himself, he could not stand to see the judgment and rage in Sindri’s eyes again. It was selfish of him, he knew, but he could not bear it.

“I just wish I knew what to do,” Lúnda sighed. She started sorting through some scraps of metal, moving as if she needed to keep her hands busy but didn’t really care what she was doing. “I know, there’s nothing I can do, but…I wish there was.”

Kratos understood. She could mend any damaged piece of armor or weapon that Kratos gave her, but she could not soothe a friend’s grief. And that grief was nothing Kratos could fight and kill. If Sindri wished for someone to help him bear it, he had to ask.

He did not like to consider what would happen if Sindri never asked. What dark paths he might fall down. He may not have had the same capabilities for violence that Kratos had, but that did not mean Kratos wanted that for him. He should know peace.

Life was rarely so kind.

“He knows we are here,” Kratos said. “If he wishes for our help…”

He couldn’t finish the thought. Lúnda glanced at him with understanding. “Yeah,” she said. Then, with a shake of her head, “I can get those spear heads. Just as long as you promise me they won’t use them for anything stupid.”

“They will be well supervised. And most of them are still intimidated by me.”

“You’re not gonna do anything to make that better, are you?”

“Respect for one’s teacher is healthy.”

“That’s a ‘no.’”

Kratos held back a smile. “Correct.”

Lúnda didn’t bother holding her smile back. “Don’t rely on that too much. Sooner or later they’re gonna realize you’re a big softie.”

“That is a lie and I hope you will not repeat it.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it, honey.” She winked at him. Once, he would have considered that gesture far too familiar.

Now, he couldn’t say he minded.

Notes:

I meant to get this out yesterday but my brain was turned to mashed potatoes by the celebrations, so...happy boxing day I guess xD

Chapter 3: summer

Notes:

Two things about this chapter that I almost forgot to add. First, it covers some of the events of the balance of life is in the ripe and ruin, so parts will be familiar to those who've read that fic. Second, as a result, this chapter DOES hint at suicidal ideation, but I kept it at a t-rating since it's not super explicit/from the POV of the suicidal person. The other fic IS more explicit and from that POV so yeah, that's the biggest difference. (Also there will definitely be more "balance" scenes in this fic, so keep an eye out!)

“Interesting choice of training weapon.”

The voice still sent a jolt down Kratos’s spine, despite knowing it no longer belonged to an enemy. He fought the urge to summon his own spear as he turned around. Týr stood at the fence, watching his students run through their drills. “But it makes sense,” Týr continued conversationally. “That’s how you would’ve started, right?”

“Hmm.” Kratos still did not know how to react to the true Týr. On the one hand, he was nothing like Odin’s impersonation. There was a thoughtfulness to him that the tyrant had not been able to capture. Kratos could almost picture Týr debating with the philosophers of Greece in his free time. He seemed to have no interest in war or power, but was not so aggressive about it as Odin had depicted. He was simply a man who had fought enough for now, and wished to go home to his family and crops.

But Odin had captured his face and voice perfectly. The memory of that voice going cruel as Odin drove the knife into Brok still haunted Kratos. And then there was the memory of Týr’s treasure room. The bottle of Lemnian wine. The pot with Kratos’s likeness on it,

How much did the war god know?

“You visited Sparta?” Kratos asked carefully.

Týr shook his head. “I only ever knew of it by reputation,” he said. “And I was never sure how much of it was true.”

“If you heard it from an Athenian, it was a lie,” Kratos said immediately.

Týr chuckled. “RIght, and I’m sure you can be trusted to tell the truth about Athens,” he replied.

“They made a great many contributions to Greece. And they were annoying.” And the less said about Athena herself, the better. “I’m surprised I never heard of your visits.”

“Oh, I made a point of keeping to myself. Greece was a beautiful place, but…”

Týr hesitated. Kratos turned his attention to his students. Hopefully, it looked as though he were supervising them, not as though he were avoiding eye contact. “Say what is on your mind,” he said.

“...I never met him directly, but Zeus reminded me of Odin in some ways,” he said. “Not exactly the same, but I left Asgard to avoid thinking about my family.”

“Hmm.” Kratos could see some resemblance. The same obsession with prophecy and habit of stabbing their children, for starters. Same habit of damaging lives with their meddling. It seemed to be a requirement for being king of the gods.

“I’m glad you got out,” Týr added, “for what it’s worth.”

Kratos felt a surge of adrenaline, though he knew no physical attack was coming. It was accompanied by a deep feeling of dread, nausea, revulsion. “That is not how I would put it,” he said.

Týr hesitated again. “I don’t know how else to put it,” he said finally. “I heard of how things ended there, but you could have…stayed, mentally. Remained trapped in it all, spread that distrust and hatred. Instead, you’re doing this.” He nodded towards Kratos’s students. “Helping people. I’ve heard about what you and Freya have been up to. So…you got out, in the end.”

The clarification made sense, and soothed his heightened emotions somewhat. Not entirely, though; his scars still tingled. “I suppose. I only wish…”

Wish I could have done it sooner.

Týr smiled sadly, a look of understanding in his eyes. “Me, too.”

Kratos thought about Týr, held hostage in Niflheim for imagined crimes. He thought of Deimos, bound for sins he hadn’t committed yet, and would never get the chance to commit. He imagined how difficult it must have been to push against an unmoving object like Odin.

He was lucky to be alive at all.

“We are not our fathers’ pasts,” Kratos said quietly.

“Yeah,” Týr said. For the first time, Kratos did not see the threat of Odin in him. For the first time, he saw a possible ally. “I sure hope not.”

 

There was more to Skjöldr than Kratos had realized.

Kratos had seen glimpses of the boy’s work ethic before. Skjöldr had been one of the primary organizers as his people settled back in Midgard, and seemed to be treated as a leader among his peers. These traits became more pronounced as they progressed in their training. He was first to volunteer, obeyed orders while still asking the right questions, and had a talent for encouraging the others. He was, of course, still a mortal boy–growing into his body, voice cracking at odd times, still learning the ways of the world. Kratos did not want to ask too much of him too soon. But he was well on his way to doing something great with his life.

He also had a very encyclopedic knowledge of fish.

“They’re the same fish,” Skjöldr explained, “but the coloration is completely different in Asgard. I still kind of think it’s due to some magical influence.” He started gutting the fish with careful precision. “I’d love to go to Vanaheim and see if there’s a pattern. I’d ask Lady Freya, but…y’know.”

“She’s intimidating?” Kratos guessed.

“No…well, yeah, but it’s more that it’s…dumb? I don’t want to bug the Queen of the Valkyries by asking her about fish.”

Freya would probably welcome the question, Kratos thought. It would be a break from the monotony of questions about Draugr or the pockets or trouble-makers they still had to deal with. But he kept that thought to himself and continued skinning his own fish. “You learned all of this yourself?” he asked.

“No, my dad…” Skjöldr hesitated. “...is a fisherman. He taught me. I’ve had to pick up a lot of it since he just started walking again. His leg got pretty busted up during…y’know.”

Ragnarök. Some were still hesitant to invoke it by name. Kratos understood. “But it is healing?”

“He’ll probably have a limp, but yeah, it could have been worse.” Skjöldr straightened up suddenly at the sound of wings nearby. “Is that…?”

Kratos didn’t have to look up to confirm that it was. He knew that sound by now. The Valkyries were back, and Thrúd with them if the crackle of lightning in the otherwise clear air was any indication. Kratos could hear them talking among themselves. It seemed like they’d missed a few holes out of Helheim. That was irritating. He heard footsteps approaching; Skjöldr attempted to sit up straighter as they grew close. “Hey, Thrúd,” he said.

Ah. Kratos made a point of looking down at the fish he was cleaning. The boy was already nervous. There was no point in making it worse. “Hey, Skjöldr,” Thrúd said. She gave him a friendly punch to the shoulder. Her being a goddess, the “friendly” punch nearly knocked Skjöldr over. He didn’t seem to mind. “Keeping everyone fed?”

“Trying to. Uh, everything going okay with the, uh…Helheim stuff?”

“Oh, y’know. Helheim is Helheim.” Kratos felt knuckles nudge into his own shoulder in an attempt at a similar punch. It didn’t move him at all. “Kratos.”

Kratos grunted. He glanced up long enough to see if Freya was there. She stood nearby, examining her swords carefully. Frost marked the edges. Good hunting, if he had to guess. “Where were they entering Midgard?” he asked.

“Oh, right next to Jörmungandr’s head,” Thrúd said with a laugh. “He did half the work for us. Not sure they tasted any good.”

Skjöldr laughed, perhaps a little too quickly. Oh, poor boy. If it had been any other goddess, Kratos might have considered intervening as soon as possible. He still considered it, but not for any fault of Thrúd’s. The heartache of a mortal and an immortal was potent. He knew that from experience.

But he was not the boy’s father, and that was probably a mistake he’d have to make on his own. So Kratos kept his eyes on the fish.

Freya sat down next to him with a sigh. “They’ve got you doing manual labor?” she asked.

“I volunteered.” He liked the normalcy of it. If he feared one thing, it was becoming too used to being a proper god again. He may not be running from his true nature anymore, but he did not want to be some distant thing sitting on a throne. He wanted to keep the life he had created for himself–fish guts and all. “The river’s thawed entirely. Travel should be easier now.”

“Finally. I thought some of those chunks would never clear away.” Freya glanced at Skjöldr and Thrúd. She was talking about her Valkyrie duties while he listened attentively. “Oh, dear,” Freya said quietly.

Of course she’d noticed. Love was one of her domains; if it was obvious to Kratos, it was probably a full signal fire to her. “Best of luck to him,” Kratos said quietly.

She didn’t audibly laugh, to her credit, but he could see the amusement in her eyes. “Best of luck indeed.”

Kratos waited until there was a lull in the conversation before asking his next question: “Do you have fish like this in Vanaheim?”

Skjöldr’s eyes darted over to them, looking surprised, but he kept his mouth shut. Freya examined the fish. “Similar, but they’re more of a…sunset color, I guess you could say. Why?”

Kratos shrugged. He knew the lack of answer wouldn’t give much away; Freya was used to him not answering questions by now. It wasn’t as if she could find him any more odd than she already did.

The grateful look on Skjöldr’s face made it worthwhile, anyway.

 

He had only seen Angrboda in the Ironwood or the Wild Woods. She’d alluded to returning to Jötunheim proper a handful of times (“Just looking around”), but beyond when she helped them during Ragnarök, she seemed content to stay in her part of the world.

It caught Kratos just as off-guard as everyone else when she arrived in Midgard.

“Hey, is that Loki’s friend?”

It was. And Kratos immediately noticed the change in the air around them. He’d set up the training grounds close to the mortal’s growing town, close enough that there were always people walking by. Those people were staring. Visibly.

She hadn’t come with Fenrir. It was just Angrboda, her arms wrapped around herself tightly, her gaze more frightened and rabbit-like than he’d ever seen it. Kratos stepped closer to her, carefully scanning the staring faces, searching for any signs of threat-

“Angrboda, right?” Skjöldr said. He had put down his spear and was approaching her with a friendly smile. “Loki’s friend? I’m Skjöldr.” He held out his hand. “Are you here to train, too?”

“Oh, uhm…” Angrboda unfolded enough to shake Skjöldr’s hand. “No, I was just here to say ‘hi.’”

Some of the students were still staring. Skjöldr’s friendliness seemed to put them at ease, but they were still curious. They had never seen a giant before, Kratos realized. They had only heard stories of them, and likely stories filtered through the lies of Asgard. None of them seemed hostile, at least, but…

“Drills,” Kratos called sternly. “Your enemy is over there.” The students quickly went back to their straw dummies. “Skjöldr, you as well.”

“Yes, sir,” he said immediately. To Angrboda, he added, “We should talk sometime! I never got to thank you for helping.”

“It’s no problem,” she replied with a hesitant smile. “Glad you’re okay.”

Kratos waited until Skjöldr was out of earshot before moving closer to Angrboda. “Are you all right?”

Angrboda let out a shaky breath. “I’m okay. I just…I guess I wanted to see if it was really okay out here. You mentioned coming here a lot, so I thought it’d be safe.”

Of course. She wanted to see how one of the last giants in the realms would be treated for showing her face. If Atreus did return with more giants, that would be important to know. “I would have escorted you,” he said quietly.

“I didn’t really plan to come here today, but thank you.” She seemed more relaxed now that he was close. “I haven’t been to a town in a while. It looks nice.”

“They’ve done well for themselves. There’s been help from Vanaheim and the Aesir left…” He noted one of the students was struggling with her form. “I’ll be right back.”

Kratos was worried that some trouble would find Angrboda in the time it took him to help the student and return. But she was still standing at the fence when he was done, and no one accosted her during her visit.

It may have been naive of him, but Kratos hoped that was a good sign.

 

Skjöldr made a point of including Angrboda after that whenever he saw her. Kratos suspected it was out of loyalty to Atreus more than anything, but he was still grateful. Angrboda herself opened up quickly to the attention, losing the wariness she’d had that day very quickly. He might be the second person her age she’s ever spoken to, Kratos realized. Perhaps that was the other reason she’d risked showing herself.

She was lonely.

“So, these are…” Skjöldr looked up from the hinge he was fixing. “...what, past, present, future?”

“Sometimes. And it really depends on when you see it.” Angrboda kept her eyes on the shrine. They needed some attention after three years of snow. She’d insisted on repairing the art herself while Kratos and Skjöldr tended to the doors. “This used to be past, present, future. Now it’s more like…beginning, middle, end, I guess.”

“Yeah, that makes sense. Much as any of this makes sense.”

Kratos understood that sentiment. He tried not to think about the complexities of prophecies now that they were no longer a matter of life and death. He had struggled with the decision before, but Kratos was grateful now that Faye had never told him about it until she absolutely had to.

He wondered how she had stood living with it herself.

“Does Jörmungandr know this is in here?” Skjöldr wondered. “It must be weird for him if he does. Knowing your whole life story is out there somewhere…I don’t think I’d be able to live like that.” He hesitated. “I’m not on any of these, right?”

“Not that I know of,” Angrboda said. “Guess that means you can do whatever you want.”

Skjöldr looked relieved–then, almost immediately, nervous again. “Okay , that sounds really scary when you put it like that.”

Mimir barked with laughter. Even Kratos couldn’t hold back a chuckle. “Really no winning is there?” Mimir said. “The burden of choice.”

“Better than being a story with the end written,” Angrboda noted quietly.

Kratos hummed in agreement. He waited until Skjöldr moved away from the open door and nodded before releasing it. It settled back on its hinges, now fully repaired. The shrine may not have been good as new, but it looked much better than it had. “Do you think we can move them one day?” he asked.

“I think they’ll be okay where they are for now, but I’ve thought about it,” Angrboda admitted. “Maybe once things settle down a bit more.”

Maybe once more of the giants return and can make that decision, if he had to guess. But Angrboda was still careful not to discuss that in mixed company. She had been treated fairly so far, but Kratos understood her caution.

Eventually, Skjöldr had to go back into town, leaving Kratos and Mimir along with Angrboda. He was content to watch her paint at first, her hands carefully tracing the pre-existing lines. She was the first one to break the silence: “Thanks for the help with this.”

“You’re welcome.” Kratos examined the canvas before them. “I was hoping…to learn.”

“About the prophecies?”

“About the giants. I know Faye left long before she met me, but they are her people. I want to know.” It was the least he could do to respect her memory. The memory of the family she had only talked about once, but with so much pain in her eyes. “I want to understand her.”

Angrboda set her paintbrush down and looked at him, understanding in her eyes. “I’d love to tell you,” she said quietly. “Do you think you could tell me about her? I know she meant a lot to a lot of people, but I don’t think they knew…her. You know?”

Kratos nodded. “Of course. She would have liked you, I can say that.” His gaze swept over the shrine, the carefully restored paintings. “She was an artist herself.”

“Really?” Angrboda looked pleased. “So Atreus got it from her?”

“Yes.” His Spartan training had covered more than most people assumed. Neither drawing nor painting was on that list. “They were alike in many ways. I know it will serve him well.”

“So will what he got from you.”

The compliment hit him harder than he thought it would. “...thank you.”

He hoped she was right.

 

The invitation was unexpected. Kratos hadn’t had much chance to return to Niðavellir since Brok’s funeral. The dwarves had largely kept to themselves in the wake of Ragnarök, trying to rebuild their realm without outside interference.

But they remembered him, apparently, because Durlin arrived one mid-summer day with an invitation. “We’re tearing down the statues the Aesir left up. Want to help?”

Kratos found he did. And with the dwarf’s permission, he invited Freya and Angrboda as well. The former declined; the latter agreed wholeheartedly, though Kratos had a feeling the possibility of seeing a new realm influenced her decision. She was practically bursting with excitement when she arrived with Fenrir in tow.

“This place is amazing!” she said.

“It certainly smells nicer than it did,” Mimir noted.

Kratos grunted and kept an eye out for grims. They were going to a statue near a mining operation, not the one in town. It was probably for the best, considering Fenrir was there. The wolf was as excited as Angrboda, eagerly taking in all the new smells. Word of his size must have reached Niðavellir, because the few dwarves Durlin had assembled weren’t too alarmed at the sight of him. Still alarmed, but it could have been much worse. “What the fuck were you feeding that thing?” Durlin asked.

“I’ve seen bigger beasts,” Kratos said. The actual answer would take too long. “We thought he could help.”

“Yeah, no shit.” Durlin glanced Angrboda’s way. Like the citizens in Midgard, he seemed to figure out quickly that she was a giant. Unlike the citizens of Midgard, his reaction was much softer. “You want the first hit, little lady?”

Angrboda examined the statue critically. It was about as much an eyesore as the one in Niðavellir city proper. Then again, Kratos had a feeling it would be difficult to make Odin look good at all. “Actually,” she said, reaching into her bag, “there’s something I was thinking about doing first…”

She had small sacs filled with paint. The first slap of bright green struck the statue right in the eye patch, splattering across the face. It was strangely satisfying to watch; the cheers that accompanied it were even more so. Angrboda quickly started distributing the paint balls among the dwarves. Kratos was content to position Mimir so he could hurl insults and watch from a safe distance. Durlin joined him. “She seems like a sweet kid,” he noted. “Reminds me of someone we know.”

“Hmm.” Kratos glanced Durlin’s way. The dwarf’s eyes were fairly clear today. It was difficult to tell if he had stopped drinking entirely, or had decided he wanted all his faculties for the occasion. “You knew her well?”

“Not as well as I’d thought, apparently. Never would’ve picked her as the wife and mother type.” Durlin huffed a quiet laugh. “I’m happy for her, though. She deserved that peace.”

The dwarf’s voice softened as he spoke about her. Kratos was still getting used to hearing that tone when others spoke of her. She had been cared for by so many before him. It was comforting, to know that she had people around her even in her worse days. “You cared about her,” he noted.

Durlin’s next laugh was louder. “Not jealous of you, if that’s what you mean. But someone might be. Half of Niðavellir was in love with her by the end. You’re lucky you managed to get her before one of us did.” More encouraging shouts broke out in front of them. Fenrir had started digging at the statue’s base while the others egged him on. “Think they could use the extra muscle.”

In truth, Kratos could have brought the statue down single-handedly, but he knew the others needed the catharsis. He only expanded as much energy as needed to get the statue lowered down, allowing the others to bring it down entirely. The energy of the crowd was somewhere between a celebration and a battle. Fortunately, most of the insults being hurled were in Dwarvish. Kratos had a feeling they would be too strong for Angrboda.

Then again, he had no idea what her hurled insults were, either. She may have had a broader vocabulary than he realized.

Kratos was helping pry the statue’s head off when he heard it. The shout was distant at first, but quickly solidified into a familiar voice: “Kratos? Kratos?!”

It was Lúnda. When Kratos turned around, the dwarf was running towards them. Her face was as frantic as her tone. Kratos immediately ran to meet her. “It’s Sindri,” she gasped before Kratos could ask. “It’s…”

Kratos suddenly felt very cold. “Where?” he demanded.

“Back at the house…I don’t know, but something’s wrong. Please, I don’t know what to do.”

She was frightened. This woman had fought alongside Freyr against the Aesir, and this had her rattled. Kratos looked over his shoulder. Angrboda must have sensed something wrong; she’d followed him closer, but kept a safe distance away to avoid eavesdropping too much. “I have to…” Kratos started.

She nodded immediately. “Yeah, go. Fenrir can get me back home. I think I’ll be okay on my own.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’ll look after her,” Durlin said immediately. His face remained calm, but Kratos saw one hand anxiously fiddling with one of his vest buttons. “Make sure he’s all right.”

“Thank you.”

His last sight of the group was Fenrir chasing after Odin’s severed head. He wished the sight could bring him any joy. All he could think about was Sindri.

I should have gone to the house more. I should have spoken to him before this. The thought that he had been giving the dwarf too much distance had crossed his mind, but never for long. He had other things on his mind: helping Freya, training his students, looking after Angrboda. But now all he could think was that he’d been using those tasks to avoid making things right. That he could have cut into the time spent on his own, used that to repair this wrong.

Repair it now. There is no sense dwelling in what-ifs.

He was bracing himself for something terrible. What they found when they reached the house was not what he’d expected. Somehow, that only made things worse.

The house was completely abandoned. The only sign of life was the upturned bucket on the floor, and the brush beside it. The main room smelled strongly of soap and damp, molding wood. The worst damage was centered around a spot near the table.

The place where Brok had breathed his last.

“He’s not upstairs either.” Lúnda ran down the stairs, dislodging her goggles as she ran a hand through her hair. “He was here when I left, I swear.”

“What the blazes was he doing?” Mimir asked.

“I don’t know. He was…talking crazy, saying Brok was in the floor or something. I don’t know what was wrong.”

Kratos knew. He may not have experienced it in the same way Sindri was, but he knew its root cause far too well.

“He is grieving,” he said quietly. Of course Sindri wasn’t behaving rationally. Nothing about grief was rational. For a moment, Kratos was back in Greece, sharpening his knife to the point of damaging it. He knew it was too much, but he couldn’t make himself stop. It was the only thing that made sense in light of the unthinkable. His friend, the man he would name his son after one day, gone.

And that was the most rational thing grief had driven him to do.

“We’ve gotta find him,” Lúnda said. “He shouldn’t be alone when he’s like this. I just don’t know where he’d go.”

Kratos did, or at least he had an idea. It’s where he’d go, if he’d known what he knew now. “I will look,” he said. “You two should wait here, in case he comes back.” He could see the protest forming on Lúnda’s face, so he cut it off quickly: “He may not be receptive if all of us go. One is better than a crowd. And…I need to do this.”

I have to set this right.

Lúnda relented with a heavy sigh, taking Mimir without complaint. “Just bring him back, okay?” she said.

“Good luck, brother,” Mimir said, his eyes soft with understanding.

Kratos nodded to them both and left.

He managed to avoid breaking into a run until he was following the World Tree to Alfheim.

Atreus had spoken sometimes of speaking to his mother, asking her for guidance. Faye’s only prayers had been ancestral; according to Angrboda, this was a giant practice. The gods haven’t really done much for us. All we’ve got is each other. Kratos had never tried, being out of practice with prayer in general and unsure of what to ask her.

He spoke to her now.

Please. I know he’s your friend. I need to find him. Show me where he is, elskan. Help me find him.

Show me.

His time in Alfheim had been limited over the past months, but Kratos still remembered the way. Through the closest gate, to the Lake of Souls. With Lúnda’s help, they had been able to reopen a gate on the far shores, near the forge Sindri had used. That day had been difficult (trying to dodge the latest fight that had broken out had been tedious), but Kratos was grateful for the effort now. He half-expected to find Sindri there, hammering away at a weapon as he had that day in Midgard, but the forges were quiet and still. No sign of him.

Kratos stopped and forced himself to breathe.

He is likely here. He knows this is where Brok’s soul would have gone. But where is the best spot? Closer to the temple? It made the most sense. His hands shook as he shoved the boat into the water. Calm, he reminded himself. Panic will not serve you now.

Then, Faye, please.

He felt nothing but his aching dread until he reached the lake. He steered the boat towards the western shores–the beach near where Odin had kept one of the Valkyries. Good view of the light. Easy access to the water. And something else–a growing certainty that he wanted to trust. It may have been foolish, it may have been nothing…

There.

A pile of armor on the shore.

Pure instinct screamed at him to get out, get out now, get into the water, but he controlled it long enough to beach the boat. He’d risk losing it if he didn’t, and it would be faster to get Sindri home that way. A glance confirmed that the armor was his, which meant…

Kratos barely stopped to leave some of his own gear before plunging into the water.

The water was cool, and only grew colder the deeper he swam. Weeds and underwater plants swayed in the currents; a few times, he could have sworn they were not plants, but arms, hands, eyes watching him from the darkness.

Both eyes forward. Focus.

It was difficult to see, but the same impulse that had pulled him to the shore called him onwards. The deeper he swam, the more it took on a concrete form. A familiar voice–an even more familiar song. There was something different about it now, more urgent. Here, it whispered. He’s here. This way, my love, he’s here.

Kratos followed that feeling, even as his lungs started to burn. He followed it until a patch of darkness turned into something solid, into a small form drifting listlessly, dragged downwards by the plants.

There!

Kratos surged forward to grab the body. As he did, he could have sworn he felt something brush his cheek. Whatever it was, it gave him the energy to swim back to the surface, to the sunlight above, and from there to the shore. Sindri’s body was unmoving at first; when Kratos put him down, the dwarf’s lungs remembered to breathe. The first attempt brought convulsions, movement, Sindri turning over as he coughed up lake water onto the shore.

Kratos breathed a sigh of relief. Thank you. Thank you. The hardest part may have been yet to come, but at least he had the chance now. “Breathe,” Kratos said. “Slowly.”

Sindri’s coughing subsided. He wouldn’t look directly at Kratos. “Can you hear me?” Kratos tried. Sindri may have only been semi-conscious. Perhaps he needed more rest before-

“Why did you pull me out?” Sindri asked.

It was a question Kratos had not wanted to hear. It was also one that he understood.

Kratos sighed and sat in the sands, not too far away, but far enough to give Sindri space. He thought of Sindri’s face in the workshop that day, of his own deep pain in the deepest pits of Hades. Deimos and Brok, each twice-lost. “I had a brother,” he said. “The gods took him from me, too. It took a long time for me to…stop blaming myself for what happened. You should have that chance.”

Deimos. What would his brother think of him now? They’d barely had the chance to know each other. In truth, Kratos had envied Brok and Sindri sometimes. They had been separated for a time, but they still had many years shared between them. Kratos barely had six years when they were children, a handful of moments as adults. All the rest had been robbed from him because of some prophecy.

Some cycles couldn’t help repeating themselves, it seemed.

“You do not have to speak to me,” Kratos added. “I understand, you are angry. You have every right to be. But I am not leaving you here alone.” Not again, not this time. Not when the wounds were still so raw and open. Being alone is worse. He should have remembered that. Should have tried to convince Sindri of it sooner.

There was another stretch of silence. He glimpsed Sindri moving, not quite getting up, but hunching over less. When the dwarf spoke, his voice was barely a whisper.

“I killed him.”

Again, three words Kratos did not want to hear. And three words he understood.

“It’s my fault,” Sindri repeated, louder this time. His voice broke under the strain of his grief. “Oh, gods, I killed him.”

Sindri fell apart.

For a moment, Kratos felt he should not be there. This pain was too raw, too intimate; what right did he have to witness it? But he had sworn he would not leave. Now, more than ever, Sindri should not be alone.

He moved close enough to grip the dwarf’s shoulder. Sindri did not protest. Kratos still could not look directly at him, so instead he looked out over the water. Partially for threats. Mostly for answers.

How do I help him bear this?

How can anyone?

Sindri’s sobs quieted eventually. Once they had, Kratos stood and walked to the boat, and the pile of discarded items next to it. The Blades, Leviathan, a few of his own things. He made sure his weapons were out of the water’s reach and picked up a water skin before returning to Sindri. He grunted quietly and held it out in offering. “Do you have anything stronger?” Sindri asked, his voice ravaged by tears.

Maybe I should’ve brought something stronger. “Water first,” Kratos said. “You need it more.”

He sat back down in the sand, half-watching Sindri drink. The knuckles of the dwarf’s exposed hand looked red and raw, probably from the cleaning he’d been doing. He’d lost weight, too, his already thin face looking more haggard than before. He needs rest, Kratos though. Food. If he could be convinced to take it. “How did you know I was here?” Sindri asked as he handed back the water skin.

“Lúnda said you were distressed. Talking about Brok. I thought…”

If it had been me, I would have tried to bring her back, too.

“I heard her here,” Kratos said instead. “Both times. Your shop is not far. It seemed a logical place to start.”

“...Lúnda’s not here, is she?”

Kratos shook his head. “No, she stayed at your home. The head, too. I made sure they wouldn’t follow. You have time.”

He likely needed it. Kratos had asked them to stay for a reason. Just because Sindri shouldn’t be alone did not mean he needed a full audience for his grief. Kratos was sure his presence was bad enough. And yet despite that assumption…

“How do you do it?” Sindri asked quietly. “How do you…handle it all?”

Of all the people Sindri could have asked. Kratos almost wanted to laugh. “Not as well as you’d think,” he admitted. He cast aside his self-mockery and carefully considered his next words. “I simply lived with it, for a long time. If you can call it living. Faye, she…” He had to pause at the memory of that day in the woods. Of the first time she ever held his hand, soft and careful. “...she said once that we would always walk together. That she would always carry a part of me, and I of her. The culmination of love is grief, and yet…we still open our hearts to it. I did not understand what she meant until recently.” He only wished he could have understood sooner. “The pain…no longer feels like pain. Or it feels less so. Instead I feel her. What she taught me, what she gave me. It takes time to accept, but it is possible.”

Now more than ever, he was sure she was with them. That she had called them down to those waters. And even if he couldn’t feel it as clearly elsewhere, she was still with him.

She always had been.

“I mean,” Sindri, “Faye hasn’t been wrong yet.” Despite himself, Kratos chuckled. “She was right about something else. He who walks his own path walks alone.” Sindri met his eyes. They were still red from tears, tired and pained, but clear. “It wasn’t your fault, and…I’m sorry for what I said.”

Kratos had not realized how heavy the weight truly had been until it was lifted. This was not about him, he knew, but he was still…grateful. “You were grieving. I understand. It is behind us.” In the past where it belonged. Now, he could look to a future, one perhaps with Sindri in it. Except… “I do not know if you heard…”

“About Atreus or about Tyr?”

“Both.”

From the look on Sindri’s face, he had. Kratos was not entirely surprised. Atreus’s departure had been quieter, but not unnoticed; Týr’s reappearance, meanwhile, had certainly created a stir. Both would be hard for Sindri, Kratos knew, each in their own way. The only question was how hard, and how he would bear those weights as well.

“He’s going to be okay, right?” Sindri asked.

There was no anger in his voice, no blame. Instead, Kratos heard regret. He missed his son desperately then, and wished he could be there to mend things. But it could wait. Perhaps it was better if it did. “He will,” Kratos said. “I know he will.”

He accepted it as a certainty. His son would return. This could be mended. Both thoughts gave him some comfort.

He hoped they gave Sindri some comfort as well.

They sat in silence for a time. Kratos was grateful for the quiet, and equally unnerved that it was so quiet. Alfheim was never this quiet for him. Elskan, if this is you somehow, I am grateful…but why only this once? He could picture her laughing at the question, clearly as if she were there. I mean it.

“I don’t know if…if I can go back to the house,” Sindri said suddenly.

Kratos did not blame him. He wasn’t sure he wanted Sindri back in that place anyway. There was still too much pain there. Too many memories. “There is room in my home, if you wish,” Kratos said. There was never a doubt in his mind about that. “I cannot promise the wolves will leave you alone, but there is always a place for you.”

It was only right. Sindri was family, some of the first they’d found there. Kratos would have made the same offer to any of the others, but it felt especially important here. It’s what Faye would have wanted. That was reason enough.

Sindri considered it before nodding. “Okay. Okay. If you’re sure.”

“Hmm.” Kratos stood and offered Sindri a hand. “I’m sure.” Sindri hesitated, but took the help getting up. “Home, then.”

“Yeah. Home.”

They gathered their things and rowed back to the gate. Kratos only lingered a moment once the boat secure, pausing to close his eyes and let the sun warm his face.

He thought he felt that touch on his cheek again.

Thank you.

Kratos opened his eyes again, turned to the gate, and brought Sindri back home.

 

“You look tired.”

Sunset had turned Freya’s quarters golden. It was a space Kratos had only seen once, and briefly. It seemed more lived-in now, which was good. Freya hadn’t mentioned any resistance against her return to Vanaheim, but Kratos still worried. “I was going to say the same to you,” he retorted.

Freya rolled her eyes as she poured him a cup of mead. “It’s almost like being queen is exhausting,” she said. “Who would have thought?”

“Hmm.” Kratos took the cup with a grateful nod. “Anything I can help with?”

“Not really. We’ve just spent so much time under Asgard’s thumb. It’s…difficult, starting over.” She stared into her own cup, as if the answers were floating inside somewhere. “I think some people aren’t convinced Odin is gone.”

Kratos understood. There were times when he felt the same way about Olympus.

“What about you?” Freya added. “Those kids giving you trouble?”

“No. They listen well. They’re eager to learn.” They might have been the easiest thing he was handling lately, had it not been for one detail. “One of the parents…tried to give me an offering yesterday.”

“...oh?”

Kratos nodded. “I told her to keep it. Use it for her family. But they want to know what they should call me.” The admission made him feel ill. For a moment, he remembered the smell of burnt offerings, a statue in chains, the taste of blood and unsweetened wine. Nothing like the small bundle of food held in shaking hands, and yet everything like it at the same time.

“Are you really surprised?” Freya asked. “Most of their gods were just using them. You gut their fish and train their children to protect themselves with no expectation of repayment. If you didn’t want attention, you should have stayed in those woods.”

“I know, I know.” She was right, of course. Kratos took a long drag from his cup and sighed heavily. “It is not only that.”

“Your past?”

That as well, but not entirely. “My present. Sindri is still struggling. It is difficult to feel godlike when I can’t even help him.”

Sindri had more or less settled since that day in Alfheim, but grief still hounded him like a predator. Some days he would sweep the same patch of floor over and over, or move around the house carefully adjusting items so they were exactly in their place. He’d even insisted on tending to Kratos’s armor, as much as Kratos had tried to talk him out of it. I have to do something, he’d said. It’s like I’ve got this swarm of nightmares in my head, and doing stuff like this is the only thing that keeps them at bay. Do you know what I mean?

Kratos did, in a way. He was not sure he experienced it the same way Sindri did, but he understood the basic sentiment.

“You’re doing everything you can for him,” Freya said. “He’s not alone now. That’s what matters.”

Kratos wasn’t sure he felt that way, but he tried to believe it.

“I came here to see how you were doing,” Kratos noted suddenly. How had they gotten to talking about him?

“Well, in that case, please, let’s keep talking about your life,” Freya said dryly. Kratos laughed. “Have you been sleeping enough? Remembering to eat?”

“You can’t hide from your problems by fixing mine.”

“Oh, really?” Freya made a show of looking around her room. “Hold on, I think I have a mirror you can look at…”

“All right, all right. I yield.” Kratos sighed, for once in amusement and not in exasperation, and leaned back in his chair. “I propose an armistice. Neither of us discusses our problems. We are simply two friends having dinner.”

“That’s fine with me.” Freya took the opportunity to start drizzling honey over a thick slice of bread. “That said, there is…one thing you might be able to help with.”

He would, of course, without question, but… “Is it urgent?” he said.

“It will keep.”

He topped off his cup with more mead. “Then ask me when I’m done with this.” They could rest that long, he thought. Perhaps it would do them some good.

Freya smiled gently. “Okay.”

He drank slowly. They talked about the summer heat and returning plant life. Their problems kept for a little while longer.

They didn’t seem so insurmountable by the time he reached the bottom of his cup.

 

He returned to Midgard three days later thinking that he had spoken too soon. He did have some dragon scales for Lúnda to use and no one had died. That was about his only consolation.

And at least it’s not Aesir interference, he reminded himself. He had faced worse. And more annoying. But he was glad to be home.

Sindri hadn’t gone mad during Kratos’s absence. He supposed that was another victory. He was tense, but the dwarf was often tense, so Kratos assumed he would live through it. Neither spoke about how their days had gone. They only settled down around the fire pit to eat.

“I am this close to just replacing the fucking floors,” Sindri suddenly. “I don’t want to look at them anymore.”

Kratos nodded, more out of support than because he had truly registered the words. He had to run them over a few more times in his mind. He thought about the damp wood smell, that dark stain in the center of the floor. He hadn’t seen them since, but he doubted the time away had made things any better.

“We could do it,” Kratos replied.

“Do what?”

“Replace the floors.”

Sindri looked taken aback that Kratos had agreed with him.But after some consideration, he straightened up. “Yeah. Yeah, you’re right. We could. Uhm, I mean, if you’re okay with helping.”

“I am.” He didn’t like to think of the house in that state, and it might do Sindri some good.

It might do both of them some good.

Chapter 4: autumn

The distant sound of practice swords was not surprising to hear. His students had taken to practicing on their own as their abilities grew. But as he grew closer, Kratos realized there was only one pair of swords in combat. Most of the students were crowded around a fight occurring in the center. “What’s going on?” Angrboda asked.

“I’m not sure.” It could have been nothing–perhaps two of the students were doing especially well and the others wanted to observe. Perhaps a fight had broken out. There were no real rivalries among his group, but they were still young. Things happened. Kratos sighed and started preparing the lecture as he approached.

He didn’t need it. The truth of the matter came to him in pieces. The way the crowd was not rowdy, but awestruck. The heaviness of the hits. The faint smell of lightning strike in the air. Kratos relaxed. Thrúd had come to visit. Someone had decided to try their luck. That was all.

Or that was, until he felt Angrboda’s hand grip his arm. The panic mostly showed in her eyes, but she was doing an admirable job keeping it under control. Still, he felt guilt, harsh and strong. How had this not occurred to him before? “We can go,” Kratos said quietly. He was not above lying that he was needed elsewhere. The students had progressed enough to practice on their own for the day.

“I’m okay,” Angrboda said quietly.

“Are you certain?”

“It’s fine. It’s just Thrúd.” Angrboda squared her shoulders and let go of Kratos’s arm. “I’m okay. Really.”

Kratos nodded. He wanted to reassure her, say that Thrúd was no threat to her. But right did he have to say that? It wasn’t a decision he could make for her. Only one he could support her through.

When he arrived at the training grounds, Thrúd was guiding one of the female recruits through a disarming technique. Fortunately, Mjölnir was nowhere to be seen. “It just takes a lot of practice,” Thrúd said encouragingly. “You’ll get it.”

The student–Helga, a youngest daughter, came at first just to “keep an eye on” her brother but quickly joined–nodded. She looked awestruck. Kratos seemed to recall that young woman showing a particular interest in hearing about the Valkyries. He made a mental note to tell Freya later. “Thank you, Lady Thrúd,” she said.

“No problem. Anyone else?” Thrúd scanned the crowd, spotting Kratos as she did. “I didn’t beat up anyone. Promise.”

“Hmm.” How to handle this? Act as if nothing were unusual, he assumed. Angrboda would only become more uncomfortable if he drew attention to her. “Thank you for the demonstration. The rest of you, form up!” As the students fell into line, Kratos added to Angrboda, “You're welcome to start with us at any time.” If she were working with them, it would keep her busy, remove the chance of unwanted conversation for a time. He felt he should at least offer.

Angrboday seemed to consider the offer, but shook her head. “I’ll be okay.”

Kratos hummed in response. He squeezed her shoulder without thinking–it was something he would have done for Atreus in the same situation–before returning his attention to the students.

Thrúd lingered. He could only hope her assessment of her as a good-natured young woman remained accurate.

The lessons proceeded as normal. He noticed Thrúd talking to Angrboda, but the conversation didn’t seem to last long before Thrúd had to leave. Angrboda spent the rest of the lesson in her usual spot, painting. It was difficult to gauge her mood when he had to attend to his students, but it seemed to have gone well enough.

Or at least, he hoped so.

Kratos did not get the chance to ask until they were walking back to the Wild Woods. “You are well?” he said carefully.

“Huh? Oh, Thrúd. It’s…” Angrboda held the bag of her supplies more closely to her chest. “...she asked about my painting, and…said we should hang out sometime. She wants to know more about what the giants are really like. Since Odin lied about everything else, she wanted to find out for herself. That’s…good, right? That’s a good sign?”

Kratos nodded. “She is often with Freya and the Valkyries. You would not have to spend time with her alone. Or at all, if you don’t want to.”

Angrboda considered the offer. “I think I do,” she said. “It’s just scary to think I’d be the only one of us she knows, you know? I mean, besides Atreus.”

He understood her nervousness. It was a heavy weight, especially with the history between their peoples. At least Thrúd seemed willing to try. “I think you make a fine ambassador,” he said, “for what it is worth. And I do not think Thrúd holds any ill will against you or your people.”

We are not our fathers’ mistakes. We do not have to be. He had to believe that.

Angrboda smiled. “Thanks. I mean, she’s part giant too, right? Maybe that will help.”

So Thor’s half giant and half god? Weird. He could remember Atreus saying those words. He wondered if his son found the memory amusing now. Angrboda was right, though; that did make Thrúd part giant on her father’s side. “That never made sense to me, though,” Angrboda continued. “That there’s so much giant blood in a place that hates us so much.”

“Mimir thinks love and hate are not so far off. I think Odin’s only true quarrel is that he could not control giants as a whole. If he could control Fjörgyn, that may have kept her safe.”

“May have been what killed her, too.”

Kratos stopped. “What do you mean?”

Angrboda paused for a moment, her eyes scanning the forest as if she were remembering something. “She was away for a long time. And when she died, they brought her home, so the thunder god couldn’t reach her again. That’s what my mother told me. No one knows what happened exactly, but she always wondered if Fjörgyn tried to leave.” Again, her grip tightened on her possessions. “Maybe Odin convinced Thor that she was a traitor, to punish her for leaving him. I don’t know.”

Kratos thought of the man he’d fought in front of the halls of Asgard, the beast with so much regret in his eyes. He thought of salty air, bones breaking and twisting into something horrific.

For a moment, the Blades felt very, very warm.

For a longer moment, he regretted not casting Mjölnir into the Lake of Nine when they’d found it.

 

“If anything happens to me, I want the Blades buried with me.”

The sound of wood carving suddenly stopped. Kratos could feel incredulous eyes staring at him. “...you’re not expecting to get murdered tonight, are you?” Sindri asked.

“No.”

“Then why bring this up now?”

Because the conversation with Angrboda was still fresh on his mind. Because he was about to see more of Odin’s family, Thrúd included. Because he’d never really dwelled on the fact that those blades, that extension of his curse, could linger to cause more harm and pain.

No. He could not let that happen.

“Bury them or destroy them, but be sure no one else can use them.” He stared at their place on the wall. They were not so warm today, but he still felt like they were watching him. “Their time dies with me.”

“...o-kay. Sure thing.” Sindri resumed carving. He was making modifications to the ball-throwing apparatus he’d invented. It was his way of befriending the wolves without having to handle anything their mouths had touched. Speki and Svanna loved it. Fenrir, unfortunately, was too large for it, though Sindri had joked about building him a “fetch catapult” one day. “Assuming I outlive you...”

“I’ll remember in case you don’t,” Mimir said. He had been silent as Kratos prepared, which was a surprise. He was usually more vocal when he was nervous. “You ready, brother?”

Kratos adjusted his armor one final time and grunted.

He had heard the remnants of Asgard were holding a harvest festival; he just hadn’t expected to be invited. Kratos wasn’t entirely sure he should go–might have decided not to, had Freya not said she was going. It’s a goodwill gesture, she’d pointed out. We can’t move on from Odin if we keep distrusting each other.

She was right, but that did not stop Kratos from viewing himself as her backup, not a guest. He was not familiar with all the gods of Asgard or what their temperaments were. They may have been waiting for a moment to strike. Violating hospitality like that was unthinkable to him, but to someone less scrupulous, a party was a viable ambush.

“Tell me,” Kratos said as they started down the path, “are there any remaining Aesir who could pose a threat?”

“Well, most of their heaviest hitters are out of the picture. Out of everyone left…Forseti might be annoying, but he’s more an informant and judge than a fighter. Sif is your biggest threat there, and if she wanted us dead, she’d probably have done something about it by now. And she wouldn’t invite us for dinner just to stab us, either.”

“What about poison?”

“Eh, not her style. But I doubt she’d take offense if you let her take the first bite.”

Good to know.

The Aesir’s hall was a hive of activity when Kratos arrived. Many of the guests were the mortal Asgardians and Midgardians. Kratos did not see many Vanir, though he did see some Valkyries. No dwarves…no, one dwarf, he realized. Lúnda was there, along with the rest of Freyr’s warriors. Most of them clustered together; Hildisvíni was in conversation with Freya and another woman he did not recognize. Kratos carefully removed Mimir from his belt. “Anyone you mentioned earlier?”

“That’s actually Forseti in the corner, and…ah, Sigrun!”

Kratos had to look twice. The woman standing with Freya was the Valkyrie Sigrun. He recognized her armor now. He had never seen her face before. She was older than he’d expected. It showed in the lines around her eyes: dark eyes, dignified and somber. They grew brighter when she saw them–when she saw Mimir in particular. They had been spending a lot of time together since Ragnarök; Kratos would often leave him with her before he went to train with his students. They were an…unusual couple, to be sure, but they were happy. Kratos could not fault them for that.

“Is that your formal armor?” Freya asked as Kratos approached.

“Hmm.” Technically, yes, it was his nicest set. He had nothing else that would suit the occasion. Freya was wearing a green dress with only light leather armor–and both swords still strapped to her back. They seemed a good deterrent to any unwanted attention. “You look well,” he added as he passed Mimir off to Sigrun.

“And you look like you’ve been sleeping.” Freya leaned in close to whisper, “This is the quietest Asgardian party I’ve ever been to.”

“Is that a problem?”

“Not sure yet. Could just be that…certain people aren’t here drinking anymore.” A passing couple greeted her respectfully; she nodded back. “I don’t think this is a trap. They just haven’t had a reason to celebrate in years.”

That made sense. They may have forgotten how to celebrate. He certainly wasn’t sure what to do with himself now that he was there.

Movement in the corner of the room caught his attention. The figure’s height confirmed their identity long before Kratos saw their face: Týr, in the flesh. He’d been absent more lately, traveling, apparently. Kratos had been tempted to ask if the god had seen any sign of Atreus, but didn’t want to sound overbearing. Týr looked more put together than ever, dressed in clean and elaborately-decorated robes, his hair carefully braided and adorned with golden ornaments. A second figure hovered at Týr’s side, one Kratos didn’t recognize. “Who’s that?” he asked Freya.

She looked, then did a double-take. “Höðr,” she said. “Týr must have convinced him to come. I never see him at parties.”

Curious.

Kratos gave Höðr another long look. He must have been part of Odin’s blood family. He had Týr’s lankiness (though he was shorter than him by a head), a face similar to Odin (minus a few decades), and Thor’s vivid red hair. Someone had put the effort into braiding the hair, but the end result was uneven. Perhaps it had been shorter at one point, and the growth hadn’t been enough to even it out. Faye’s hair had looked similar when they first met.

Höðr was also blind.

The staff gave it away, as did the wrapping covering his upper face. It must have been caused by injury; Kratos could make out scarring on Höðr’s cheeks and lips. Some kind of burn. “What happened to him?”

“He was injured during the war with the Vanir,” Freya said. “By…Freyr, actually. I always thought that’d be more of a problem, but he never mentioned it to me. Not that we talked much at all.” A hint of distaste and sympathy crept into Freya’s voice. “Odin considered him a disappointment. He wasn’t exactly subtle about it, either. It made Höðr keep to himself, most of the time.”

Sif approached Týr and Höðr. From that distance, Kratos could not hear what was said, but she seemed to speak primarily to Týr. The war god smiled as he spoke, but it seemed strained to Kratos's eyes. Höðr settled down on a bench and listened. Kratos recognized the body language. He had been the same way during his early days in Olympus. Speak as little as possible. Learn who your enemies might be. Höðr had one advantage Kratos did not: near-invisibility. Kratos had been the center of a lot of attention during those days.

No one seemed to pay Höðr any mind at all.

Sif did finally address Höðr, and the blind god responded with a polite smile. Once she had walked away, he said something to Týr. Again, it was impossible to make out, but Týr seemed immediately exasperated. More conversation ensued. Týr’s crystal eyes fixed on Kratos.

He knew, immediately, that he was about to be dragged into a conversation. And unfortunately, there was nowhere he could go without raising some kind of scene. He was the god of war. He wasn’t going to flee from a conversation, as much as he dreaded it.

“You’re looking well,” Kratos said as Týr approached. He wasn’t just being polite; Týr’s haggard appearance had been fading quickly over the months. Today, Kratos could almost see glimpses of the god he’d been once.

“Is that what you want to call it?” Týr glanced at Leviathan. “They let you bring that in there?”

“I didn’t ask permission.”

“Of course not. My, ah, brother wanted a word.” Týr spread his hands placatingly. “He’s harmless…more or less. He just had questions about Odin.”

“Hmm.” Kratos glanced at Freya. She shrugged; her expression was more confused than concerned. Kratos would probably be safe. Probably. “Very well.”

Höðr’s leaned back in his seat as Kratos approached. His cloak shifted as he did, revealing a sheath strapped to his leg. It would have held two axes, but it was completely empty. “So, you were there when the All-Father died?”

Odin, Baldur, and Týr all shared similar mannerisms in their speech. Höðr’s voice didn’t have that same quality. It reminded him more of Thor, but with a different accent, almost familiar. Where had he heard that before? “I was,” Kratos confirmed.

“But you didn’t kill him?” Höðr snorted. “Funny. He was so worried about you that he forgot to keep an eye out for the fucking dwarf. Thank him for me if you know him, by the way. I mean that.”

Kratos glanced at Týr, who nodded. Höðr was being sincere. It seemed that Sif was not the only one who had woken up to Odin’s lies. Kratos grunted, not wanting to give his word. Odin’s death wasn’t something he had discussed with Sindri. He wasn’t sure if it was a difficult subject for him. They were dealing with enough difficult things as it was.

“Your boy’s a snoop, by the way,” Höðr added suddenly. “As long as we’re passing things along, tell him he needs to keep his head on a swivel when he’s eavesdropping.” Höðr stood up suddenly. “Well, I won’t keep you. Welcome to the halls of Asgard. Consider yourself lucky you’re here now and not earlier.”

He shrugged off Týr’s attempts to take his elbow as he started walking away, instead using the walking stick to guide himself forward. Týr huffed in exasperation, tossed Kratos a quick apology before rushing after him. Kratos simply watched them go, a slight frown on his face.

Of course he’d have such a baffling conversation when Mimir wasn’t there. This was why he didn’t like going to parties.

“What was that about?” Freya asked when he rejoined his group.

“I do not know,” Kratos said. “He doesn’t seem fond of Odin. He knew Atreus was spying during his time in Asgard. That’s all he told me.”

“Well. That’s more than I ever got out of him after decades of living in Asgard.” Freya passed him a glass. “Here. No one’s dropped dead yet and you look like you could use this.”

She wasn’t wrong.

The party did grow more lively as the evening went on and the mead continued flowing. Kratos contented himself with hovering near Freya and not speaking to anyone. Strangely, he grew more comfortable the longer he was there. Not from the mead–he drank as little as possible, wanting to keep his faculties–but there was something in the air. As long as he was left alone, it was satisfying to see how life had begun to move on. How the people of the realms were beginning to heal. Lúnda danced. Mimir and Sigrun laughed at some joke only they knew. Even Freya began to relax, to smile brightly and genuinely.

Perhaps it had been worth coming after all.

 

Kratos was surprised none of the Aesir aside from Týr and Thrúd had come to his training sessions before then. Perhaps his appearance at the harvest fest had caught their attention, made them more curious about what he was doing. Maybe they had only just now noticed

After their interaction at the feast, Kratos was not surprised to see Höðr there first. The blind god did not approach the training grounds, but instead sat a distance away, listening. Kratos was sure he was the only one who had noticed the god was there. Everyone else walked past him, as if he were any other blind beggar. Mimir noticed Kratos’s glances from his spot next to Angrboda. “Problem?” he asked quietly.

“Höðr,” Kratos replied.

“Who?” Angrboda said, glancing up from her painting with a slight frown.

“Son of Odin. One of the Aesir.”

Angrboda glanced over her shoulder. She was not subtle; it was fortunate the god couldn’t see her. “What’s he the god of?” she asked.

“Not much, these days,” Mimir said. “Might be reaching for being the god of nosiness, though.”

Höðr grinned and gestured impolitely. “He heard that,” Kratos said flatly.

Mimir sighed. “Thought he might. Guess those ears of his got better with no sight to get in the way.”

“Hrm.” Kratos glanced Höðr’s way one last time before turning his attention back to his students. He had nothing to hide here. If the god wanted to eavesdrop, let him.

Kratos expected Höðr to either leave once lessons were over or approach him. He did not expect Höðr to approach Angrboda as they were departing. Kratos did not know what was said, though the language was familiar to him. It sounded like the words Faye would mumble to herself when she was annoyed, or what Angrboda would say when she talked to herself. She certainly knew what Höðr said, and seemed surprised, not fearful. She responded in the same tongue. It was hard to tell with half the god’s face covered, but he seemed to soften the longer Angrboda spoke. His grip on his staff loosened and his shoulders grew less tense. Even his voice changed as he replied, losing the standoffish tone that had marked it at the festival. He held out a hand for her to shake.

And, unless Kratos was mistaken, he introduced himself as Fjörgynson. Not Odinson.

Interesting.

Angrboda shook the offered hand and introduced herself. There was a curious spark in her eyes–sharp, analytical, the way she looked at her paintings. The lack of fear was probably the only thing that kept him from intervening. Höðr finally looked roughly in Kratos’s way, though how he knew even somewhat where Kratos was standing was beyond him. “Sif’s going to stop by,” he said.

Again, Kratos was only surprised it had not happened sooner. He was surprised that Höðr was warning him. “Did she send you in advance?” he asked.

“Oh, no, Sif doesn’t remember I exist most of the time,” Höðr said bluntly. “I’m here to satisfy my own curiosity. See how angry I think she’ll end up.”

“And what is your opinion?”

Höðr seemed to take the question seriously. “Honestly?” he said finally. “I think you’re not half the threat she worries you are. And I think that bothers her. And it’s going to bother her a Hel of a lot more when she finds a bunch of…barely-adults training to fight bandits and not a fighting force.” He shrugged and started to walk away. “You’re an enigma. People don’t like that.”

“I assume you’re speaking from experience, your most ominous lordship?” Mimir called sarcastically.

Höðr just laughed.

“...he’s definitely the god of being weird,” Angrboda decided once Höðr was out of sight.

Kratos grunted in agreement. “What did he say to you?”

“He asked if I could speak Jotun, which…duh. And then he said he was glad the language hadn’t died and he was happy to use his mother’s language again. He’s good. He must have really tried to learn.”

“And he introduced himself as his mother’s son. Not Odin’s. Is that unusual?”

“Not always, not for giants. You might use your mother’s name if you’re around people who’d know her better, just to establish a bond. And I figured he was trying to make me feel better.” It must have worked; unlike when she’d spoken to Thrúd, Angrboda seemed more mystified than worried. “What did he mean about you being an enigma?”

Kratos felt a knot form in his chest. “I have…a reputation,” he said finally. Angrboda did not know the entire truth yet. He was not sure they had reached that point. “Even before I came here. She likely expects me to be more aggressive.”

“What, like you’d want to take over?” Her voice bubbled with amusement. “You barely leave the Wildwoods. You’re nice.”

“Is he really?” Mimir said.

“I am not nice,” Kratos said at almost the same time.

Angrboda grinned mischievously. “Right. Well, we’ll see what she thinks, I guess.”

Kratos wasn’t looking forward to it. He may have been on good terms with many here, but he still did not appreciate the scrutiny of gods.

 

Freya spoke of Sif in the same way that Kratos had once thought of Athena: tolerable enough, not an active threat, sometimes something approaching an ally. She liked me enough to drink with me, she’d noted. I think she liked having company that wasn’t so deep in Odin’s pocket.

The Midgardian refugees spoke of her as they spoke of many gods: awe and an excess of respect. To hear Skjöldr tell it, Sif was “a little scary” but “not bad as long as you didn’t make her mad.” And even if you did, her punishments seemed to be largely verbal. Cutting tongue, Mimir had agreed. She managed to make Heimdall cry once. Just the once, after a lot of drinking, but I don’t think anyone forgot it.

Kratos did feel some pity for her. He did not envy the task ahead of her–having to gather up the remnants of the Aesir, keep them under control, bring Asgard back to its prominence in the Realms, all after losing two sons and a husband. It was a heavy burden to bear. He did not like to think she mistrusted him (mostly because of the irritation such distrust could cause), but he wouldn’t blame her for doing so. Her reign was tenuous at best, built on the foundations of Ragnarök. If it were him, he would be wary of potential threats, too. A foreign god ingratiating himself with the mortals did feel like one.

(They still asked what they should call him. He still wasn’t sure how to answer.)

Unlike Höðr, Sif was not able to slip in unnoticed. She arrived at the grounds with members of her personal guard. Angrboda wasn’t there that day, and Kratos was grateful for that. She’d been subjected to enough Aesir as it was.

Fenrir was there that day, curled up asleep in the sun near the training grounds. Kratos wasn’t sure if the wolf’s presence improved his image.

“Skjöldr,” Kratos said, “you’re in charge. Keep them on course.”

“Wh-” Skjöldr’s eyes widened at the sight of Sif. “Uh. Yeah, yeah, right. Uhm…”

“I will speak to her. Focus.”

“Yeah, totally.” He took a deep breath and turned to face the others. “Okay, everyone stay on track. Don’t make me look bad, here!”

Kratos walked to the fence. Sif’s gaze was unreadable as she watched his students. “This is all of them?” she said.

“More or less.” There were some absentees, ones who had family matters to deal with, but not enough to drastically alter the group’s size. “There were concerns about the Raider encampments. They will likely become more aggressive again in the winter.”

Sif hummed in response and went to the fence to watch. The students kept their eyes on their work, some with more effort than others. “You’ve done this before,” she said finally.

“To a degree.” He had never taught for long at the agōgē, only giving a few lessons at the request of some comrades. Most of his practice came from educating newer soldiers under his command, or training Atreus. “They listen well.”

“How did you recruit them?”

“I didn’t. They volunteered. One approached me for help and the others followed when they heard.” He saw no need to name Skjöldr directly; if Höðr was correct, and Sif was here out of distrust, he didn’t want to put the boy in her sights as well. “They wish to protect their new home. I saw no reason to deny them that.”

The clatter of a tossed spear and the sound of one younger student cursing caught Kratos’s attention. Kratos checked. He knew this student; he’d been struggling with his spear tosses for some time. “Excuse me,” Kratos said politely before re-entering the training grounds. She could observe as much as she wanted. He’d said everything he wanted to say. “Davin…”

“I know, I know.” Davin took a deep breath before stepping forward to grab his spear. “Is she looking at me?”

“She is looking at me.” Kratos remembered the spectral purple squirrel watching him capture one of Nidhogg’s children, paws anxiously rubbing together. “Davin. Her opinion of you does not matter now. She does not know you and she does not care how well you perform today. Understand?”

Davin stared blankly at him. Saying that about the highest ranking Aesir left alive was probably tantamount to blasphemy–insubordination at the very least–but Kratos also knew it was true. She would not know their names, and if she did remember the one boy who struggled with throwing a spear, it would not be for long. Kratos gently turned the boy back to face the target. “Your enemy is there,” he said. “Nothing else matters. When the time comes, if it comes, it will be between you and him alone.”

Davin took a deep breath, then nodded. “Okay. Okay.”

Kratos stepped back. The boy adjusted his grip on his spear again, breathed deeply once more, and threw. It was not a perfect throw, not dead center on the dummy’s chest. But it stuck deep into the side. A wound like that would be painful and bleed heavily.

Sometimes that was enough.

“Better,” Kratos said. “You should try moving to either side, if your hits keep landing off-center.”

Davin looked pleased as he trotted over to retrieve his spear. Kratos looked over his shoulder in time to see Sif walking away with her guard in tow.

He wondered if she’d found whatever it was she was looking for.

 

If he wasn’t with his students or his friends, he was making other visits. The ravens, the lyngbakr, whichever of the wolves was not racing across the sky in Vanaheim, and Jörmungandr. Usually, he went alone, but sometimes he took the wolves, Fenrir included.

Of everyone Fenrir could have befriended, Kratos would not have picked Jörmungandr. And yet, here they were.

The connection made more sense once Angrboda explained the serpent’s origins. He had been mortal once, a giant she knew nothing about. Sometimes Kratos wondered if the serpent ever remembered he’d been anything else. He never seemed to talk about it. But it seemed he retained a mortal’s love for friendly animals, and Fenrir was the only one in Midgard large enough for him to interact with safely.

Even then, it was still comical to see the serpent dropping logs from varying heights for the wolf to jump and catch.

“What do you think the people in town are thinking right now?” Freya said. She had to yell to be heard over the serpent’s movements.

“They know already. I told them.” The reactions had been amusing. Jörmungandr was treated with a level of awe and borderline reverence by most; having to tell them that he played with a pet did shatter that impression somewhat. Kratos braced himself against a nearby tree as Fenrir hit the ground, head shaking as he grappled with the smaller uprooted tree that Jörmungandr had dropped for him. “How have the…” He had to pause as Fenrir sprinted over and dropped the tree in front of him. Kratos sighed, picked up the tree, and tossed it in Jörmungandr’s direction. The world serpent intercepted the tree before Fenrir could, eliciting annoyed barks from the wolf. Kratos moved closer to Freya. “...holes in Helheim been?”

“Better, more or less. Mostly just draugr now. Not much we can do about them. Not as long as mortals stay so stubborn.” She smiled as she watched Jörmungandr hold the tree just out of Fenrir’s reach. Snakes were not exactly designed to smile, but Kratos could have sworn Jörmungandr was. “It’s let me focus on rebuilding in Vanaheim.”

Kratos nodded. It was one task he had stayed away from whenever his blades were not required. The people of Vanaheim were still distrustful of outsider gods. After the treatment Freya had been through after her marriage to Odin, Kratos did not want to make things worse for her. She could only fraternize with him for so long before rumors started. It had happened in Olympus; it would surely happen here as well. Some things remained the same, no matter where you were.

“What about you?”

“Sif came to the training grounds.”

“Oh? How did that go?”

“I’m not sure.” Kratos wished he had some way to convince her he didn’t want trouble. He had the feeling she’d find some reason to distrust him no matter what he said.

Would that same distrust extend to Atreus? Especially if he was fully, truly the champion of the Jotnar when he returned? It seemed there was no way to exist in this world without risking strife. Kratos knew the only way to avoid it entirely was to slink back to the Wildwoods and never leave.

But he couldn’t. Faye hadn’t wanted that for him. He did want it for himself, either.

Fenrir finally collapsed on his side to rest, panting heavily, his tail wagging. Jörmungandr lowered his head down; Kratos took the opportunity to make eye contact with the serpent. “Thank you,” he said.

He still hadn’t learned the serpent’s language, and likely wouldn’t for some time. Fortunately, he knew a contented grumble when he heard it.

 

He knew an uncomfortable silence as just as well.

Kratos didn’t know what had happened, but he could guess. Angrboda and Thrúd had been talking when he and Skjöldr had left them. Now, Angrboda’s eyes were fixed on the statuette she was painting while Thrúd picked at a callous on her hand. Her expression was…uncomfortable, perhaps, a bit guilty. There was a tight, stubborn set to Angrboda’s jaw, one he’d only seen when certain thunder gods came up.

Or, perhaps, when certain thunder gods nearly came up. The two of them had never deliberately brought up Thor, not as far as Kratos knew. But the god hung over the history of the giants like a plague. If Thrúd truly wanted to learn the truth, it was impossible to avoid her father.

Kratos didn’t know how he would approach it. Angrboda definitely didn’t.

Skjöldr looked between the two of them with a slight frown. Kratos wondered how much the boy knew, what he assumed. Whatever it was, it didn’t stop him from approaching them. “Guess what?” He held up the deceased rabbit he’d caught. “Catch on the first try!”

Angrboda looked immediately relieved for a distraction. “Nice!” She examined the rabbit carefully. “You’ve really never done a snare before?”

“Never had to. I’m learning all kinds of things now.” He glanced over his shoulder and shot Kratos a grateful grin. “It’s a lot easier now that those weird cold Draugr aren’t running around anymore. Thanks for that, by the way.” He tried to give Thrúd a friendly shoulder punch, but it bounced off her shoulder like a pebble.

“Oh, yeah, how’s that been?” Angrboda asked. The question sounded like a peace offering, so whatever had happened in the conversation hadn’t put too much strain between them. It was just something they weren’t ready to face.

Thrúd seemed relieved at the opportunity, and immediately started talking about her latest exploits in Helheim. Kratos sat down a safe distance away to start tending to his own catch, watching to see if the conversation took another tense turn.

It never did. The longer it went on, the more normal they sounded. Young people in the early days of adulthood, enjoying each others’ company.

Sometimes, he envied them.

 

The summer began to cool.

He could not tell if the nightmares came as a result of the chill, or if whatever god controlled the realm of dreams here thought he was overdue for one.

Kratos did not recall the details upon waking. His mind had latched onto one detail: he was in danger. Others he cared for were in danger. The axe was in his hands before his mind registered that he was awake. That he was in his home.

“Steady,” Mimir said from his perch.

Kratos took one deep breath, then two, before guiltily glancing Sindri’s way. They had set up a hammock for the dwarf in one corner; neither had felt right at the prospect of him using Atreus’s bed. The dwarf insisted that he was a sound sleeper, that he would be fine even if Kratos had a nightmare.

He wasn’t exaggerating. The dwarf was still asleep, curled up under a bundle of blankets facing the wall. He even snored, albeit faintly.

“You all right?” Mimir asked.

“...hrm.”

“That sounded like a dubious hrm.” Mimir raised an eyebrow as Kratos set the axe back in place. “Not even a twitch. How do you suppose he managed that?”

“He said that Brok snored.”

“Aye, that would do it. Couldn’t hear myself think that solstice when he slept over.”

“I do not recall.” Brok’s “specialty” brew had been enough to make the memories hazy. Kratos rubbed his eyes as he sat at the edge of his bed.

The space felt empty again. The feeling was infrequent now, but in a way, that made it worse. It felt harsher whenever it came back.

“You should try to get some sleep,” Mimir said. “Another big expedition out to Vanaheim soon, yeah? Can’t hurt to rest in advance.”

Kratos grunted in response.

It took him some time to actually lay back down.

He slept eventually, though he only noticed because the sun had risen when he opened his eyes again. Sindri was poking through the food stores. “You’re out of mushrooms,” Sindri noted when he saw Kratos sitting up. “So, I was thinking…”

“At this hour?” Kratos said.

“I know. I’m not happy about it, either.” Sindri smiled briefly. “But I was thinking, I might…try to spend some nights back at the house. Ease myself into it, you know?”

A strange feeling swept over him then. Relief, but not that he was losing a houseguest. Relief on Sindri’s behalf. A touch of guilt, of wondering if there was something he could have done, or something more he could have done for the dwarf. A bit of pride, not that he would say that aloud. He was sure Sindri did not want to feel patronized. And, mixed in with all of it, concern. “You are certain?” he said.

“Yeah,” Sindri said. “Gotta move forward sometime, right? Besides, I don’t think I can do another full-time Midgard winter.”

“...oh, gods, winter” Mimir groaned. “Just when I was getting used to sunlight, too.”

Kratos had not been looking forward to it either, but he pushed that discomfort aside. There was another, more pressing thought on his mind: the memory of the partially-finished floor, the border around the place where Brok died. It had been shrinking, but was quickly approaching a stalemate. It worried him, to think of Sindri alone in that place.

But the dwarf had shown considerable courage and strength over the past months. It would be painful. But he was healing. And if this was the next step, it was Kratos’s responsibility to support him.

“You still have a place here,” Kratos said. “For as long as you need it.”

“I know.” Sindri’s eyes were calm, grateful. “Thanks.”

The world around them may have been slipping back into the sleep of winter, but this, at least, was still growing. And something told Kratos it would not die again so easily.

Notes:

Patch Notes 3.11.23: Removed a reference to Hoenir because. Straight up, I didn't make the connection that he was the guy whose house crest you can find in Vanaheim, I thought that was just some random Vanir dude. Thanks to the commentor who pointed out my lore error!

Sidebar, the way w98pops on tumblr drew Sigrun here permanently re-wired my brain and influenced how I described her here, so yeah.

Chapter 5: winter

When he opened the door to the first snow of winter, Kratos felt…underwhelmed.

The snowfalls of Fimbulwitner were still fresh in his mind–large, thick flakes covering the ground so quickly that any attempts at digging out of the house were doomed to fail. He’d spent three years struggling through drifts up to his waist, across frozen rivers and lakes and a landscape changed almost beyond recognition.

This, in comparison, was nothing. A light dusting coated the ground. The air was brisk and cold, but not the biting chill of Fimbulwinter. He surveyed the forest, sighed, and went back inside to retrieve Mimir. “Hunting won’t be a problem,” he said.

“Well, thank goodness for that,” Mimir said. “Suspect the young ones will be disappointed they won’t be able to use the snow to get out of practice.”

“They wouldn’t regardless. They need to learn to fight in any conditions.”

“Of course they do.” Kratos stepped back outside and started down the path to Speki and Svanna’s kennel. “Did you have snow in Greece?”

“Mostly in the mountains. Never like here.” Kratos tilted his face back, feeling the snowflakes melt as they touched his skin. “What about your homeland?”

“Oh! Well.” Mimir sounded surprised. He didn’t often speak of his homeland, only that he was from someplace else, and Kratos had never really asked. Perhaps I should start asking. “That depends. It snowed more where I lived when I was a lad, but it was a lot more temperate where my first lord lived. He wasn’t fond of the cold.”

“He could control the weather?”

“Something like that. We had the odd bit of snowfall, more like this, really, but nothing like here. Took some getting used to when I came north. Especially back when I had more bits to worry about keeping warm.”

“...do you miss it?”

Mimir was quiet. He didn’t speak until Kratos had finished hitching the wolves to the sled. “Sometimes,” he admitted. “Not all of it…and I probably only remember the good parts when I do miss it. But sometimes, yeah. Do you?”

Kratos didn’t have to think long. “The same as you,” he said. “Only sometimes. Only when my regrets return.” All the moments he would have done differently. The things he would have changed. But…

“No making things right, eh?” Mimir said quietly.

“Hmm. Only better than they were.”

And with that, he got onto the sled and urged the wolves forward. There was work to be done. Things to be made better.

Even a mild winter would bring its trials.

.

There was a time when he could have said that he didn’t care. That the various groups setting in Midgard should settle their differences among themselves and leave him out of it.

Kratos could not do that anymore. Freya was right: he trained their children. He went to their village almost every day. He was a part of this now. He could not simply walk away.

That knowledge did not make the conversation less frustrating.

“Did you actually see anyone enter the storehouse?” Kratos said, struggling to keep his tone even. He didn’t think he was successful; if the look on the mortal’s face was any indication, he still sounded angry. Kratos was beginning to think that tone was beyond his control.

“Well…” The man twisted his cloak in his hands. Kratos had already forgotten his name, but he knew the man was more or less in charge of the village half a day away. “...no…sir…”

“Then you cannot prove that anyone from here was responsible for the theft?”

“Well, who else would it be?”

“Thieves. Plenty of raiders never left Midgard. You do understand this, correct?” He had done his best to eradicate them, or at least strongly encourage them to move on, but many had gone deep into hiding as spring and summer returned. Winter and its lack of resources would likely draw them back out. “They will only grow bolder moving forward. I suggest you find more competent guards instead of starting fights.”

“But…”

“If there is a problem, I will handle it. If you require assistance, ask. But now is not the time for us to fight among ourselves. Do I make myself clear?”

The mortal’s face reddened. “Yes…sir?”

Kratos noted the questioning tone, and simply grunted his approval at the title. He still hadn’t given one (still didn’t want to give one), but sir he would allow. “Do your people require assistance?”

“No, sir.”

“Then we are done here.”

The man departed, leaving Kratos with a headache and a roomful of nervous stares. “Do we have any reason to suspect someone might be stealing from other towns?” he asked with a sigh. “Any at all?”

“None that I can think of,” spoke up one man, Leif. From what Kratos remembered, he served as a sort of quartermaster for the town. “We’ve stored up plenty. There isn’t a need, though…I reckon that wouldn’t stop some people, would it?”

It certainly wouldn’t, and that could cause problems in the long term. Another voice spoke up, this time a woman. “Haven’t noticed anyone sneaking out, for what it’s worth,” she said. Helga was her name. She wasn’t one of the Asgard transplants; she and her people had managed to survive in an abandoned mine through the Desolation and Fimbulwinter. Kratos had been the one to suggest them when the town started forming a militia. By all accounts, they were very good at it. “We started a curfew, on account of the wolves and such. Set up patrols. No one’s gone in or out at odd hours that we’ve seen. No one coming in carrying anything, either.”

That was reassuring, at least. “You should increase your numbers, just in case,” Kratos said. “If other places are facing raiders, it is only a matter of time. I have older students who are ready. I will speak to them.”

Helga nodded grimly. Leif sighed. “If you’ll pardon my language, sir,” he said, “I can’t fucking stand winter.”

Kratos grunted in agreement. This winter may not have been as fierce as Fimbulwinter, but he could already tell it was going to be long.

.

When the first fight finally came, it had nothing to do with raiders. The wolves were growing just as desperate as the mortals, and to them, meat was meat. Goats and small children were just as easy to catch.

He was examining the town’s defenses when he heard the shouting. Kratos ran towards the sound instinctively, drawing Leviathan as he went. A few of his students saw him and joined in the rush, Skjöldr among them. The drills must have been working, because they fell into formation without being instructed. Good, he thought. Well done.

It was over by the time they reached the scuffle–or, more accurately, the ending of it. The animal was dead, a spear deep in its side, having collapsed on top of a smaller form. Kratos ran forward to push the creature aside; Davin was underneath, body trembling, eyes wide, hands still trying to clasp the knife he’d sunk deep into the wolf’s throat. He was covered in blood. It was hard to say how much of it was his. “Are you injured?” Kratos asked.

“...uh…” Davin looked up at him. The closer look showed scrapes across his cheekbone. He must have managed to pull his head back before the teeth could sink in too deeply. “I got it.”

“I can see that.” Kratos looked around. There was a dead goat nearby, and two trembling children nearby. Both looked unharmed, but shaken. “Can you stand?”

Davin could. Kratos carefully examined him for injuries as the others who’d followed him gathered around the wolf. “Shit,” Skjöldr said. “You really got him, Dav!”

“I…” Davin stared at the wolf. “Y-yeah. I…I did have to move to the left. You were right.”

“It is good you remembered.” Davin’s tunic was torn, but there was no sign of injury underneath. The cuts on his cheek seemed the worst of it. They would have to monitor him for infection or illness, but he was very lucky beyond that. “Well done.”

Davin stared at him for a long moment. Then a grin split his face, his teeth vibrant white against his blood and dirt-stained face. “Thank you, sir!”

The boy’s cuts were cleaned and mended. Someone in the town made him a cloak of the wolf’s fur. No further harm came to the boy.

Kratos hoped it would be the most exciting thing to happen all winter. He knew better than to hope too hard.

.

“So,” Höðr said casually, “how’s Freya doing?”

Kratos knew a leading question when he saw one. He could immediately guess why Höðr was asking; it was an implication he had been trying to avoid, one he did not appreciate hearing from a member of Asgard’s court. Especially not one who seemed so nosy.

“Freya is fine,” Kratos said tersely. He glanced the blind god’s way. Höðr leaned against a nearby building, his cloak pulled tightly around his body. Someone had given him a haircut, making him look somewhat less haggard than before. “Why?”

He expected a smirk, another cryptic comment, or for the god to simply walk away. Instead, Höðr sighed and held up his hands in a conciliatory gesture. “I thought,” he said, “that you two would want to get ahead of things. And I don’t really know how to contact her, so…” He gestured towards Kratos. “...here we are.”

It was difficult to tell if he was being sincere. He sounded sincere, his body language was sincere, and he must have known that Kratos would not be pleased if Höðr tried to deceive him. That didn’t answer one question: “Why do you care?”

Freya’s brother, dead though he was, had been the one to blind Höðr. She was Vanir, his former enemy, an interloper on his court. Kratos was the ultimate interloper, a foreign god from a foreign land who had helped overthrow Odin and was dangerously close to being worshipped here. Yes, they were technically at peace. Kratos knew better than anyone that this peace was not necessarily welcome.

Höðr considered his answer carefully. His fingers drummed slightly against his staff. “I know this might sound hard to believe,” he said, “but I don’t want things to go back to the way they were. Some people might, but I’m not one of them.” He smiled briefly, almost embarrassed. “If nothing else, you can trust that. I wasn’t exactly benefitting from being Aesir in those days.”

“And you’re benefitting now?”

“I can walk around most places without feeling like I’m going to be heckled or have something thrown at me, so…yes, very much so.” There was a harshness to his smile now, as if he were still bracing himself for that treatment. “You don’t have to believe me, but can you at least do a poor blind god the mercy of letting him say his piece?”

Kratos considered the offer before nodding. “Speak, then.” Even if Höðr’s words were lies, those lies could still be valuable.

Höðr’s head tilted slightly, as if he were listening for something before he began speaking. “I would’ve written it off as idle gossip if it hadn’t escalated so quickly. In my experience, you don’t really go from a few people thinking you two would make a handsome couple to everyone being sure you two have some secret romance without someone having a hand in it. No one’s tied it back into what happened with Odin yet, but I wouldn’t be surprised if someone tried.”

Kratos raised an eyebrow. “She broke it off with him,” he pointed out.

“Yes, true, and I wouldn’t exactly call him a faithful husband,” Höðr conceded, “but none of those facts are going to matter in the face of a good scandal, are they?”

No, they wouldn’t.

“I don’t know if this has spread to Vanaheim yet, but if it were me, I’d be keeping an ear on it,” Höðr finished. “The winter’s only going to get colder, and the lean months can make people believe all sorts of things.” This time, Höðr turned his face to the wind, as if test the temperature, feeling the currents and what they may bring. “I can keep an ear out myself, if you want.”

Kratos wasn’t sure about that. Höðr hadn’t done anything to harm him, but that didn’t necessarily mean he wasn’t malicious. “You didn’t ask,” Kratos pointed out.

“Didn’t ask what?”

“If we are together.”

Höðr shrugged. “Not my business. And you’ll want to get out ahead of it either way, so it doesn’t really matter. Congratulations if you managed to win her, though.” A slight smirk tugged at Höðr’s lips as he pulled away. “And good luck.”

Kratos grunted in response, and watched the blind god leave.

He debated if she should speak to Freya or Mimir first. Perhaps both of them at once. She deserved to know about the possibility of rumors, and Mimir’s guidance in the matter would be helpful. Kratos had been in the habit of ignoring rumors about him back on Olympus, but he couldn’t afford to do that this time. This was a problem that had to be addressed.

He may not have been addressing it alone, but the thought still made him feel weary. I never had these problems when I lived alone, he thought.

Despite that, as he walked back to his students, he couldn’t help thinking that he didn’t want to give this up.

.

Freya took the news about as well as could be expected: by sighing heavily and immediately getting up to pour herself some mead. “I should have seen this coming,” she said. She sounded calm, which Kratos knew likely meant she was furious. “Of course someone would try to undermine me with a connection to a man. No offense meant.”

“None taken.” She had more to lose from this rumor than he did and he knew it. Kratos had no right to be offended. “How do you want to handle this?”

Freya took a long, long drain from her mead. Kratos didn’t interrupt. She was more than capable of considering the question and taking a drink. “For now? Nothing,” she said. “I want to see who’s spreading this around. It might help us narrow things down.” She turned to Mimir. “Do you think we can trust Höðr?”

“Well…I think we can trust that he wasn’t lying about not wanting things to go back the way they were,” Mimir said. “He was Odin’s spy master until he was blinded. After that happened, Odin replaced him with the Raven Keeper and cast him aside. He reckoned Höðr being blinded by the enemy reflected poorly on Asgard. No one treated the poor lad well after that…except Týr, whenever he had time for him.”

Kratos thought back to their conversation at the harvest feast, the way that Höðr introduced himself with his mother’s name and seemed genuinely glad to see Angrboda alive. Perhaps the isolation had given him some time to reflect on where his loyalties were. “We could consult Týr,” he said. “He may know if Höðr has any ulterior motives.”

“Agreed,” Freya said. “Assuming you can find him.”

Of course, it wouldn’t be that simple. “Has he left?”

“I don’t think he’s gone far. He’s just developed the disposition of a barn cat. He comes and goes and you’re never sure when you’re going to see him again. I’ve been trying to get a council together and it’s been a pain trying to find him to discuss things. Maybe you’ll have better luck than I have.” Freya smirked slightly as she sipped her mead. “It takes a hermit of a war god to know one, right?”

Kratos wanted to argue, but was immediately annoyed to find that he couldn’t.

He was even more annoyed when Freya ended up being right. All Kratos had to do was ask himself where he would go if he were Týr and start checking those places. He found the war god at the second spot. “Not a word,” he grumbled to Mimir.

“Wasn’t going to say anything, brother,” Mimir said. “Honestly, I was just enjoying the more temperate weather.”

“Hmm.” It was true; Alfheim was warmer than Midgard at this time of year. Even if the winter at home was temperate compared to Fimbulwinter, and even if the fighting in Alfheim was still irritating to avoid, it was worth coming to the realm on occasion for the temperature change. Týr seemed to think so; he was sitting cross-legged along one of the river banks, staring out at the running water. He didn’t look away as Kratos joined him. “Did Freya send you?” he asked.

Kratos shook his head. “I have my own questions,” he said as he carefully set down Mimir. “About your brother, Höðr.”

Týr frowned slightly. “He’s not bothering you, is he?”

“He passed along some important information. I wanted to know what his intentions might be.”

Týr considered the statement. “I can tell you this much,” he said after some thought, “he’s definitely not on the side of anyone who might want to reinstate Asgard’s old rule. Between how Odin treated him after he lost his sight and…” A note of grief entered the war god’s voice. “…what happened with mother…he has no love for the way things were. I can’t say if he’s on any side but his own, but his desires are more aligned with ours. And any information he has is good. He might be a nosy little brat sometimes, but he only shares what he can verify.” A fond, if exasperated smile replaced the grief. “It’s not gossip if it’s true, he’d always say.”

“Hmm.” So, there were definitely rumors being spread about him and Freya.

That was irritating.

Kratos sighed irately. Týr had the decency not to ask; he only went back to staring at the water. They sat in silence for a time, in the gentle warmth of Alfheim.

“Freya has been looking for you,” Kratos said finally.

Now it was Týr’s turn to sigh. “For the council. I know. You can tell her I’m not avoiding her. I just have…things to consider.”

Kratos understood what Týr meant. The thought of the council had been gnawing at him since Freya mentioned it. She hadn’t brought it up to him again, but…

What do we call you?

…it was possibly only a matter of time before she did.

He did not know what his answer would be.

.

“…swear, they’re like rats,” Hildisvíni said as they emerged from the gat into a cold Midgard night. “Every time you think you’ve handled the problem, more show up.”

“You still have not located the nests?” Kratos asked.

“Unfortunately, no. We’ve been trying, but…”

Whatever he was about to say next was interrupted by the distant blast of a horn. An alarm. Kratos recognized the sound; he’d only heard it briefly, during a test run of the small town’s alarms, but he knew it. Those were Skjöldr’s people.

Something was wrong.

He took off at a run, not stopping to see if Hildisvíni was responding to the horn call as well. He summoned his spear as he ran. It was instinctive, even more so than drawing his other weapons. It was the first weapon a Spartan used, the one he’d been training them with.

He needed that familiarity now.

Kratos arrived at the town to the sounds of battle. He could make out Skjöldr’s voice above the din, directing his troops. That was the sound he made his way towards. He altered course enough to turn his approach into a flanking maneuver, surveying the battle as he did. His students were holding the line so far, but what the bandits lacked in discipline they made up for in numbers.

But numbers did not always make a battle, and sometimes the surest way to ensure a victory was to convince the other side a fight was not worth it.

Driving an exploding spear through a man’s heart and detonating it was one way to do that.

Almost immediately, the enemy line dissolved into chaos. Kratos heard their call—Sá merkti! Hann er kominn!—and some chose to flee at the sound. Others, too caught up in their desire for a noble end or beserker rage, still tried their luck.

They were dealt with.

This encouraged more of their comrades to flee. Soon, the sound of battle was replaced by the strange unquiet that often settled over a close call. Kratos’s mind turned to his students. When he turned, they were still in formation, still maintaining an admirable shield wall. Skjöldr’s face peered out. “Are they gone?” he asked shakily.

“Yes,” Kratos responded. “It is over.”

Almost immediately, someone started vomiting. Someone else began to weep. The formation slowly fell apart as some of its members turned and ran, calling out for their loved ones. Others lingered, staring at the carnage. Skjöldr was one of them momentarily, before he shook his head and stumbled towards Kratos. “Th-there’s people wounded,” he said. “I, uhm…” He looked around the battlefield. “I don’t know where my spear is.”

Kratos remembered then, very clearly, how Atreus had reacted to killing for the first time. Skjöldr was much older, and there were no tears in his eyes. But some of the same pain lingered in his eyes. Kratos remembered what he had said to his son back then. How he had wished may times since that he had said something different.

This was not quite a second chance, but he took the chance anyway.

“Skjöldr,” Kratos said firmly. His voice softened when he was sure he had the boy’s attention. “They would have killed you, and many more besides. You understand that, yes?” Skjöldr nodded. “It is a horrible choice, but sometimes a necessary one. You led with courage and conducted yourself with honor. That is all anyone could ask of you.”

Again, Skjöldr nodded. “Does it…get any easier?” he asked quietly.

“For some. But you should not let it become too easy. Keep your heart open as you can.” Kratos rested his hand on Skjöldr’s shoulder. “Well done.”

Some tears finally formed in Skjöldr’s eyes as he glanced down. He wiped them away quickly. “Thank you, sir.”

“Hmm.” Kratos nodded. “I will see to the wounded. You should…”

“No, I’ll help. I think I’ll feel worse if I don’t.” Skjöldr took a deep breath before turning back to town. “This way.”

Unfortunately, there were casualties. If the town had lacked a well-trained fighting force, there would have been many more. Kratos tried to comfort himself with the thought as he oversaw the aftermath of the battle. It did not help him much.

It helped more to see that the survivors, that his students, recovered and went to help. Even if their hands still shook, even if some wept, they helped. Skjöldr lead them, moving among his people with an encouraging smile.

Kratos hoped Skjöldr’s father knew what a fine young man his son was becoming.

He hoped that he would see his own son’s growth as well.

.

Kratos had not spent much time in Jötunheim. He felt as if he would be intruding, like an outsider who had somehow breached their walls and disturbed their peace.

But this place was Faye’s homeland. He still missed her deeply, some days more than others. He did not think anyone could blame him for seeking any connections left to him.

“Where do you think she would have lived?”

“Laufey?” Angrboda scanned the horizon. They were at the edge of the Ironwood, overlooking the rest of Jötunheim. “Did she ever talk about it?”

“She said she grew up near mountains. That her second family raised horses.”

“Hmmm…” Angrboda turned until she was facing the mountain peaks—the same ones they had spread Faye’s ashes from—and pointed in that direction. “That way. Beyond the temple. Some of our most famous horses were bred in the mountain valleys.”

Kratos stared out over the horizon and tried to imagine her there as a young woman. Perhaps her eyes were less tired in those days, her hair a more consistent red, without the small strands of white he noticed even before Atreus was born. She had been far angrier once—he had learned that during his travels in Vanaheim—but he was growing more comfortable with the thought. As much as it pained him to think that she had lived through the same rage he once had, it was an understandable anger. One she had learned to tame.

Many of her words to him made sense now. She had understood him more than he realized.

“The prophecy in Týr’s temple was broken in part,” he said. “Do you think…?”

Angrboda shrugged. “I never knew her. Everything I heard about her before made her more like one of the people from old legends, you know? But…I think she may have been the one to break it.” Angrboda rested her chin on her knees. “I get why she would. I’ve been on the other side of what Atreus would’ve lived through. I had this one moment that would make me important, then…nothing. Forever. And that was already bad, but he would’ve had one moment and then everything forever. That sounds awful.”

“It would have,” he agreed. Prophecies had destroyed his own childhood, and the three years he had spent with the threat of death hanging over him had been exhausting. Atreus knowing had nearly torn them apart. How much worse would it have been if they had known from the start? His life here had been far from perfect, but they had been some of the most peaceful in his long life.

And he had Faye to thank for that.

“You really loved her, huh?” Angrboda said.

Kratos closed his eyes. He imagined Faye walking through the fields towards her old childhood home. He pictured the way the sun would turn her hair gold, and the smile in her eyes as she turned to face him.

He knew, then, that no matter what came, no matter what changes lay ahead, he would still be able to remember her, alive and vibrant and calling him towards something better.

He took comfort in that.

“I still do,” he said.

That much would never change.

Notes:

Fair warning, some stuff discussed in this chapter isn't going to be resolved in this fic...because that's what the sequel is for. >:3c I just wanted to let everyone know before I post the final chapter/epilogue (which hopefully won't take too long?? But with me you never know).

Chapter 6: spring (epilogue)

Winter ended. The snows thawed. The flowers returned. Kratos had already been invited to several spring celebrations by the time they were in full bloom. He chose his attendance carefully and tried to spend more time alone in the woods to prepare himself.

He was not sure what the coming days would bring—more political maneuvering, more conflict, more questions about where he fit into all of this, to be sure—but at least he would be facing it all in sunlight and warmth. It all seemed far more manageable that way.

The sound of the wolves’ whining drew him from his thoughts. They had caught the scent of something. Kratos quickly realized that it was not prey; they would have been more silent if it were. Instead, their whimpering grew more frantic, turning into excited yips. The sort of noise they only made when…

The realization hit him as the wolves looked back at him pleadingly. “Go,” Kratos said. “Go!”

The wolves ran, and Kratos followed.

He was more than capable of keeping pace with them, but they were better equipped to navigate the terrain, and he soon lost sight of them. Fortunately, he could still track them by their excited calls. Soon, Kratos could also faintly hear…

“Speki! Svanna! Here gir-“

The voice was abruptly cut off but quickly followed by laughter. “Okay, okay! I missed you guys, too!”

Kratos finally broke through the foliage between him and the wolves. Both of them crowded around a figure seated on the ground, licking his face, sniffing unfamiliar clothes, occasionally stopping to yip excitedly. “I know, I know!” laughed a familiar voice. “Hey, where’s…?”

“Atreus?” Kratos said.

His son locked eyes with him.

He was older, taller, his hair a bit longer. His clothes were of a make Kratos did not recognize. But he was unmistakably his son.

“Hi,” Atreus said.

Kratos nodded in response. Everything he’d wanted to say to his son was suddenly trapped in his throat. He did not bother trying to force the words out; instead, he walked to Atreus and pulled him to his feet and into a tight embrace. Atreus hugged him back.

His son had come back to him. Now, Kratos was certain he could face whatever lay ahead.

“I missed you, too,” Atreus said, as if he could read Kratos’s thoughts. “How is everyone?”

“They are well.” There was more to it than that, of course—the changes to Sindri, the return of the true Týr, the rumors, Höðr, all of it—but that could all wait. One fact was more important: “We have survived the winter.”

“Good. That’s good.” Atreus pulled away from the embrace. There were tears in his eyes, even as he smiled. “I do have one thing I’m gonna need some help with.”

Kratos’s heart beat faster. “You found them…?”

Atreus’s smile turned into a grin as he turned around. “Guys, it’s okay!” he called. “We’re almost there!”

Kratos heard the rustling of branches and the snapping of twigs. The first figure to emerge was a girl about Atreus’s age with dark hair and eyes. A man with a scarred face and a woman who looked much like the girl followed. Other figures emerged—men and women, young and old, all different skin tones and hair—but with some features that he recognized. Braids he’d seen Faye wear. Tattoos that matched hers, Atreus’s, Angrboda’s. They had the look of people returning home after war, unsure of what they would find, but still holding on to hope.

Atreus had done it.

The giants were coming home.

Notes:

Just to repeat a point from last time, this one IS going to have a sequel, so don't worry, any dangling plot threads are surprise tools that will help us later.

Notes:

I'm on tumblr as screechthemighty with a queue full of God of War and a lot of Opinions. Title and description lyric are from "Thus Always to Tyrants" by The Oh Hellos.

Series this work belongs to:

• Part 2 of you must fix your heart