Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

As the doors to Tyr’s Temple slid shut—the god and his son off to finish their journey—, the newly reunited brothers stood in silence for a few beats.

They had been apart for years; Brok knew full well of this, yet it still left a bitter taste in his mouth seeing how much his brother had changed. How he hadn’t been there to see it.

Sindri cleared his throat, wringing his hands awkwardly, and this helped ease Brok if not a little. Perhaps he had changed in many ways, but he was still just as high-strung as he was all those years ago.

Brok finally huffed and wiped his hands on his apron. This was a special occasion,—one neither of them thought would ever occur—and dammit if they couldn't enjoy themselves a little.

He reached under his anvil and grabbed a bottle of mead—some of the snobbier shit he knew Sindri could stomach.

Setting the jug on the table, he met Sindri’s nervous gaze, noticed the corners of his eyes were now creased with wrinkles (huh, those weren’t there before…). And while he popped the cork and poured the drink messily into two tankards, he finally broke the unnerving quiet,

“‘Hope you can handle a proper drink now; this shit ain’t light in any sense. Wouldn't want you fallin’ on your ass the day a’ the Huldra Brothers’ reunion.”

Brok sort of knew that Sindri could not handle his liquor any better than before their split, but, truthfully, he wouldn’t really mind if his brother got drunk; it seemed to him like he could use it. And if he didn’t want to drink at all, Brok was all right with that, too.

He handed his brother a glass, which he graciously had chosen to be his only clean one.

“Oh-, ah, thank you,” Sindri babbled, fumbling with the glass as Brok took his first swig. He timidly peered around the forge, rocking on his feet. The shorter dwarf furrowed his brow.

“C’mon and sit,” He forced his customary gruff tone as he pulled up a second chair to his makeshift dining table, setting his drink down and offering the seat to Sindri with a vague gesture of his hand.

This earned him the smallest, shyest smile as Sindri sat, drumming his gloved hands on the table. Brok grinned back.

“Sure wish I had some food to spare too, cuz from the looks of it, you could use it- big time. Always so damn scrawny, you was! Don’t nobody cook for you?”

Sindri’s boot kicked his shin from under the table. He snorted.

“Not funny! I eat plenty, I’ll have you know!” His nose wrinkled as he took a brief drain from his drink. “Is that really your biggest concern?”

“Can ya blame me?! ‘Couldn’t help but wonder how you’d manage without my top-notch cookin’,” He grinned. “Looks like you’d scraped by without me, though. Good on ya.”

Sindri raised his glass in a hesitant toast, a sad smile played on his lips, “Well, I suppose we’ve both proven we can get by on our own, if anything.”

Brok laughed a little, then chinked his jug with his brother’s. A tribute to their self-sufficiency. At least there was that.

He finished off his first glass of mead, belched loudly, and went to pour himself another.

Sindri, wanting to catch up to his brother, managed another sip of his own before shivering with revulsion. “Ugh-, this is…-”

“Phuh, you dunno what’s good,” He waved him off before hesitantly adding: “And anyway, you don’t gotta drinks it if-”

“No, no, I didn’t say that! I can handle it,” The taller of the pair insisted, holding up a hand. “You know, I’ve grown in more ways than just my smithing!” He flashed what was supposed to be an assuring grin; it didn’t quite work.

Brok raised a brow, unconvinced—stubbornness ran in the family, after all. “Uh-huh…”

Clearly agitated by his brother’s doubt, Sindri harrumphed, turned up his nose, and chugged the rest bottoms-up.

It took a few moments for him to knock back the last few swigs, but—after making a few strangled noises from the back of his throat—he somehow managed to man it down.

Brok couldn't help his incredulous laugh.

“Well, I’ll be damned! Where the fuck’d that come from?” He barked. Sindri then gagged at the lingering taste, and Brok quickly leaned forward to grip his shoulder pauldron. “Hey, hey, watch yourself, now! ‘Don’t want no vomit on my table here.”

Regaining his composure, Sindri shrugged off Brok’s hand and looked over at him with a proud, crooked grin, setting his jug down.

Then, he hiccuped, and—in an instinct of table manners—he quickly covered his mouth with a hand. He eyed Brok in that neurotic way of his for a few long seconds before the pair erupted into laughter.

Brok assumed these moments were the ones only brothers could share—howling at stupid shit like they were two kids again. He held his belly as he laughed, tears starting to prick at the corners of his eyes.

Shit, Brok had missed this… Sure, things wouldn’t always be all easy-like, looking forward—but that was the point of family after all; they always keep you on your toes.

“You’re a fuckin’ nutcase…” He shook his head, still recovering from their outburst. Sindri’s lopsided grin only widened.

-

A few drinks in, it came to Brok how he’d forgotten just how easy it was to drink his brother under the table.

It had been so long. He’d grown accustomed to sharing his drink with no one but the scattered embers of the forge—after cutting most of his ties over in Svartalfheim, and Lúnda now long-since settled out in Vanaheim, who else did he have?

Before their split, Brok had drank with Sindri no less than a dozen times,—half of those instances being when they were young and had broken into their father’s personal cache of booze—and, just as Brok predicted, Sindri’s alcohol tolerance was still next to nothing.

They talked about a lot, though they still tried to steer clear of the the more overwhelming topics such as ‘Why did we ever separate?’, ‘Why is it now that we decided to reunite?’, and ‘What’re the odds that our very good friend has been dead for years, unbeknownst to us, and now her husband and child are purchasing our wares?’.

However, walking on eggshells could only last them so long.

“It all feels a little… pointless.” His brother suddenly spoke, sighing a low, long sigh. He was resting his chin in his hands and looking at the bottom of his empty tankard, his eyes slightly glassy from inebriation. Brok looked at his brother over the rim of his drink and squinted.

“What’re you on about?”

Sindri gestured vaguely before running his hand down his face, “Our… split. What was the reason for it all? Couldn’t we have just… talked things through? Fought it out, like we always did? Could all of this have been avoided if we’d just tried harder?”

Brok sneered, leaning forward on his elbows. He guessed this was an inevitable conversation for the two of them to address; he just wished it didn’t have to be now—sentimentality was quick to sober him up.

“Well… what’s done is done. We both made the decision to part ways. And lookit us now—we made amends after all, so what's it matter, anyway?” It came out harsher than he’d wanted it to, but Sindri didn’t back down.

“The time we lost matters! At least to me, it does…” He quickly looked away, his expression shameful.

“You don’t gotta look at it that way.” Brok shrugged as he downed the rest of his drink.

Sindri’s face softened considerably as he mulled over Brok’s words. He finally looked up and met his eyes, “Okay… in what way do you look at it?”

“I don’t.” He shrugged. “Ain't no point in beating yourself up ‘bout the shit you did a long time’s ago.”

A few seconds passed before Sindri hummed, lost in scattered, drunken thought. “I guess.” Rubbing his eyes with the heel of his hand, he mumbled, “It’s so hard, though. Letting go; moving on.”

“Damn right it’s hard, but we can’t fix everything—even our own fuck-ups and what-not.”

Brok knew his words were nothing but the hard truth, but Sindri seemed to appreciate them anyway, a quizzical smile played on his lips.

“What’s wrong with you? You’re acting all…” he waved his hands lazily, trying to find whatever word he was looking for. “Wise.”

Brok scoffed, scratching at his beard, “Yeah, well, I’m an old fuck now. And someone’s gotta give a helpless chicken-shit like you a little advice.”

Sindri laughed, “Shut up…”

His smile then dropped as quickly as it had come. Drawing a breath,

“Y’know, I was… really nervous, coming here uninvited. I didn’t even know if you would want to see me...”

Brok just shrugged—that was reasonable enough, he supposed. He might’ve told Sindri to hit the road had it been under other circumstances; if it weren’t for Atreus.

Atreus—the little fart—just had to keep digging up what past memories he’d thought he’d buried a long time ago. And when the kiddo had the gaul to accuse old Brok of missing his brother?? Pft. He was right.

He guessed it was to be inferred that the kid pulled more or less the same shit with Sindri, too; considering the fact that he was sitting right across from him now.

Funny how things worked out like that.

“Yeah, well… likes I said earlier: I can grow too,” Was all Brok said, pulling himself out of his thoughts.

“Pshh, nooo, you-, you’re still just as short as the day we separated!” Sindri’s eyelids were droopy as he pointed a wobbly finger at him, smiling ear to ear.

Brok couldn’t really bring himself to ridicule him back, so he just waved his hand, feigning annoyance, “Yeah, yeah.”

And suddenly, Sindri had sprawled his arms out across the table and laid his head down, a muted thud sounding through the temple as his forehead hit the wood.

Brok snorted; the little fucker was in for one hell of a morning tomorrow…

“‘You sleepy?” He asked, wondering if his brother was drunk enough to not stop him from dragging him to bed.

“No. I’m jus’-, just resting my head; it feels a bit… heavy.” Sindri’s reply was muffled.

“Oh, I’m sure it do, stringbean.” Brok huffed, scratching the back of his neck. “‘Guess we shoulda laid off on the drinks a little, eh?”

There was another hiccup before he spoke. “I guess so. Thank you for sharing it with me, though.”

“Yeah, well… I ain’t even knew you were gonna have any at all.”

Sindri’s shoulder pauldrons bounced as he laughed. “That’s fair. I surprised myself, too.”

They sat in silence for a few moments. Brok thought of all the new projects they could undertake together—with the help of some resources gathered by a particular young archer and his behemoth of a father, of course.

Brok could look forward to something again,—cooking for his brother, working with his brother, poking fun at his brother…—and it felt renewing, in a way. A clean slate.

The coals of the forge were cooling; it was getting to be time to turn in.

“I love you, Brok.” Sindri piped up suddenly. His words were slurred and drawn out,—‘I loooove youuu, broooook’—and Brok felt pathetically saddened by how much he had missed hearing it.

“C’mon, you fuckin’ lightweight… ain't no reason to get all mushy on me.”

There came no response.

Brok furrowed his brow and reached over to nudge his brother's forearm with the back of his hand.

Stillness.

Sindri had fallen asleep on his table.

Folding his arms, Brok leaned back in his seat and laughed to himself. His kid brother, after years of separation, had waltzed on into his forge, got plastered off of his brew, and was now snoozing on his dining table. What a pain in the ass he was…

Brok was happy they were brothers once again.

Chapter Text

Sindri pressed his gloved hand to the tear in his brother's thigh as he knelt beside him, the shimmering gray of the world tree’s barren feeling as if it were nearly swallowing him.

He tried his best not to cry.

He was not hurt at all himself, but Brok was. And, in a way, that pain was far more damaging than any hel-walker’s shortsword. As they watched Kratos and Atreus disappear into the mystic gateway—off to Helheim, presumably; to fix Atreus’ mistake—Sindri felt a bitter, shameful anger rise in his stomach, like the young tendrils to a fire. He was quick to push it aside, however. He didn’t have the time to dwell on such things.

“Let’s get inside; y-, you’re hurt…” His voice cracked dangerously, but Brok graciously decided to ignore it.

“Aw, shuddup. Ain’t nuthin’ but a scrape,” His big brother grinned weakly. Sindri’s frown only deepened.

“Can you stand?” Without waiting for an answer, he repositioned himself so one of his hands was still applying pressure to the wound, while the other guided him to sit up. Slinging Brok’s arm over his shoulder, his knees buckled and threatened to topple under the extra weight.

With a strained grunt, both he and his brother slowly started to stand.

It took an amount of effort to ignore the hundreds of phantom hands clawing at him; reliving the lake, the lost soul part, his failure. He would wash himself until his skin was red and raw later…

“Woah-woah, slow th’ fuck down, will ya? Gettin’ dizzy here.”

“Sorry, sorry! I just-… I don’t want you to lose too much blood.”

They took one bumbling step with their right foot; then left. Right, left, right, left. Slowly, they picked up coordination. Struggling with their height difference, Sindri had to hunch over to support Brok.

“You’re okay, right?”

“Simmer down; just got scratched, okay? I ain’t dyin’.”

Sindri pushed open the door with his side that wasn’t already supporting his brother. Brok’s eyes were growing half-lidded.

“I know you’re not. I know you're not dying.” Sindri squeezed harder on his shoulder.

He knew he should tell him. He wanted to tell him, too; of course he did. What if Brok had actually ended up dying (again)? And what if Sindri would've never even gotten the chance to explain—that he was just trying to protect him, just trying to be a good brother, just trying to look out for him?

Well, maybe Sindri should stop fearing for the worst. His brother would be alright; there would be time. And he would tell him later. When this mess was over.

Sindri laid him carefully on the chaise lounge just outside the kitchen, trying and failing to ignore the pained hiss that Brok let out. Mimir sat at the dining table and offered a share of rather unhelpful encouragement (which Sindri pointedly tuned out).

His older brother was looking more and more dazed; his wound had not yet stopped bleeding. Sindri’s vision grew fuzzy as his hands hovered and flitted, uncertain of where to go. “Okay… alright. Um… oh dear.”

Sindri jumped at the woman suddenly standing over him.

“Sindri.” It was Freya. She gently smiled at him as she set down a washcloth and basin. “I can stop the bleeding, then the wound must be cleaned. Do you have the materials to dress it?“

Of course Sindri had the materials; if he was anything, he was prepared—perhaps almost to a ridiculous extent, but he was all right with that.

He quickly fished out a roll of clean gauze from his bottomless bag, and set it by the basin.

Casting a bout of vanir magic and uttering a spell Sindri didn't recognize, Freya brought her hands to his brother’s wound and pressed. The purple mist seeped into the laceration. Sindri couldn’t—wouldn’t—pull himself to look away; he held a hand over his mouth and watched.

It should have been him.

Then Freya was back at his side. “I can make him a medicine from my herbs growing in your study, to help with the pain and prevent any infection. You can clean and wrap it?”

He nodded.

Freya looked over to Brok. They exchanged a nod before she strode off.

Sindri grabbed the washcloth, wet it in the basin, and gently—gently!—pressed on Brok’s side. Immediately, he saw his brother’s jaw clench up.

“Tell me if I’m hurting you!” Sindri fussed, exasperation clear in his voice.

“You ain’t!” Brok argued, before he added: “It just stings, a little.”

“Okay. Okay, well… I’ll be more careful.”

“I can do this myself, y’know. You don’t gotta play doctor.” He grumbled. Sindri shot him a look and got back to cleaning the wound.

Brok’s bleeding had almost completely stopped thanks to Freya’s magic; still, there was plenty of dried blood that had yet to be cleaned off. Sindri wrung out the washcloth into the basin; he watched the water run red.

“It’s rather unfortunate… none of this would have happened if young Loki hadn’t freed Garm. I worry- why would he have done such a heinous offense? Surely he has been taught better by his father…” Tyr had crept up from behind them, looming over the chaise lounge with ever-attentive yellow eyes.

Sindri bit the inside of his cheek.

Despite his best efforts to remain hospitable, his patience could only run so thin. He wished the god would just retire back to his broom closet. It was hard to think with him watching like that.

When no one seemed to want to respond, Tyr simply continued: “I understand you all must feel… hurt from his actions; I as well. If only he had heeded our guidance, neither Brok nor Sindri would have been put in harm at all.”

He was referring to the bear dilema—before Atreus had run off to Asgard. The shameful feeling of anger threatened to resurface, and Sindri quickly pushed it back down, his hands starting to quiver at Brok’s wound. What point was Tyr trying to make? Was he trying to make it worse? Of course he was upset with Atreus,—and the whole bear encounter was only a small factor of that!—but the last thing he wanted to do was to play the blame game; pointing fingers would only end up hurting the people he loves.

He laid the washcloth on the side of the basin and grabbed the roll of gauze, tearing off a sizable piece to wrap Brok’s wound.

“Tyr, old friend. Perhaps we ought to talk about this another time? ‘Not sure we’re in the best shape, at the moment.“ Mimir—ever the peace-maker—piped up from his place on the dining table, breaking the harsh silence that had followed Tyr’s remark.

The god held his hands behind his back, bowing his head in humility. “Of course… I meant no discourtesy. I simply wanted to share my judgment on all of this.”

Brok then huffed and sat up on one elbow, looking Tyr up and down, “What you needs to do, is learn when to keep yer damn trap shut. No shit this wouldn't ’a happened if it weren’t for the kid, but you’d also still be rotting in that cell if’n it weren’t for him, too.” He pointed a stubby finger at him before Sindri fussed at him to lay back down.

Mimir grew considerably pale- can a decapitated head even grow pale?- as Tyr just stood in provoked silence. He absolutely towered over the two brothers. Sindri is painfully reminded of when that dragon had backed him into a corner and tried to eat him.

For a moment, his eyes almost seemed to change—becoming ungodly bright; hungry, dangerously deceitful. Sindri blinked, and they were returned to normal once again. He tried to convince himself he had only imagined it.

A tense silence hung in the air for more than a few beats. Sindri returned his attention to wrapping Brok’s side so he wouldn’t have to make any more eye contact; hoped nobody could see that his hands were shaking. As he bandaged the last of the gauze and stood to look over his work, he wished there was more he could do—could've done. For now, though, this would have to be enough.

“I apologize.” It almost sounded like Tyr was seething. Sindri felt a stone drop in his stomach.

Brok just sneered, put a hand on his now fully-dressed wound, he looked up at Sindri and gave him the subtlest of smiles—his way of saying thank you.

That made him feel a little better, at least.

“At the end of the day, I suppose,” Mimir spoke again before anyone else could, “The lad’s just a lad. And besides, him and his da’ are out fixing his blunder at this very moment. The important thing is that we’re all okay.” His bejeweled eyes glossed over to Brok, then to Sindri, “May this be a reminder for us all—that there is always a chance to fix your mistakes.”

The head’s expression was… oddly unreadable. Why was he always so strange with his words? Sindri shifted uncomfortably under his gaze.

“Mimir is right,” Freya approached, holding a
bowl of green paste in her hands. “We have all done things we aren’t proud of.” She handed the bowl to Brok, who looked at it with a raised brow. “Eat; it can numb some of the pain.”

He complied with a shrug, scooping some up with his fingers. He grimaced at the taste.

Sindri lingered expectantly at his side, knotting his hands.

“Can I get you anything? A drink?”

“Nah.” Brok shrugged a shoulder, not looking up at him.

“I’m sorry this happened, Brok.”

“Weren’t your fault.”

“I’m still sorry.”

Brok finally met Sindri’s eyes, eyebrows furrowed, “Cut out the sorry’s, for fucks sake. Everything’s alright. I’ll be back up and at ‘em soon enough. It’ll be like nothin’ even happened.”

Sindri sighed, allowing himself to feel the smallest sliver of hope from his brother’s reassurance. Even if he would never, ever admit it- Brok always somehow knew what to say to help keep his head on straight.

“Okay. You’re right. It was just… a lot. And I’m tired.”

The blue dwarf huffed, nodding, feeding himself more of Freya’s medicine.

“That’s life ain’t it.” Brok said.

Sindri thought, in that moment,—if he weren't so averted to touching other people, of course—he would have given his brother a hug.