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Chapter Text

The morning of the summer solstice Freya woke early, the way she always did – with her upper torso splashed across the Huldra brothers’ dining hall’s table.

Groaning, she pushed herself upright from where her head rested on the stained rowanwood, parchment crackling under her forearms as she did so. The Yggdrasil’s eternal light shone through the arched windows of the dwarves’ home, illuminating the scattered missives and documents strewn across the table in front of her. And there was something on her face… A chart detailing Midgardian grain exports had managed to seal itself to her cheekbone with impressive strength. Grumbling, she pulled the paper from her cheek. 

For a moment as her mind reorientated itself, she tried to remember her dream. There had been light, and summer, and blood, for some reason, a river of it, curling around her bare ankles in fern fronds. A tree trunk without branches rose high into the sky, and there were flames too. Tears, she remembered. Someone had been crying.

She delved, trying to recall more, but the feel of a sudden chill about her shoulders chased the draumskrok from her mind. A sheepskin lay pooled on her lap and the stool beneath her. It had been placed around her shoulders, tucked neatly under her forearms to ensure it would not slip down, but had fallen anyway when she had woken and moved. 

The fur had the faintest hint of woodsmoke to its fibres. Kratos. 

She had fallen asleep while reading deep into the early hours of the morning again, the candle burning lower and lower as she worked. Unrest had sprouted among certain dwarven factions looking to fill what they believed to be a power vacuum regarding the ruling of Svartleheim, and Durlin had made sure to warn the Council’s reassuring presence would soon need to be felt in Niðavellir’s mead halls.

His letter had been long, and, afterwards, she had to read over the plans for the upcoming lithasblot summer solstice celebration. Before she knew it, it was near morning – although, in the realm between realms, no sun would ever rise to mark the dawn’s entrance. 

This had become the norm for her. In her youth she and occasionally Freyr had ruled Vanaheim to the best of their abilities, their father choosing to sail the seas instead. She had foolishly assumed age and experience would make her work with the Council she had formed to rule the realms easier – a naivety, she had quickly learned. Leading one land was itself a trial but ruling eight was like braiding kelp; the more she grasped, the less she felt she held. Her former husband’s iron rule had managed to smother all the worlds he had kept crushed, and even one winter and a season later the eight remaining realms had only just started to recover. 

Each day Freya woke before dawn, and when she returned to Sindri’s home – if she bothered to make the journey – she always woke in front of the hearth, parchment stuck to her face and ink-stained palms from being used as pillows. 

A groan escaped her lips as she rolled her shoulders back and through, rotating her neck as she did so. The rowanwood table had been carved with the skill and ability the dwarves were renowned for, and while expertly made the surface was not meant to be used as a sleeping platform – yet, that was exactly what she had been using it as. Too many nights passed sleeping on what definitely was not a bed had caused her body, despite its godly strength, to ache like she was ill with fever. Her lower back throbbed, and she swore she heard her neck and shoulders creak as she stretched them back, trying to relieve the tightness in her chest.

She assumed her roommate did not particularly mind she had taken over their shared living space as a makeshift office. She and Kratos could go days without seeing each other – she busy with the Council’s many duties and he with the tasks they assigned him. In all honesty she had barely left the meeting hall they used as a Council chamber anymore, passing most nights tucked in one of the Holt’s many backrooms, reading and responding to correspondence by candlelight. The times she managed to make it home it was always in the early hours of the morning, sneaking quietly through the front doors, arms full of parchment with ink still wet on the pages, only to fall asleep at their table once again. 

Speaking of the man: the faint sound of his grunting was wafting through the same half-opened window the World Tree’s light drifted through. Kratos was chopping wood. He too was an early riser, waking before her even: a remnant of his Spartan upbringing, she assumed, although she had never asked. Still, she was grateful for it. When their schedules had been more aligned she had appreciated he always put a pot on the boil for her when she woke up, ready for the barley pottage she would cook for them to break their fast together.

Freya sighed. The blanket had been a clear message – maybe her friend did care that she had not been home to dine with him as often as she could be. She and Kratos had not shared a meal in many weeks, and, in fact, she barely had time to eat with how busy she had been. On cue, her stomach growled at the thought of food. 

There was a grunt. The man in question now stood at the entranceway to the Huldra brothers’ home, shifting his weight from side to side. Summer found her roommate without a tunic, as usual, and in a simple pair of ankle breeches. One hand held his axe, the other kindling, brittle in the morning light. 

Kratos’ beard was longer now, his eyes less heavy. A winter passing without his son had influenced the man to speak even less than before but with more care. He was a dutiful co-occupant of Sindri’s home; making sure to sweep the floors twice weekly and scrubbing the hearth with sand each moon’s turning. Freya had no desire nor the time to partake in housework. Her semi-nomadic youth had been spent travelling with the Vanir from settlement to settlement as the seasons changed and her marriage had seen her swaddled with servants in Asgard. The century she had spent in exile had made cleaning up after herself an occasionally despised necessity so she appreciated Kratos’ fastidiousness. Idle moments left her wondering if Faye had trained him up. No matter the reason, he was easy to live with. For that, she was grateful. 

If someone had told Freya two winters ago she would be living in happy cohabitation with two men – one of whom had arranged her marriage to a man who had broken her almost beyond repair and the other who had killed her reason for living – she would have laughed in their face, and most likely broken it for good measure. But they were living together, although sometimes she, Kratos and Mimir would not see each other for weeks.

Occasionally she would join them on whatever mission the Council had asked their God of War to fulfil, and they would pass days and nights hunting stray einherjar and beasts through the forest, protecting the new villages and settlements that had sprung up through the realms. 

Those were the moments she was happiest, she had to admit. As strange as their relationship was, as strange as it had come into being, the closest to content she felt was when she was sitting beside Kratos next to a fire, listening to one of Mimir’s tales. 

“Freya.” Kratos’ voice sounded deeper than usual. There were dark shadows under his eyes, larger than usual. Had he slept? She wondered why it concerned her. She had not even known he was home when she returned; the lamps had been long doused when she crept through the front doors. 

She smiled at him. “Good morning to you too. Finished with your early morning chores?”

He grunted in response and moved into the foyer, closing the door behind him with a twist of his shoulder. “We were running low on firewood. You did not refill the reserves when you returned home.” 

Ouch. “Sorry,” she muttered, rubbing sleep from her eyes. “I forgot. I could have done it myself later, you know.”

“It is done now.” She saw his jaw tighten as he looked at the papers spread across the bench and fought down the rising irritation in her chest. She knew he disapproved of her workload; had heard Mimir hint that maybe she was pushing it too hard, one evening before Sigrun had parted ways with them. But the last time she had listened to Mimir it hadn’t turned out so well for her, had it? 

She did not want to argue with Kratos, she was too busy preparing for the summer solstice celebration later in the day, having been asked to open the feast with a speech on behalf of the Council. She had written her runes and had memorised most, but in all honestly felt unmotivated to deliver it. She had said enough of such things as leader of the Vanir and as Queen of Asgard and was beginning to tire of the sound of her voice.

The last time she and Kratos had spoken, about a week ago, they had fought, not bitterly, but over ridiculous, trivial things. She knew if they continued the way things were going they would start again. Gods, she had never been one for needless bickering – aside from with Freyr when they were children, but that didn’t count – but the man could be damned pigheaded sometimes, and she had no patience for his sullenness, not after a few hours of sleep slumped on a dwarven table. 

Trying for peace, she started again. “Where is Mimir?” The head of her husband’s former advisor was not at his usual spot on Kratos’ hip. 

“He is with Hildisvíni.”

Freya felt her eyebrows rise. “Really? What for?” Her mentor and her ex-husband’s former advisor had never exactly gelled. As irritating as Mimir could be she did enjoy how he rankled Hildisvíni– Gods knew her friend needed to be reminded of his humanity after a century spent trapped in boar form.  

“They are preparing for the ceremony. Mimir was asked to aid with the seating charts.”

That made sense. Diplomats and ambassadors had been invited to the summer solstice feast under Mimir’s counsel, with the goal of reopening long-closed trade routes between Midgard and the new Asgardian settlements in Vanaheim. Odin had been selfish with his realms’ resources, but Sif had no intention of following her father-in-law’s footsteps, something she appreciated in the woman. 

“That’s good. Maybe Hildisvini can pull Mimir out of his… slump.” The head had taken Sigrun’s absence harder than he cared to admit. “Has he spoken to you about Sigrun at all?” 

Kratos shook his head. 

“That is a shame. I can’t believe I am saying this, but I miss his prattling.” 

“He misses her.” Kratos looked sombre. The wood clamped to his bulk rattled as he shifted. 

“She will return,” Freya gently assured him – and herself, she could admit. Sigrun was a dear friend and beloved sister and she missed her something fierce. “There is nothing in the many worlds that could ever take Sigrun down.” Aside from you, she thought, but that she kept to herself. 

Now that she was properly awake, she could smell something savoury in the air, wafting across the room. “Did you cook?”

“Stew. Venison and wild garlic.” Kratos threw some of the kindling onto the hearth from his position before kneeling next to the ashes. Leaning, he blew on the lone embers, causing them to softly flame. 

The man had never heard of an animal he couldn’t boil but he was competent in his craft. She would have preferred something lighter to break her fast but her stomach chose that moment to gurgle again, reminding her that she had not eaten the night before, too busy discussing with Hildisvini the replanting of destroyed old-growth forest along Vanaheim’s southern shores. 

Hungry, Freya stood from her seat quickly. Too quickly. She opened her mouth to ask Kratos whether they had any leftover bread to accompany the stew but the blood rushed to her head, and for a second her vision tunnelled, dissolving in the corners. Her knees began to buckle. 

There was a clatter. A hand, impossibly quick for its shovel-like size, was at her elbow in an instant. 

“Freya?” Kratos’ voice was gruff with concern, but he was surprisingly gentle where he cupped her arm, supporting her weight with his body. “Are you well?”

“I’m sorry, that was… I don’t understand what happened.” She could feel her face was flushed. Another wave of dizziness swept over her as her calves started to tremble. 

“You are ill. I will take you to Eir,” he grunted, bending down, but she swatted him away. 

“No, I just –” need to be away from this table, she wanted to say, this endless mountain of work that was seemingly sapping her vigour, her vitality. The words did not come but he understood – gently pulling her to her feet and leading her across the room to the small alcove where they cooked and ate their meals, making sure she did not trip on the scattered wood that he had dropped in his haste to get to her.

It was only after she was seated that he moved again, filling a ladle with water from the pail he had filled yesterday and bringing it to her. The liquid was crisp; before she knew it she had finished the bowl, water dripping down her chin as she gulped. It was only after two more that her head stopped spinning. 

It should not surprise her that he knew what she needed without her speaking it. No matter what happened, no matter what they did to each other, bizarrely, absurdly, the two of them always understood each other.

She could feel his eyes on her as she drank, and when she released the spoon she saw he had slid a full bowl of stew across to her. 

The food had smelled so appetising before but her stomach rolled on seeing the chunks of meat floating on the dark gravy. “I’m fine.”

He scowled at her response. “You did not touch the meal I left out for you last night.”

She had seen the apples and oatbread left on the table, neatly close to the waning fire for warmth, but had had no appetite for it. Days spent huddled around maps and logs charting crop yields had sapped her need for sustenance, it seemed. “I was not hungry.”

His brows furrowed further. “And the night before?”

“I had already eaten,” she gritted out. It was a lie, but she was unaccustomed to being grilled, and his overbearing concern was starting to grind at her. In all honesty, she could not remember the last occasion she had eaten a proper meal, aside from the sips of flat ale and bites of hard cheese she had consumed at council meetings.  

“Mmmmmnnn.” His characteristic grunt spoke volumes about his belief in her statement. Biting down her anger, she tried to focus on the fact that he cared enough for her well-being to monitor her food intake. It had been an age since a man had been attentive enough to realise she was pushing herself too hard, and even more time since one had deigned to speak to her about it. 

She decided to take a different approach with him. “I did not realise I lived with the God of Nursemaids,” she said, because it was fun to do so and she knew Atreus would have enjoyed it, were he here. “You put so much effort towards making sure I am fed and watered – should I allow you to undress me and tuck me into bed?”

He snorted in response but there was a flush to his cheeks. This shamed her a small amount: joking with him and Mimir was enjoyable but cruelty always left a bitter taste in her mouth. He opened his mouth and she braced himself for his retort, but the gentleness of his tone made her do a doubletake. 

“Please, Freya.” 

…Fine. 

She reached over and took hold of the spoon, ladling a spoonful to her mouth and forcing it down. The stew was good, rich and tangy, but her dizzy spell had ruined her appetite and she felt her stomach roll. Despite this, she forced down half the bowl under his golden eyes, letting the utensil fall with a clatter when she could stomach no more. 

“Are you happy, Father?” 

“Hhhmmnnn.” He was eyeing the remainder of the food disapprovingly. This time she had the strength to find it funny, not the opposite. 

“I will eat more before I leave,” she soothed, half-amused at his concern. “I give you my word, Kratos.” 

He grunted. Her word did not mean much, it seemed. “You do not eat, you do not sleep–”

“I do sleep, you saw I was sleeping –”

“When you even make it to your chamber I hear you pacing in the night.” 

She always forgot how strange his eyes were, until they were focused on her. Amber, like a bird. A hawk, her mind supplied. “I am busy with my work. Work that you, yourself, take part in.” 

“It is different. I travel, I protect the settlements you assign me to, then I return home.”

Unlike you, the words he did not speak. Gods, he was worse than Hildisvíni. She knew she was pushing it, was working long hours and thinking of work longer still, but she had abandoned one realm already to ruin and could not fail eight. Ruling was difficult work, made even harder when her home realm still distrusted her and the remaining still fought to recover from Odin’s ravages. Svartalfheim was on the brink of civil war – caught between the dwarfs who supported the Council and the industrialists who wanted to place a dictator of their choosing on a dwarven throne– and Alfheim’s peace talks had failed after weapon stashes had been found at several drop sites in the Forbidden Sands, and Vanaheim – Vanaheim – 

Her home, despite slowly recovering from its pillaging, had its own issues. There had been recent reports of a strange cult emerging from the Western Barri Wilds. Its members were said to wear entrails wound in their braids and boasted ritual scars carved across their collarbones. She did not know the group’s name, but several of the Midgardian settlements had reported finding firepits outside their gates in the morning, animal bones strewn through the ashes. Details, mere rumours, but what she had heard set Freya’s teeth on edge. If her people had fallen to seiðr’s call again, she did not know if she, alone, could save them. Maybe if Freyr was – maybe if her brother was still –

Somewhere in the depths of the dwelling, a bell tolled five times, marking the advent of Hádegi. She had slept later than she had realised — her midday conference was soon approaching. 

“Thank you, O Nursemaid, for the meal.” Freya stood to leave, but before she could move away Kratos stood too.

“I will accompany you,” he said, gathering the bowls to be rinsed and dried. 

“To the Holt? You hate attending those meetings," she replied, immediately suspicious. While he had agreed to join the Council as their war general he had never been concerned with the day-to-day minutiae of ruling, choosing to leave the decision-making to her and the others. If he was following her on the concern she would swoon like some fragile maiden she would happily leave him here. 

“I have duties in Midgard. Mimir will be tired of Hildisvini’s company by now, and I must return to my cabin.”

His back was to her, so he could not see the sudden empathy that must be painted across her face. He insisted on returning to his old home twice each moon’s passing. Each time, looking for a letter from Atreus that never seemed to arrive. 

It seemed the passing of the seasons had not reminded only her of her son.

Sick of words, of arguing, of compromise, of the sudden onset of grief he had caused, she turned to retreat to her chamber. 

In Vanaheim, the summer solstice had been dedicated to herself and Freyr. Complete with the blót of the traditional boar representing the eternal realm of Vanaheim, each village would pass the longest day singing and dancing well into the night. Freya could still remember the sound of her people’s prayers, asking her and her brother for fruitful hunts, good fishing, and healthy babes. 

Asgard was different. The day, while celebrated, had far more sombre festivities – mourning the winter to come, rather than the summer days still to be had. Midgard was stranger still – celebrating the longest day of the year with hours-long bonfires, complete with feasting on livestock that had been slaughtered in preparation for the colder days ahead. 

This solstice was a first – a combination of Aesir, Vanir, and Midgardian traditions. A feast would be held at the site of one of the new Aesir settlements in Vanaheim before a bonfire and festival took place for the town's residents. Dignitaries from the eight remaining realms had been invited to attend the festivities. The Aesir and Vanir, once at war for centuries, were now living together in harmonious cohabitation. Was this not a message, a fruitful omen that the realms were stronger together than apart?

With so much riding on the upcoming festivities, Freya had assumed her attention would be riveted on the Council’s final conference before the feast. Yet after the morning she had she could barely keep her eyes open, having to be nudged awake by Hildisvíni twice as Beylir outlined which elven warlords would be attending the feast. 

She was trying to concentrate but mind kept on drifting. Baldur had been born in at the beginning of sumarr, the morn of the spring equinox. Freya’s labour had been twelve hours of agonising pain made further difficult by the Aesir’s refusal to allow her handmaidens to perform the traditional Vanir rituals. Her husband had found them unfitting for the Queen of Asgard, and she had been in no condition to argue. Sigrun had dabbed her forehead with linen as she heaved and shook in the birthing bed, flitting in and out of consciousness as Gná murmured ġealdor under her breath. 

Her son’s arrival had made the pain worth it. Gold like the moon, under the blood and pus from the birth Baldur’s skin had been as smooth as river stone. The day of his birth two white suns were said to have seen over Midgard. Her son loved the hot weather and would spend days as a child running through the fields surrounding Asgard. His happiness made him glow. She remembered wishing she could bottle it, his youth, his smile. Bottle and protect it for the rest of eternity. 

She had always thought the summer solstice would be his day – a festival to celebrate his godhood, a change from the gloomy Asgardian celebrations.

And then there was Kratos. How his cheeks had burned red above his beard when she had made her tasteless joke about him being her nursemaid. She could admit she enjoyed flustering him, made even more fun by the knowledge that nothing would ever come from it. She knew he did not desire her, had never acted in any manner other than a friend. Why would he? She had tried her damndest to kill him for three winters. He’d have more sense bedding a she-wolf, her mind supplied. And she – her feelings – they were friends, and she valued him. The trauma of their shared past made anything else impossible. She would never forgive him for the death of her son, she had promised him that, just like her son had promised her – that he would – he would never –

“Lady Freya?”

Freya snapped to at the sound of Sif’s concerned inquiry. The entire table was looking at her. 

Hildisvíni came to her rescue, as always. “Náð, you have prepared the opening greetings for the roundtable?”

He had called her by her birth name in public – he must be concerned. “Yes, I am ready.” 

“May we hear it?” That was Beyla. 

Freya sighed. The speech was, while not long, awkward in the way political greetings needed to be, and she had no desire to repeat herself. “I would rather rest my voice for tonight, if I may. Rest assured, I cover all the points we discussed.”

“I trust you, my lady, but I would feel better if I heard it before tonight,” Byggvir said cautiously.

Durlin rested his arms on the table. “There's a lot ridin’ on this. Seems fair we all have our say before our arses get burned, eh?”

Hel. Freya opened her mouth — to say what, she did not know, when Kratos spoke from behind her, causing her to start in her seat. 

“I have heard it. She is well prepared to open the festivities tonight.”

She hadn’t realised he had slipped back inside the council chambers after escorting her to the entrance several hours ago. The man was over six foot tall and nearly all muscle and he still managed to move like a stalker when he wished to. Or maybe she was just too tired and was missing things her senses, usually sharp, would have picked up. Probably the latter. She nodded her head in agreement with Kratos, trying to look prepared. 

While Durlin still looked dubious, their God of War had managed to convince the Council of their leader’s preparedness — although Kratos’ intimidating stare probably had more to do with it than her capability. The meeting was promptly disbanded for members to return home and prepare for tonight. 

As the councillors trickled out of the chambers, chattering amongst themselves, Freya could see Sif attempting to catch her eye. She ignored the Aesir, having no desire to undergo further questioning on her preparedness for tonight, choosing to attend to Hildisvíni instead.

He had lingered to speak with her, as she knew he would. Her friend and advisor knew her better than most and would have seen through her blustering like a cormorant hunting fish through the waves. Humanity suited her friend well — he looked hale and healthy. She knew she did not, and from his pointed look, knew she would soon know it even more.

“You look tired.”

Straight into it. Freya rolled her eyes. “I am centuries old. Have you considered that I am tired?”

Her mentor snorted. “We both know you have many more years in you yet. Why did you refuse to read the speech?”

She chose a half-truth. “I am not as practised as I claimed to be.”

“That is unlike you,” Hildisvíni said, his eyebrows raising. 

It was, and yet she could not feel ashamed of it. “I will be ready for tonight. Trust me.”

“Always.” His eyes were soft. “Freya, I know this day is hard for you.”

“Do not,” she whispered and turned away from him. “Please, Hildisvíni.”

He rested his palm on her back, just above the mass of scar tissue where her husband had ripped away her wings a century ago. “I am here if you need me.”

She nodded, still facing away, and felt him leave. She waited, but the man in the corner did not speak. “Thank you for the help, although it was not needed."

Kratos grunted. "They should not doubt you. You have been doing this the longest out of all of us."

She looked at him, surprised. He had remembered Freyr's stoned rambling about ruling their realm as children. "True, but this is a council of equals, not a monarchy. I value their words." No matter how irritating they could be. "Hello, Mimir." 

“Your Majesty.” Mimir was uncharacteristically subdued from his place on Kratos’ hip. It seemed Hildisvíni had not managed to lift his spirits. 

What a lovely duo she had found herself living with. A silent foreigner who had killed her son and a depressed reanimated head. 

She sighed. “Come to my chambers. I’ll make us tea.”

She’d always wanted a study, she could admit. Wartime had made staying in one place in Vanaheim impossible so she had never been able to properly take over her father’s rooms. Odin’s study had sprawled under the palace in Asgard, filled with books and documents stuffed with stolen appropriated knowledge. She’d wrongfully assumed her husband would be willing to share his collection and had learned the hard way that Odin did not appreciate his wives reading his manuscripts. His expression when he’d informed her that he was surprised the Vanir could even read runes was one she’d never forget, as was the beating he’d inflicted on her after he found a book on Aesir protection spells missing from his collection. 

That had been later in their marriage. When she’d realised that if she didn’t leave soon, she’d be leaving on a horse to Fólkvangr. 

Her space in The Holt wasn’t so much as a study but rather a space for her to stash her spare armour and catch up on reading. The main table that took up most of the room was covered in paper, as was the cot neatly tucked into the corner.

“You sleep here?”

Of course, that was what Kratos focussed on first. She thought of making another joke about his interest in bedding her but decided against it — the man might spontaneously combust. 

“Occasionally,” she lied. She didn’t really sleep anymore. Lighting the braziers with a wave of her hand, she started to clear a space for him. Shifting crackling parchment to the side of the platform where she sometimes dozed for an hour she gestured for him to sit, which the man did, placing Mimir on the table so the head could face the both of them.

The sight of him perched on the cot made her stifle a giggle –  her friend’s massive size made everything look comically small around him. She touched the cauldron sitting in the corner and whispered a few words to it, causing it to immediately start singing, steam rising from its spout. Then she sat at the room’s only chair and faced Kratos. The man was studying the space with a curious expression on his face. 

“What is it?”

His eyes widened – he must have not realised he was looking so openly. “It is nothing. It is only – you – there are no plants here,” he finished. 

She looked around too and realised how bare the walls were for a place she spent so much time. Usually, she made the most of every space she had, hanging herbs and flowers to be dried for use in her medicines. “It would be cruel to bring them into a place with no sunlight,” she said kindly. “At least in our home they have light and water.”

“The flowers I gave you. They… flourish, despite your absence.” He was looking at his hands, now, studying his fingers. If he were any other man she would believe he looked bashful. “It is incredible they still live, and live well.”

“My magic keeps them healthy when my presence can not.” She stood and went to the cauldron, dropping a bundle of dried thyme and meadowsweet into the simmering water. “You are welcome to water them, O Nursemaid, although too much care and they may start to droop,” she threw over her shoulder as she stirred the bundles, a smirk on her lips. 

The double meaning was not lost on him as she knew it would not be – many foolishly thought him to be slow-witted because of his quietness but she had never been one of them. When they first met, she had thought she had never seen a man with so much pain trapped inside of him – aside from perhaps her stepson, Thor. 

Chasing the thought from her mind, she turned and handed him a mug of steaming tea, fresh from the pot. He thanked her with a nod, raising the cup to his lips to sip at it. For a moment the room was silent, filled only with the sound of the simmering cauldron, steam rising and disappearing into the cavernous ceiling. 

“Mimir? You have not said a word since you arrived. It is strange for you to be so silent,” Freya said without looking at the head, leaning against the desk. 

Her ex-husband’s advisor started, almost rolling himself off the table where he was placed. “Apologies, M’Lady, I was lost in m’thoughts,” he said. 

“You should speak soon, least Kratos and I get too used to the peace and quiet,” she teased and received a small smile from the head in return. “It’s unlike you to not have an opinion to share. Did everything go well with Hildisvíni?”

Mimir let out a sort. “Aye, although the old boar’s diplomacy skills may need a wee brush up before the cèilidh. Nae, I was simply…” his voice trailed off and he fell silent again. 

Look at her, feeling the need to comfort the man who ruined her life. If this wasn’t growth, what was? “Sigrun will return, Mimir, I promise. She was never the one to leave anything unfinished.” 

“I know, My Lady,” Mimir said quietly. “But I worry for her safety, is all. I cannae shake the feeling that she will fall t’harm without me at her side to watch her back.”

Part of her wanted to asked him what he exactly believed he could do, without a body and all, but time had returned her sense of grace to her. She exchanged a quick look with Kratos, who was watching Mimir with concern. 

“It is normal to worry for the ones we love,” she said gently. “But Sigrun is strong – the strongest Valkyrie to ever ascend. She will come back to you even wiser and more fierce than before, I know it.” 

Kratos spoke too, his voice low. “Be strong, Brother. You will see her again.” 

“Thank you – the both of you,” Mimir said quietly. He made a distinct effort to raise his spirits, grinning and looking Freya in the eye. “But I was surprised to see you falling asleep in the meeting, M’Lady. Are we not interesting enough for ye?”

Well, he certainly got his lip back quickly. She opened her mouth to retort, but Kratos got there first. “She did not sleep properly.” 

“Again? Your Majesty,” Mimir said reproachfully. 

“Enough,” she muttered, turning away from the irritating head. “I have already gotten an earful from Hildisvíni – I do not need a lecture from you two, either.”

Kratos spoke. “Why did you not wish to read the speech?” 

She deflected with a wave of her hand. “I merely do not wish to repeat myself tonight. It is long, and full of empty platitudes, as speeches have to be.” She had been saying them since she was an adolescent, having been tasked with the ruling of Vanaheim since she was about Atreus’ age – when Nord decided he preferred the seas to his people. Freyr had never really cared for meetings, or councils, or speeches – preferring to merely attend the resulting festivals. He excelled at the drinking and feasting part of the festivities, with special care given to the pretty boys and maidens that caught his eye, of course. So everything had fallen to her – all the responsibility, none of the perks. 

Because I am tired of politicking, I am tired of being the responsible one. 

Mimir was saying something. “What is it?” She snapped, already annoyed at the answer. 

“Would you care for us to read over what you have prepared?” Kratos asked. 

Her initial response was to lash out – did they not think she was capable? But she saw the empathy in his eyes and understood – this was care, not control, not condensation. He just wanted to help. 

“I would like that.” The words came out more tired than she intended. “Thank you both.” 

Kratos stood, taking care not to disturb the parchment around him. As she watched, confused, he gathered the surrounding documents into one pile, lifting them off the cot and placing them on the desk. 

When he turned and looked at her expectantly she realised he wanted her to lie down. 

Would he ever drop this obsession with getting her to take care of herself? “Kratos, I can’t.”

“There are a few hours before tonight. You should rest before the ceremony,” he rumbled. 

“I do not have time for a nap right now!”

“Mimir and I will read over what you plan to say and make suggestions if needed,” he continued as if she had not spoken. “I will wake you an hour before it begins so you have time to prepare.” 

She couldn’t lie down now. There were things to do, people to speak to, servants to prepare. But he was looking at her in that honest way he did, and her chest still hurt from the night spent lying on a table. Behind him Mimir was already studying the scrawled documents in front of him. 

“Only for an hour,” she heard herself say. “You must wake me after an hour, Kratos.” 

“Three,” he bargained, as he took her by the elbow and led her to the bed.

“Two.”

“Done,” he said neutrally, and she inwardly groaned that he’d outwitted her so easily. She lay down on the platform, curling her knees into herself for warmth, and felt some of the weight ease from her bones. She must look like death for everyone around her to be so concerned. 

From her lowered position she looked up, expecting to see him looking smug. Instead, she got a fine view of his scowling face. 

“Hel, what is it now?”  

He grunted. “You keep no furs here?” 

“My magic keeps me warm,” she said, although she was often too tired to perform the spells needed to warm her body. He snorted disapprovingly and raised his hand to his cloak's clasp. Before she could protest she was covered in the thick material. It was softer than she had thought it would be, lined with bear fur, and so wide it covered her completely as a piece of bedding would.

She opened her mouth to order him to take back his clothing before he caught cold or froze his nipples off but it was like she was under a spell. The warmth of the fabric, Mimir’s mumbling under his breath as he read, the sound of the cauldron bubbling was pulling her under — she could barely keep her eyes open. 

“Promise you’ll wake me,” she mumbled with her eyes closed, curling under the cape, knees tucking into her chest. She was suddenly so very tired, and the material was warm. It smelled like woodsmoke, like him. He must be building the fire each day for the fabric to carry the scent this strongly. Why was he doing that? She yawned. "Promise me."

She heard him move closer and kneel near where her face lay. “I will.”

“Promise me, Kratos.”

“I give you my word.”

She thought she felt him adjust the cape so it covered her shoulder but it was too late, she was gone, swept on the winds of slumber to Svefnthorn.

She woke as if rising from a huge cliff, a thermal updraft under her wings lifting her deep into the sky, and for a moment she did not know where she was. She heard a grumble — Chaurli, ready for his mid-morning meal. She had overslept. The animals needed feeding, the garden tending, the fire to be doused, judging from the smell of wood smoke. She opened her eyes and saw Kratos’ bulk hunched over her desk, a quill clutched in one meaty fist. 

She was not in her Wildwoods home, tucked away alone in her exile. She was whole again. She stretched under the cloak luxuriously, feeling lighter than she had in a long time. 

He heard her move and turned. “Woman, it has not even been an hour.”

“Liar,” she yawned. “It’s been four.” The cauldron had boiled to nothing and she felt far too rested for only an hour of sleep. And the Witch of the Wood was not without her tricks. “You broke your promise, O God of Nursemaids.”

Again, he flushed. “Forgive me. I could not bear to wake you.”

Ordinarily, she would have been furious — at the broken promise, at the protection, all of it. But for the first time in a while she felt rested, and, with such a night ahead, that could only be a good thing. “I should be asking you to forgive me, Friend. You seem to know what I need before I even say it.”

She heard him exhale in relief. “Only because I, myself, have been in your position,” he muttered. “I was lucky to have good counsel who urged me to rest. I wish to be the same for you.”

Who had been this counsel? Faye? Lysandra? She chased the thought from her mind. “Thank you, Kratos. I may not always be, uh… grateful, but I appreciate your care.” She smiled up at him, which made him look down quickly. He was not good with compliments — but, neither was she. “Where is Mimir?” She asked as she sat up in bed, pulling into a stretch. The cool air hit her shoulders immediately, making her shiver, compared to the delicious warmth of her legs, still covered by the cloak. 

“Sif came to take him. They are preparing for the feast, and she wanted his gift of languages with the diplomats she was to meet.”

“She did not need me to accompany them?”

“No.”

He was a terrible liar as evidenced by his looking away as he answered her. Most likely Sif had come here to speak with her and had been chased away by her bodyguard, Head in hand. Well, it seemed that the realms had not fallen apart in her absence. She did not know why her former daughter-in-law wished to speak with her but was sure she would later find out. She and Sif’s relationship had changed for the better since Asgard, and thank the gods for that, although there was nowhere to go but up in that sense. Although it was embarrassing to be found snoring under Kratos’s cloak — she would have to make sure Sif did not get the wrong idea, and Mimir was an incurable gossip… 

“You have ink on your nose,” she said instead. Kratos raised his hand to his nose on reflex, expertly getting ink from his quill all over it. The sound of her guffaws filled the room. 

“You tease too much,” he grumbled as he rubbed at the offending blotch with the back of his hand, succeeding in spreading it further across his face. 

“I’m sorry,” she wheezed, getting to her feet. “I didn’t expect that to work so well.”

“Stop laughing.”

“Okay, okay…”

She walked over to where he still sat in front of her desk and licked her thumb. Leaning in she swiped the pad of her digit gently over his face, removing the ink there. The gesture made her think of Atreus, and in her distraction over the memory she only realised how close their faces were when she felt him exhale through his nose onto her lips. They were close enough that she could see the lines around his eyes, the flecks of brown in his irises. 

“There. Got it,” she whispered.

He just looked at her back, seemingly unable to speak. She did not know what to say so she looked back down, clearly her throat, and quickly took half a step back. 

“Just what have you been working on?” She asked playfully, ignoring the hammering in her chest. She looked down and saw he had been writing a missive. Before she could see what he was writing he crumpled the letter in one of his large hands. 

Hurt, she opened her mouth to apologise but he was already gesturing. “It was to Atreus,” he said quietly.

The boy's name cast a wave of grief over her. His absence was an undercurrent pulling at the mundanity that was their day-to-day lives post-Ragnarök. She missed him, missed his lopsided grin — but no matter how much she missed Atreus she knew Kratos’ grief was tenfold more.

They did not know where he was. That was the hardest part.

She placed her hand on his shoulder and knew he had accepted her apology when he, without turning, touched it with his own. 

It was too much for both of them. She stood and made for the exit. She would bathe and kohl her eyelids and hope the pigment would disguise her exhaustion. She must brush out her braids in preparation for tonight. He had let her oversleep — there was much to do. She still could not be angry at him for it. 

“Freya.” His voice boomed like a ship’s bell in the smallness of the room. She turned, to tell him what she did not know — but was surprised to see he was standing, holding up the cloak she had left crumpled on her bed.

“You are cold,” he said.

She let him place the fabric around her shoulders. It was like stepping into a warm summer rain. Then, with the hem of the bearskin trailing on the ground, she made her exit.

Chapter Text

“I must speak with you,” Sif hissed, appearing to her left.

“Apologies, My Lord, I must leave you.” Freya tried not to look too eager. She had been trapped in a conversation with one of the diplomats from South Midgard for what felt like a lifetime, listening as the man droned on about his village, his livestock, and the exotic charms of her people. She hadn’t gotten a word out in over an hour. Thank you, thank you, thank you.

The man stammered a response as she stood from the table, almost knocking a platter of fresh bread to the ground in his haste to kiss her hand as he bid her farewell – a strange Midgardian custom she had never been able to get used to. Obviously, he had been hoping for a different outcome to their one-sided conversation, although what he wanted she had no idea. While she was grateful he found Vanaheim agreeable, she hoped never to hear the words “savage and wild beauty” ever again, especially if they were intended to gain her favour. 

She allowed Sif to lead her to the outer part of the festivities, a quiet nook in the corner of the Great Hall. The feast was in full swing and, from the volume in the room, was going resoundingly well. Braziers flamed and fluttered in the fading light as servants made their rounds, topping up cups and bringing platters of fruits and smoked meats. Her councillors were working to the best of their abilities, she could also see. Across the room, Durlin was in deep conversation with a Dark Elf wearing ceremonial propolis in spirals over his grey shoulders, and a further way down the table Mimir was chattering to a group of interested dwarves. 

Standing to attention by the doors, Gunnr gave her the smallest of nods. The Shield Maidens had been tasked with security for the event, alongside a small group of former Asgardian soldiers under their leadership. Protecting the festivities was a relatively mundane task for the winged warriors, but perfect as a training exercise for their newest recruit. Thrúd twitched, trying to stand as still as Gunnr did on the other side of the main doors. Her helmet appeared to be slightly too big for her head, sliding to the side as she wriggled, giving her a lopsided appearance. 

Freya smiled at Thrúd as she followed the girl’s mother across the room, and received a nervous grimance in response. She knew the young woman still struggled to replace the image her grandfather had placed in her mind with reality. In the training sessions she had attended the girl had been obviously ill-at-ease, tripping through manoeuvres Freya was told she had previously finished without trouble. She was most comfortable with Gunnr, the Shield Maiden's easy ways and banter bringing her out of her – what Sif claimed to be extremely uncharacteristic – nervousness, which was why Freya had assigned them both as guards. While the exercise was obviously beneficial for Thrúd, she could sense Gunnr’s boredom from across the room.                          

I’ll give her a sparr she’ll never forget as a thank you.

Despite Thrúd’s inexperience (and ill-fitting equipment) she appeared to be doing well at her post. The only person who appeared to not be performing to the best of her abilities was in fact Freya herself. Kratos’ enforced nap had caused her to arrive late, slipping in through the back doors to sit in her assigned place near the front of the table almost an hour after the feast had started. Hildisvíni’s eyebrows had almost fallen off his face at the sight; the urge to poke her tongue out at him had been overwhelming, formality be damned. 

She knew she had missed her moment to open the festivities with the speech she and the Council had planned. There would be an opportunity to say it later when the doors opened and they lit the ceremonial bonfire, although the time was not as opportune as it would have been had she arrived on time – most of the diplomats were already deep in their cups, and the other half drowsy with food fatigue. She would have to speak loudly to be heard. 

She would make do. She always did. 

She caught a glimpse of her friend across the room. Kratos’ ashen skin glowed in the dimness of the room. He seemed ghost-like, draugr . She had not seen him since the Holt – he must have come directly to the festivities. After she had finished preparing herself for the night ahead she had left his cloak neatly folded on his bed and had even washed the dishes from breakfast, despite running late. She had to do something for him after his kindness that morning. She had never been one to allow a debt to remain unpaid. 

She was surprised to see Angrboda’s dark head next to Kratos’, gold flashing in the gloom. The Jötunn had been invited to the gathering, although Freya had been uncertain if she would show. The girl, while sweet, was still unused to large amounts of people, and a loud, overpacked room full of drunken adults was sure to be overwhelming. She was pleased to see Kratos by her side. The two of them appeared to be deep in conversation, Angrboda’s small hands twisting as she spoke. What were they talking about? 

As if sensing her Kratos looked up, meeting her gaze. She looked away quickly. It felt too much like spying, watching the two of them talking quietly, unseeing the festivities going on around them. Connected by the boy they both cared for. 

Atreus would have loved this gathering.

Freya could not prevent a sigh of relief from leaving her lips when she and Sif reached the relative peace of the enclave. She was already tired of this party. She wished for it to be over; she wanted to return home and rest, to sit by the fire, watching the flames and listening to Kratos mutter under his breath as he practised his rune reading. Surreptitiously she wiped the feel of the man’s lips from her hand on her gown’s skirt. Perhaps it was she who required a brush up of her diplomacy, not Hildisvíni, she mused. 

When Sif turned to face her Freya got a proper look at what her fellow councillor was wearing. The Aesir was a vision, clad in azure linen that draped across her form like waves. Her hair had been unbound from its customary braid and fell across her shoulders like silk, nearly touching her shins with its length. The only thing that marred her beauty was the frown on her face.

Maybe she had been wrong to be thankful for Sif rescuing her. It appeared she was about to get a strong scolding for her tardiness. 

“Did you know that South Midgard’s fjords are the most beautiful of all the lands?” 

Surprised, the Aesir’s mouth fell open, distracted from what she was going to say by Freya’s strange statement. “Uh, no. I did not.” 

“Well, I now do,” Freya muttered. “I also now know that when the firelight touches my ‘nutmeg tresses’ they take on ‘an auburn tinge, like the first leaves of Autumn’.”

“It appears some diplomats have not properly learned the required manners for their roles,” Sif sighed. “Freya –”

“Enough, Sif,” Freya said. Norns sake, they were the same age. “I will say the speech later. I already got the look from the old boar, I do not need another scolding.” 

Sif snorted. “Gods, do I know that face,” she muttered. “Like someone spat on his bare hindquarters.” 

Freya smiled. “He used to snort at me when I would force him to eat slower. Even as a boar his glare almost burned my nose off.”  

“It appears that some things transcend time and form,” Sif sighed. She paused for a moment, looking away. “That is not what I want to speak with you about. It does not bother me that you were late.” She saw Freya’s face. “Are you so shocked?”

“Well, yes,” Freya admitted. “We all know the importance of this meet.” 

Sif shrugged. “You are right, the speech can be said later. I am simply glad you are rested. You looked exhausted, earlier.” 

A woman holding a wine urn approached them – Freya waved her away. “We have all been working hard to rebuild the realms,” she said. 

“None like you, Freya. None like you.” Sif had a strange expression on her face. Sadness and empathy. Freya never would have dreamed the woman would ever look at her like that, back when they knew each other, back when she was Queen of Asgard. Back when Sif was a drunken mess, wine stains on her lips, and she had been a Queen in name only. Back when she had her son.

Freya felt a surge of disquiet at Sif’s expression. Amid the melancholy, there was something dark in her gaze. “What is it you must tell me?” 

“The cultists – the ones seen in the Western Wilds,” Sif said quietly. “You know of them?” On Freya’s nod, she continued. “I was speaking with some of the villagers earlier today. They –”

“Mom!” 

“They–”

“Mooom!”

Sif continued, although her teeth were gritted. “They said they have seen –” 

“Mom! Mom Mom Mom Mom Mooooom!”

Sif had a look of agony on her face – one any mother of a teenager knew too well. Freya knew she was trying to remind herself that, if she killed Thrúd, she would most likely regret it. 

“Go to her. Find me later. I’ll be here.” 

“I –  thank you,” Sif ground out. As Freya turned to leave the other woman’s hand shot out, grabbing her elbow. “Freya, we must speak later.”

“We will,” Freya said, hiding her shock at the other woman’s tone. Sif nodded and turned to face her daughter who was standing behind her, helmet in her hands, a look of desperation on her face. 

As Freya left she heard Sif hiss at Thrúd, “for Norns sake, what ? What is it? ”

“It’s my helmet! It keeps slipping over my eyes and I look stupid and I can’t see! And Gunnr said I could go fix it but I don’t know what to do… Mom, I have to get back to my post!” 

“Okay, okay, don’t get upset. Give it to me…” 

Over her shoulder Freya saw Sif turn the helmet in her hands, trying to find a way to make it fit her daughter’s head in a way that left her eyes uncovered. She left the mother and daughter to their whispering, heading back across the hall to where she was sitting, lost in her thoughts. 

Just what was Sif so desperate to talk to her about? Was she concerned for the safety of the settlements? Hildisvíni had spoken of initial unrest between certain Vanir factions when the Aesir refugees arrived but that was over a winter ago. The new towns were flourishing, the people of Asgard adapting well to the taxing Vanaheim flora — although Eir had cautiously implied, due to the large number of accidental poisonings that continued to take place, there may be a need for a medicine hall in the main town.

Whatever the reason, if the settlements were in danger, she already knew what would need to be done. She would prefer no more blood spilt on Vanaheim’s sweet earth, but Sif and Hildisvíni had worked too hard for them to lose the progress made between the Aesir and her people. She and Kratos would do what they do best. 

Where was Kratos? 

“Angrboda?”

The girl looked up from where she had been sitting quietly at the end of one of the tables, playing with her food with one hand, the other fiddling with the sleeve of her dress. Kratos was no longer at the seat by Angrboda’s side. Surprising. He was not the sort to leave a young girl alone at a feast with no one but drunken strangers to speak to. 

“Hi Freya,” Angrboda said shyly. Freya gestured at the empty seat next to her, and the girl nodded at her to sit. She did so, and for a moment they watched the festivities around them in silence. 

“I’m glad to see you here,” Freya said gently to Angrboda. This was indeed true. She had invited the young Jötunn to the ceremony after the girl had turned down her offer to join the Council as a representative of her home realm. Freya did not begrudge her for this – far from it; Angrboda was young and she had no desire to thrust an adolescent into a role she was not ready for. She was just thankful the young woman had come to the gathering. She worried for Angrboda, alone as she was, with only her animal friends for guidance. She had been there – and she was much older than the girl.  “Are you enjoying yourself?”

Angrboda nodded. 

“How do you find the food?”

“It’s nice,” the girl murmured. She would not look Freya in the eye, darting her gaze up and across the room. 

Again, Freya was the one to break the quiet. “I hate these things,” she said conversationally. “Feasts, I mean.”

Angrboda looked up at her in surprise, away from the thread she was pulling at her sleeve. “You do?”

“Yes.” Freya stretched back and felt the pull of it in her spine. “They’re necessary but they’re never enjoyable. Everyone talks but no one says anything of importance.” 

The girl nodded. “Someone asked me what I thought of Kvasir’s fourteenth poem. I had to tell him that I didn’t know what that was.” 

Freya snorted. She had known Kvasir, and, unfortunately, had known his poetry.  “Count your blessings, child.”

“I wish there was a book,” Angrboda whispered, as if to herself. “A book I could read so I would know what to do.” 

Freya fought the urge to reach out and place her hand on the girl's shoulder. “Next time, just yell at them until they go away. That’s what I do,” she stage whispered, which earned her a small smile in reply. They lapsed into silence again. 

Where had Kratos gone? Angrboda was obviously uneasy in the large crowd after having lived alone for so long. She could not understand why her friend had left the girl by herself, surrounded by adults she had never met. Something must have happened. 

“Angrboda, kærr , is there something wrong?” 

The girl was looking down again. She mumbled some words.

“What was that?”

“I think I upset Kratos,” she whispered. 

Oh. 

Voice small, Angrboda explained what had happened. Kratos had arrived in Jötunheim early evening, surprising Angrboda. He said he was there to escort her to the ceremony. After they arrived at the feast they had started talking, about all kinds of stuff. Angrboda told Kratos about all the paintings she was working on, and how she had found the perfect shade of vermillion in a flower near the edge of a rotting cliff-face. And Kratos –

“He spoke a lot about you,” Angrboda said, causing Freya to choke on a mouthful of wine she had been in the midst of absently sipping. 

“Wuh – What did he say?”

“He said you work too much, you never listen to him, you love to argue, and you always forget to do your share of the chores.”

“...oh.”

Eventually, the conversation between Kratos and Angrboda had turned to Loki – about where he might be, or what he might have been doing. And Angrboda had been enjoying herself so much, just having someone to talk to – it had been so long, she had forgotten, she had let slip–

“You know where Atreus is?” 

Angrboda flinched at her raised voice, which echoed around the hall. Heads turned towards them disapprovingly, and the woman next to her tutted under her breath. Freya made sure to calm herself. Now she understood why Kratos had left. Poor, poor man. But even poorer still – Angrboda, who had tears in her eyes. 

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, looking down. “I can’t tell you. It’s not time yet.” 

This time Freya didn’t stop herself from hugging the Jötunn. She felt the girl sniffle against her shoulder. Freya wanted to ask so much of her, to demand it – was Atreus well, was he eating enough, was he oiling his bow twice weekly like she had shown him. Did he miss them?

When would he be coming home?

How her ex-husband had feared and envied the giants for their powers of prophecy, to understand fate. In his jealousy, he had hunted them to extinction for it. Gods, what a burden. To be the last, to be the only one left. What a load, to know so much and to fear so much all the time. Fate was a heavy chain around one’s neck. She knew it well. 

“I wasn’t even going to come tonight,” Angrboda mumbled into Freya’s shoulder. “I was too scared. But then Kratos turned up and he changed my mind.” 

Freya sighed. “Yes, he is good at that.” 

“He said we could be brave together.” Freya’s shoulder was definitely wet. “I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry I can’t tell you more.” 

“It’s… alright.” It had to be. She pulled back, and, before she could stop herself, brushed a tear from the girl's face with a finger. Angrboda started and Freya dropped her hand. They were not Thrúd and Sif – she was not this girl’s mother. Was not anyone’s mother. Remember that. Remember. 

Angrboda was exhausted and overwhelmed. She needed to go home. “Angrboda, have you had enough to eat? Enough to drink?” The Jötunn nodded. “Good. Thrúd!” 

Freya’s shout had the young woman appearing at her side in an instant. 

“My Lady?” 

Whatever Sif had done to fix her helmet had worked – Thrúd was no longer lopsided and was standing sharply to attention. It seemed the role of guard had helped get the young Shield Maiden-in-training over some of her nervousness, although she still would not look her in the eye. No matter. 

“Angrboda is tired and would like to go home,” Freya said as Angrboda looked at her in surprise. “Please escort her to the nearest realm gate.” 

Thrúd appeared confused. “But what about my posting? Gunnr said –”

Freya stood, drawing herself up to her full height – which, admittedly, was not particularly tall, but it worked: Thrud took a step back, alarmed. 

Time to give the girl a taste of what a real Valkyrie hazing was, the way they had done to her, back all those years ago. And maybe cheer Angrboda up at the same time. “I’m sorry, is Gunnr the Valkyrie Queen?” 

Thrúd drew back into a sharp salute, hand tapping her helmet. “No, Ma’am. Sorry Ma’am.” 

“I should make you run one hundred laps around the Lake of Nine for your insolence!” In her peripheral Freya could see Angrboda giggling behind her hands. “Do not test me, girl!” 

“No, Ma’am!” Thrúd squeaked, helmet rattling, hand still fixed to her forehead. “I’m sorry, Ma’am!”

“Good.” Freya sat back down again and threw Angrboda a wink. “Now the two of you get out of here before I change my mind.” 

As the young women walked away, Thrúd hurrying faster than she would normally do, she called back after them. “Actually, I believe the two of you have a friend in common. You should have a lot to talk about.”

“Hey, that’s right – aren’t you Loki’s girlfriend?”

Freya could hear Angrboda’s splutterings grow quieter and quieter as the young women made their exit. She turned back to her wine and spoke quietly to her left. “That wasn’t too mean, was it?”

“Hel no, Boss.” Gunnr’s face couldn’t be seen under her helmet but Freya could just imagine her shit-eating grin. “Best thing I’ve seen all evening. And that was nothing compared to what we did to Geirdriful. Remember?” 

“How could I forget.” It had taken weeks for the Valkyrie’s eyebrows to grow back. 

“The kid’ll get over it. In a couple of winters, we’ll all be laughing about it over a barrel of mead.” 

Hopefully, Thrúd would be able to hold a conversation with her by then. And have stopped calling her Ma’am. Ugh. Norns, she missed her sisters: Geirdriful, Kara, Rota, Gondul, and Hildr all slain by Gná in Ragnarok. Sigrun, gone into the world. She had just gotten them back. 

She could tell from her silence that Gunnr was thinking about them too. “Have you noticed anything out of the ordinary?”

Gunnr shook her head. “Nothing to report. It’s been quiet as a crypt so far. Eir will be here to replace me and the rookie soon.”

That was a relief — the last thing they needed was a diplomatic incident. Freya observed her surroundings. Through the hall’s windows, the light was starting to grow brittle and fade. The longest day was coming to an end. Soon it would be time to call Sköll and Hati, to watch them chase the sun across the sky and pull the night behind them. To open the doors and light the bonfires, to join the villagers in drink and dance. To celebrate another solstice done. They had survived Ragnarök. She had survived him. Against all odds, she was still alive. 

If there was any time for her to say her speech, it would be now, while people were still capable of hearing it. 

Freya got to her feet and headed to the doors. 

“Freya?” She could hear the alarm in Gunnr’s voice. “My Lady, where are you going?”

“To find Kratos.” 

The river view was beautiful in the evening, water spray warm against her face. The sound of birdsong filled the air. 

She almost missed him, huddled against the wall of the ruined temple, his back to the stones. He was wearing armour she had never seen him in; a worn-but-polished shoulder guard, tanned red belt, and battered silver gauntlets. His weapons, as always, were attached to his back. In the half-light, his tattoo stood bright against his white skin. 

One evening, in front of the fire, he had told her what it was. The curse that had bound them, his wife and daughter, to his body. She hadn’t told him that she had already known, had put it together from the amount he had already shared. There was so much pain in him, so much remorse. She wondered if he would ever be able to let it go in its entirety. She had never been able to truly relinquish hers. 

“You should not have left.” Kratos’ voice was quiet. She knelt down next to him, squatting on her haunches. 

“I am sure they will manage without me. I did arrive late, after all.” 

“I am sorry.” 

“Do not be.” She started again. “I sent Angrboda home. That was a kind thing you did, bringing her to the gathering. She said she would not have come without your encouragement.”

“Is she –” she saw him wet his lips “-- is she alright?”

“Of course she is,” she said, surprised. “Why would she not be?”

His head hung lower. “When we spoke. I… lost my temper.”

And there it was. Another young girl, another daughter, hurt, lifeless. Dead at his feet, ashes bound to his skin. She blinked hard at the sudden burning in her eyes. “Kratos, you did not hurt her.”

His voice was so low, she had to lean in close to hear. “In my desperation I was harsh. I… frightened her.” 

“You did not.” She needed him to understand the truth of what had happened. Even when she had been trying to kill him he had not hurt her. Even though she had wanted him to. “She was simply upset at the thought she could not give you want you wanted.” 

“When she mentioned Atreus…” His voice fell silent.

Words were not needed. She placed her hand on his arm. For a moment they simply stayed there, listening to the bird song fade. 

There was a distant howl. Looking up, she saw the celestial wolves bound over the sky, pulling nótt behind them on their golden paws. Suddenly there were stars, endless buckets of them, the same stars she had looked at for her entire early life. 

She heard a far-off cheer from the settlement. The longest day was officially over. There was music now: the low burr of a lur, the tinkle of a tagelharpa. Now, the proper festivities could truly begin. 

Kratos was a white figure in the darkness. Draugr. Suddenly, she knew what to say. 

“Atreus is alive, Kratos.” 

His voice cracked as he spoke. “There have been no letters. No words in over a winter.” 

“He is alive.” 

“Angrboda said she could not tell me.” His eyes were wet. “Why, why could she not, unless he..”

“He is alive .”

“How can you be so sure?”

She reached out her arm and took his forearm in hand, pulling him to his feet, like Sköll and Hati pulling the moon. 

“He is your and Faye’s son. He is alive, and he will return home.” 

It had been a fine speech, Hildisvíni said. Her painstaking work, plus the careful edits Mimir had completed had made the words sing – ringing through the air. The Head had been met with thunderous applause after delivering it. Reopened trade routes were practically assured. The night had been a resounding success, Hildisvíni assured her, as they sat together next to the bonfire. 

“You know Mimir is going to be even more insufferable now,” Freya informed him. 

“When is he not? You’d think losing his body would humble him.” Hildisvíni took a swig of the wineskin and passed it to her. “He seems to have simply…”

“Condensed?”

“Yes.” 

The wine was smooth on her tongue, made easier by the relief accompanying it. The night, despite its many mishaps, had achieved its goal. The Council was one step closer to fixing the mess Odin had made. 

Around them people sat, smoking on logs strewn around the fire for warmth and comfort. A few of them had already undressed; this was Vanaheim, after all. Across the square, she could see dancers move and shift. A majstång had been erected in the centre of the space, rising high into the sky. Bodies twisted around it, arms raised. A backward fertility ritual she had forgotten people still followed. She thought with a pang of Freyr. He would have loved it. 

Hildisivini took a pouch from his pocket. He reached in and pulled out a pinch of herb, rolling it between finger and thumb. “It is a pity you were not around to deliver it.” 

“The speech?” Freya shrugged, watching him pack a pipe that had miraculously appeared. She had not known he had started to partake again. My, my. “It was said, that is all that matters.” 

Hildisvíni looked at her. “You do not seem particularly saddened to have missed your opportunity.” 

It was true. “I suppose I am not.” 

He offered her the pipe but she declined. She was not who she used to be – if she smoked after drinking wine they would be carrying her back home on a stretcher. Instead, she blew, lighting the leaves packed in the wood bowl aflame with her magic. Hildisivini lifted the instrument to his mouth and inhaled, deeply. Amused, she watched as he blew smoke rings, up and out, wobbling into circles that vanished into the dark sky.

She was glad her friend had resumed his old vices. Such a thing would have been impossible in Midgard. Unbidden, the thought of him, as a boar, with a long herb pipe sticking out between his tusks appeared in her mind. 

Hildisvíni coughed at her sudden laughter, small reels of smoke leaking out between his lips. “Shouldn’t I be the one doing that?”

“It is nothing.” She leaned her head on his shoulder. “I am just happy to be here with you, is all.”

“Hmmm.” His grunt was not helping get the image out of her mind. For a moment they watched the revellers. Across the fire, she could see Kratos where he sat, Mimir by his side. The fae’s mouth was moving but Kratos did not appear to be listening. She had been surprised when he had said he would return with her to the festivities but was glad he was not alone. She would not want him to be left with his thoughts, not after the confession she had drawn out of him.                       

“I saw you were late, earlier."

“Oh, do not start,” she moaned, removing her head from his shoulder. 

“I will not,” he said. He was looking into the bonfire thoughtfully, pipe clenched in the corner of his mouth. “I am just wondering why you insisted on being the speech giver to the Council when you were clearly so reluctant to deliver it.”

Freya’s mouth dropped open. “I did not insist – I didn’t have a choice! Everyone expected me to say the damned thing, I could not say no.” She was interrupted by Hildisvíni’s laughter. “It’s true!”

“It is not true. I know because I was there, but even were I not, I would know all the same. It was the same when you and Freyr were leading. You always take on the dreki’s share of the work — not because you were asked to, but because you believe it to be your duty. But things have changed, Freya. You do not need to be that person, anymore. And clearly, your priorities are elsewhere.”

“My priority is rebuilding the realms,” she snapped. How dare he accuse her of anything different.

“Peace, Náð. I misspoke. What I meant to say was it appears that desire is conflicting with duty.”

“Are you already high? Drunk? Speak plain,” she ground. Her goodwill towards him was rapidly dropping and it was unlike him to be so vague. He nodded across the clearing, and she followed his gaze to where Kratos sat on a log, staring deep into the fire. 

“Oh, for – is that what you are harping on about? We are friends, Hildisvíni.”

“I never said anything otherwise,” he said mildly, which made her face redden. “But it is clear you would rather be rebuilding the realms through your work with him than sitting behind a desk with the Council. Do not look at me like that, you know it to be true. I say again – you have sacrificed much for duty. More than anyone should ever have to. When I remember the girl you used to be… It’s like remembering a young friend, lost too early in the Long War. Time and matters beyond your control may have changed you, but you have a choice, now. It is not a crime to put your wants, your desires first. Duty is important, but so are you. You can choose, Freya. We are not bound, anymore.” 

He left her there, open-mouthed and stewing, vanishing into the crowd like the shapeshifter he was with only the smell of burning herb left behind. 

“You lie, Aesir dog!”

Freya had just finished the wineskin when she heard the sudden shout. Looking over, she saw two men wrestling close to the fire. One of them wore typical Vanir garb, complete with ceremonial face paint and swan feathers for the solstice. The other man was clearly Aesir judging from his dress and hair. 

Both men were extremely drunk. Freya stood as the shouting grew louder. The subject of disagreement seemed to be the Battle of Skipför. 

The Aesir man was howling. “It was a cowardly trick!” 

“Your soldiers’ piss-blood was not worthy of watering our roots!” The Vanir threw a punch and missed.

“Shut up!” The men were both staggering, gripping each other’s shoulders like they were at sea. Freya stood, slow from the alcohol, but still caught it — her countryman reaching for his belt, a knife shining in his hand like silver. 

Before he could move she was there; a quick twist of his wrist and the weapon dropped to the ground, thudding at her feet.

She turned her head and saw Kratos had already grabbed the Aesir. The man was rapidly turning green as he swung from her friend’s massive grip like a misbehaving gulon pup. 

The noise had stopped, the music halted. Freya could feel people watching them, dark shapes staring at her from across the square, flickering in the firelight.

Kratos’ eyes met hers. It was time to tread carefully. Tread very, very carefully.  

Slowly, oh so slowly, she released the Vanir man’s arm. She did not recognise him, saddening her. Vanaheim had changed beyond what she had known and was changing still, but his garb indicated he had come from the mountain region to the east. Maybe he had come to New Asgard specifically for the festivities. 

“What is your name?” she ordered gently. 

His eyes flickered down. “Njal, Bright Lady.” 

“I was there, Njal,” she told him. “ Skipför, yes?” She could remember that fight. It was one of the countless, darting in and out of enemy lines like a night snake, disrupting supply chains, food deliveries, weapon chains. She and Freyr had, after moons of planning, managed to trap a number of Aesir soldiers in kill box at the Veiled Passage, after sending messages via sparrow-hawk that Freya was hiding inside. Of course, Odin had intercepted; the resulting Aesir soldiers had arrived to find they had been lured into an ambush. The fighting had been vicious, the river’s crystal waters dyed red. While over three hundred Asgardian soldiers had fallen Freya had lost several treasured generals, including Kvasir’s younger brother, Åsmund, the last living member of his bloodline. 

“Trust me, the battle was nothing to be proud of. Many brave warriors returned to Valhalla that day.” She could not remember Åsmund’s face when she tried to recall it. Just another name, another body fallen to history, fallen in a war she was meant to have ended. 

The Vanir man looked at her uncomprehending, making her remember. “Fólkvangr awaits for us all -- but death should not be wished for.”

“Forgive me, Goddess,” the man whispered. He seemed awestruck at the sight of her. “Forgive me for disgracing you.”

She was just glad he would not spit in her face in front of the dignitaries; some of her clan held hatred for her still. She knelt and grabbed the knife. Standing, she pressed it loosely to the man’s hand, helping guide the weapon back to its sheath. “Please, do not apologise to me — but to your fellow countryman you almost harmed.”

Njal mumbled a few words of apology to the Aesir. Kratos gave his arm a small shake until the man, still swinging, mumbled them back. On her nod, Kratos gently returned the man to the ground. He promptly vomited at her feet. 

Lovely. Inching back from the rapidly increasing pile of liquid, Freya raised her voice. “I’m sorry, is this a feast or a funeral? Or has Vanaheim forgotten how to properly treat our guests?” There was laughter from the crowd, a few cheers. The music restarted, the noise level slowly returning to normal.

Freya looked at Kratos. His lips twitched. Giddy from the wine and the adrenaline she grinned at him back. 

How’s that for a speech? The boar can fuck off and take his herb pipe with him. 

Freya extended her hand down to the Asgardian man. He had finally stopped his retching. “It may be time for you to head home.”

The Aesir nodded, head hanging. Tangled dirty blonde hair, clumped from the sick, fell around his face like a sheet and obscured his features. He reached up to take her hand. As she pulled him to his feet his sleeve slid back. In the flickering light, she could see there was something on his wrist. Some sort of shape. 

She had never seen an Aesir tattoo in that design before. Curious, she opened her mouth to ask him what it was but the man was already staggering away, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand. 

“Hhhrrrnn.” She could feel Kratos’ irritation at the man’s ungratefulness. 

She shrugged at him. “You’re welcome, I guess?”

“You are drunk.” 

“Nooooo.” She laughed again. “Well, maybe. Just a little.” She staggered a bit, giggling, and saw him grab for her elbow. “Oh, stop that,’ she said, pushing him away. “I just stopped a potential crisis. Could a drunk person do that? Put that in your pipe and smoke it.” She had not meant to say the last bit out loud.

He blinked at her. “I do not smoke.”

“That you do not.” She sighed, remembering Hildisvíni’s words. 

“What is wrong?”

She wanted to say that she would tell him later when she could feel her nose again. But she couldn’t tell him, could she? Damn Hildisvíni to Hel and back. “It’s nothing.” It was late and she was drunk. Back when she was young and free this would be the time she’d leave with a bunch of herb and a pretty stranger or five. She would just have to settle for her roommate and a talking head. “Shall we return home?” 

She could sense his relief at her words. “I will find Mimir.”   

“Must you? And I will…” There was something she was meant to do. What was it? The Aesir man. His long yellow hair. Sif. Sif had wanted to speak with her. She had to speak with Sif. 

She turned around but saw no blonde waves, no blue linen shining in the darkness, the wavering light. “Where is she?”

He stopped a few footsteps from where she stood. “Where is who?” 

“Sif. She was desperate to speak with me.” She looked again but saw no sight of the Aesir woman. “Have you seen her?”

“Sif attended the meet?”

Her head snapped to his. “Of course she did.” 

“Mmmn. I did not see her,” he grunted, obviously confused. 

“You were talking with Angrboda when I saw her earlier. She made me promise I would not leave without speaking with her.” It had been something to do with the settlements. With the cultists seen in the Wilds. She looked around for a flash of gold in the darkness and saw nothing. Why had Sif not found her by now? Had she left?

No. The urgency in her fellow councillor’s voice had not been feigned. Something twisted in her gut. In the mass of bodies, the shifting crowd, there was no sight of Thrúd either. She would have been back from dropping Angrboda off by now, surely. She could not see Gunnr, drinking up a storm, nor Eir, standing at her post. Looking around, she realised there were no soldiers either, standing at attention at the security points she and Gunnr had chosen. 

That was not completely strange. It was peacetime, and soldiers left their posts for better reasons than wanting a drink of ale. It happened often. 

Unbidden, her fingers twitched for her bow.

Kratos stepped closer to her. “What is it?” he rasped. 

“I don’t know,” she whispered. “Something feels wrong. Do you see any guards?”

“No.” 

“There should be some.”

He reached back for his axe. She opened her mouth to speak, to tell him she was overreacting, that it was the alcohol in her blood, but was interrupted by a sudden darkness falling over the surroundings, save for the light given off by the fire. Looking up she saw a cloud had overtaken the moon. 

A large cloud. A moving cloud. 

“Arrows,” someone screamed. “Take cover!” She only realised it was her when Kratos collided with her shoulder. They fell and rolled, over and under and over and under each other until she couldn’t tell where he began and she ended, rolling and rolling until she hit one of the logs, her skull colliding with the wood. She was under him, tucked between his bulk and the stump, and if her head would stop ringing she would see him raise his shield over their heads. Arrows fell about them like rain, like thunder. She buried her head into his chest and clung to him. All she could hear was screaming. 

Finally, the barrage stopped. 

She only opened her eyes when he cupped her face, his thumb a burning brand against her cheekbone. It took a while to realise he was speaking, breath hot against her face, she just couldn’t hear him. She could see his lips were moving frantically. 

Her ears were still ringing. “What?” she croaked. “What did you say?”

Slowly, his voice pulled her up from the deep.

Are you hurt? Freya, are you hurt? 

Like water rushing into an empty vessel sound returned to her all at once. Screams filled the air, howls of agony. Cries for aid, for mercy. She couldn’t see any of it, hidden under Kratos and his shield, but she could still hear it. Somehow that made it worse. On the other side of the log, someone was sobbing. Absently, her face turned towards the sound, and she felt him softly take her chin, guiding her back to him.

“Freya, look at me.” His eyes were black in the darkness under the shield. She could feel his pulse hammering through his palm. “Please, are you injured?”

Her eyes met his. “N-no,” she whispered and heard him exhale.

“Good,” he rasped. There was blood on his chin, pulling together strands of his beard, grey and black whisps mixing with red. 

The wine, the fall: her mind was scrambling like they were still rolling. She could smell ale on his breath. He had not been ready for this – none of them had. She coughed. “Kratos, are you unharmed?” 

He did not respond. 

“Kratos?” There was a smear of blood across the bridge of his nose. Looking closer, she could see a sheen of sweat covering his cheekbones, beading on his long eyelashes. She felt the beginnings of alarm start in her chest. “Are you hurt?”

His arms gave out as his eyes rolled into the back of his head. Her friend’s entire bulk fell on her, crushing her, and for a moment she couldn’t breathe for the panic. She was back in Asgard, the weight of him pushing the air from her lungs, until she remembered and managed to get her arms under him and push upwards, heaving Kratos off her and rolling him to the side. 

Around them the square was chaos. In the light of the bonfire frightened villagers ran in all directions, calling the names of their loved ones. Some still had arrows in them – shoulders, arms, legs. Bodies, buried in bolts, lay scattered across the ground like discarded bags of wheat. The cries of the injured, the screams of the dying. It was all she could hear. A battlefield.  She had thought she would never see one in Vanaheim again. 

A terrified dwarf almost knocked into her as he ran past her. That brought her back. “Run to the forest,” she shouted at the people around her, the volume of her voice making the air tremble. “Quickly! Help the wounded. Go!” At any moment another death rain could fall. She looked around her for her fellow councillors; Hildisvíni, Sif, Durlin, Byggvir or Beyla. She saw no one. Just bloody faces flashing in the darkness, mouths open in terror, some sprinting for the woods, some supporting or carrying others.

Kratos. Focus on Kratos. She looked down. There was an arrow in his calf, just under his knee, and two more in his back, close to where the spine met the ribs and just under the leather strap of the shoulder guard. Blood was already starting to pool around the wounds, turning the fur and leather around the quarrels dark. The sight of him bleeding almost paralysed her but she pushed through, looping her arms around his waist. He was heavy but she was a God; she stood, arms full of him, and started to stagger towards the dark outline of Vanaheim’s jungle in the distance. The urge to look up, to see if another barrage of arrows was coming was overwhelming, but she forced herself to keep staring ahead. Just make it to the trees. Just make it to the trees. They were dead if she didn’t. 

She’d reached the treeline when she heard the sound of wings. When Eir landed it was with a force so strong the ground shook beneath her, making the vines and foliage tremble. Her sister almost skidded as she fell at her side, reaching for Freya’s shoulders, hands outstretched. “My Queen, are you injured?”

“No – he – Kratos –” She lowered him to the soft earth of the jungle, panting. “Eir, he is badly wounded.” 

Eir looked at him and swore under her breath. “Fucking arrows.” She was already reaching into her belt for herbs and bandages. “You will pull, I will staunch the bleeding.” 

She nodded. She was a healer too, but wartime medicine was the Shield Maiden’s speciality. Her sister-in-arms had already pressed bandages to the first of Kratos’ wounds, wrapping them around the arrow. “I am ready. Pull, Freya.”

She yanked the arrow from Kratos’ back. Blood welled but he did not move, did not exhale or groan. Sudden fear consumed her like a flame. “Eir–”

“He will live, Freya. More aid is coming.” Eir was already moving to the next arrow further down his skin, ripping fabric aside to reach his flesh. “Pull.”

She pulled. “Gunnr?”

“Down. The girl is fine, she is with her mother.” 

“Sif? Is she –”

“She is alive. Pull.” The last arrow came out slower than the other two, his calf muscle refusing to let go, clinging to the wooden length. When the bolt finally came free red seeped up from his ashen skin like water from the sodden earth. Eir nodded at her to press down on the puncture and she did so, feeling Kratos’ blood seep between her fingers. She murmured under her breath and sent her own seiðr down into him, pulling together muscle and bone, flesh and skin. Looking at her friend’s lifeless face she felt her old friend spring to life inside her. Rage. “Who did this?”

“They knew our movements – struck when the guard changed. Gunnr took down countless numbers but they kept on coming.” Eir crumbled leaves into a paste between her fingers, blowing on them. Freya lifted her hands, allowing Eir to quickly press the mixture onto the puncture. “Freya–” Eir paused. “They appear to be Vanir.” 

“The cultists.” The ones seen in the Western Barri Wilds. Sif had tried to warn her – she had not tried harder to hear the Aesir’s words. Too late, now. Too late.  

“Why did they not just kill us,” she whispered. With the amount of planning that must have gone into the attack – she, Kratos, and everyone in the settlement could have been easily wiped out by a second wave of arrows.

“I do not know. But–” Deep in the forest, someone cried out for aid. Eir’s head darted towards the sound. 

“Go. I have him,” Freya said. Eir nodded, rising. With a flap of her wings, she was gone. 

In the darkness of the Vanaheim jungle Freya listened to Kratos’ slow and even breathing. Colour was already returning to his pale face; Eir’s healing and her magic doing their work. He would live. 

She placed her hands on either side of his face, allowing herself to stroke his jaw, his beard rough under her fingers. In the dim light, he looked almost peaceful, the tenseness he always held in his features vanished. She could nearly pretend he was just sleeping.

“You big idiot,” she murmured to his still face. If he hadn’t been so fast — she could feel her pulse speeding up again as the reality of what just happened seeped in. The brutality, the savageness. Why would her people do such a thing? There had been Vanir in the settlement, too, not just Aesir. The realms were at peace, the Long War long over – Odin was gone. Somehow, she should have predicted this. How many more were left dead due to her carelessness? She looked up and back at the abandoned village, to try and count how many bodies she could see in the square. 

The air left her lungs. 

A stranger stood in the middle of the abandoned square. Although a heavy cloak covered his body it was clearly a man, judging from the shoulders and height. The man’s clothing came complete with a deep cowl that cast his features deep in shadow. 

As Freya watched, the stranger placed one of his hands on the majstång. Arrows littered the pole’s surface, the flowers that garnished it having mostly fallen in the commotion. Suddenly her dream came back to mind – the one she had earlier that day. In it – a rising tree without branches, a river of blood. 

No, not a tree trunk. A majstång. 

She jerked with shock at the realisation. On her movement, the stranger turned sharply towards where she was huddled, crouched in the darkness. She stilled despite knowing there was no way he could see her, as obscured as she was by the forest. It would be impossible. Kratos breathed next to her, slow and steady. She forced herself to match him. 

She saw the shadowed face scanning the darkened treeline, looking for something. She felt it when his eyes met hers. 

He knows I’m here. 

She was chasing him before she realised it. The stranger was already running, his cloak billowing behind him, heading for the trees on the other side of the square.

“Stop!” Cursing at herself for not bringing her weapons she shouted a word and became wings, feathers and claws. 

Soaring after the disappearing figure she banked, flapping her wings and pulling up into the air, so high that the settlement shrunk, the majstång becoming a toothpick. Fury screamed from her beak. She would dive on the man and claw him to death. He would pay. He would pay for hurting him.   

The stranger twisted. Too late, she saw that, while she had not brought her weapons, he had. A bow was in his hands. There was a blur and her wing exploded in pain, burning as if aflame. 

She fell to earth. 

Chapter Text

Kratos dreamed of his son. But it was not the fledgling Atreus had grown into, the young man who had held him in the Holt, who had promised him he would return after completing his journey. No, it was the boy. The child who had waited for him to return from his hunting trips, sitting by the fire, wrapped in furs. The child with the pale shoulders and hooded eyes, scars flush against his cheek, whose face lit up when his father entered. 

The boy he had pushed away for fear the evil inside him would pass on. 

He dreamed of Faye. Together, they walked ahead of him in a twilight forest, footprints already melting in the snow, and Atreus was clinging to his mother’s hand, tripping as he walked alongside. Their hair was the colour of broken leaves. 

He called their names. 

“Kratos, wake up.”

He woke. Colours and lights shifted before his eyes, oil poured across the surface of wine, until finally, a blue and gold mask blurred into being in front of him. “Eir?” 

“Hello, General.” He could see his reflection in the polished metal of the Shield Maiden’s face covering; pale and warped. “Glad to have you back with us.”

“Where… are we?” Eir helmet’s right embellishment had been dented, he could see, and there appeared to be blood on her chin. Behind her, a cavernous ceiling rose into darkness. As his mind returned, he became aware of the sound, rushing to his ears like a rising river. Groans, cries in the distance. Tears.

He attempted to rise. Easily, she pressed him down. “You’re in the Holt. We’ve transformed the meeting hall into a temporary infirmary. You were not the only one who was injured in the attack.” 

“Attack?” His mind was still fragmented, pulse beating in his temples. He shook his head once, sharply – then again, attempting to shake the ὀμίχλη from his mind. “There were.. arrows. An ambush.” He tried to turn his head, but found his neck stiff, as if recently healed. Frustration was beginning to burn in his chest, at his weakness, and at the nagging knowledge, there was something he was forgetting. Someone. Someone important. 

Eir lifted something to his eyeline. An arrow, fletched with bright plumage, appeared before him.

“The Vanir called them dauði . First used in the Long War, one was said to instantly kill a raging gradungr.” Carefully, she ran a finger down its side. “These have been twice dipped in a poison-blend. Highly toxic. Yet here you are. You are a rare breed, General.”

“We were… targeted.” His mouth was sour, filled with bile. He wished for water, and, as if reading his mind, Eir raised a cup to his lips. He took a deep drought. 

“We believe them to be Vanir, but their motive has not been confirmed,” Eir said, lowering the cup. 

“Vanir?” Dark hair. Black fingers around pale nail beds. Dark eyes, wide with shock, staring into his, as arrows rained around them. 

This time, Eir could not stop him from rising from his prone position. “Where is she? Where is Freya?”

“She is the reason I woke you. Like you, she was injured.” He could not see what the Valkyrie looked like, unknowable under her mask, but from the tremor in her fingers, he could sense her exhaustion. “I will take you to her, but you should rest a moment…” Her voice trailed off as she watched Kratos stand on unsteady feet. “Or not. Or you could stand right now.”

The world was still too bright, the air harsh in his ears, but he was upright. He took a breath of air and felt his lungs throb at the action. In Greece, poison had been called a woman’s weapon. Made for the weak. He pitied his previous self’s ignorance. 

Kratos put one unsteady foot forward. Then, he put another. “You will take me to her.”

The Shield Maiden paused, and then, with a sigh, rose. She extended her hand to him. 

“Come with me,” she said.

The journey took longer than expected. Kratos felt like the faded mortal Atreus had always teased him on becoming. His lungs throbbed, as if recovering from being set aflame, and his joints cracked like they had been turned to dust. He hobbled through the Holt, following the wings of the Shield Maiden ahead of him, who was clearly slowing her pace to allow him to keep up with her. Around them, civilians lay on cots, covered in stained badges. Some were missing limbs. The occasional cry of pain echoed throughout the lofty hall, but most were silent.  

“How many dead?”

“Seventy-odd.” Eir slowed to walk beside him. Occasionally she leaned forward, taking the time to brush a patient's shoulder, waking them from whatever fitful nightmare plagued them. “The poison will claim more before night’s end.”

Attacking innocents during a solstice festival, a celebration of peace. An act beyond cowardly. “There is no cure?”

“I’m sure there is - but it is beyond my knowledge. Freya may know how to create an antibody, but, until she - until she… ” Eir trailed off. “For now, all we can do is make them comfortable. General, you are awake, but, please understand… the toxin is still inside you.”

He ignored the hidden warning in her words, choosing to focus on the matter at hand. “The warriors. You are certain they were of Vanaheim?” 

The former Valkyrie hummed, pausing to reapply a bandage to the shoulder of a sweat-stained elderly woman. “It appears so. But you would know better than I, that sometimes matters are more than they seem to be. We still do not know why they attacked, nor why they stopped before finishing the job.”

He nodded, and as he did so, realised a weight was missing from his hip. “Where is Mimir?”

Eir grew quiet. “We… could not find him in the wreckage.” 

The words hit him like a physical blow. Few men had called him friend, and fewer still had called him Brother. None were left alive. “He has been taken.”

“We believe so,” the Shield Maiden said. “Freya may be able to track him, but…” Eir’s voice faded. “We have not been able to wake her.”

“She is still healing?”

Eir hesitated. Her wrists, the only part of her flesh left uncovered, were bloodstained. “Kratos, I would not have woken you without due cause,” she said.  “Your body only resists the poison because of your strength, and the enchantments Freya cast on you. You sorely need rest, but we have tried everything. It has become apparent that, once again, we need your help. Without it, the number of dead may become even higher.”

Kratos hurried his steps, ignoring the poison’s fire under his skin, and the fear that was growing with it. She would not die. He would not allow it.

Eir led him to a sheltered cavern, tucked away from the misery of the hall that housed the sick and dying. Two Asgardian guards had been posted at its doors, both stepping aside with a nod to the two warriors when they approached. He barely noticed the greeting, so focused he was on seeing what lay behind them.

More cots had been erected in the space, and covered with furs. On one lay Sif. Her face was pale, and her brow drawn tightly. Pressed to her stomach was a thatch of red and yellow hair. Thrúd sat next to her mother, knees bare against the dirt, head pressed to her mother’s stomach. A chest piece, wrist guards, and a dented helmet lay discarded around her. 

Behind her, lying on the bed next to them was Gunnr. The former Valkyrie's helm had been removed. The Shield Maiden had a shaved head, covered in scars that split the red fuzz in crosses and lines, and her skin was pale, paler than even her incorporeal body had been. 

On the final bedsit, a falcon flapped its wings, preening its undercoat in nervous jabs. 

Eir was speaking, explaining, but he could not hear. “Freya?”

Kratos stepped forward without meaning to and saw the falcon's head snap to his. There was gold along its beak. The bird of prey let out a caw, loud enough to echo, and flew towards him in a flurry of feathers. There was a snap and a burst of smoke, and then Hildisvíni was standing before Kratos, his eyes bright, speaking words. He could not hear them. He could hear a thing, not since he had seen the crumpled mass of feathers lying on the final remaining cot, splayed and shattered like a bug pinned on parchment.

She had attacked him countless times in this form, left him with three winters worth of scars burned onto his flesh, made by claws slashing at his eyes and neck, avian eyes aflame. Yet he would prefer their sting to the sight below him. Blood had pooled beneath her wings, and one was bent at an unnatural angle – but the falcon lying unspooled on the furs was unmistakably Freya.

She was so still. Even in Vanaheim, when she still hated him, she had been constantly moving — snapping at his ears, flying over his shoulder, feathers quivering. But now… Yellow eyes, always keener than his, had closed into half slits. Only the faint tremor of her mandibles gave away the fact that she still drew breath. 

His hand twitched at his side. 

“Hildisvíni thought that maybe appearing to her as a bird would help her revert to her usual form,” Eir said quietly. She stood at his side, staring intently at her fallen leader. “But nothing has worked. She does not stir.”

“Who…” The words would not form. “She was attacked?”

“If she was, it took place after the initial strike. When I last saw her, she was healing you. I left to help the wounded. When I returned, you were alone,” Eir said. She paused for a moment. “We found her among the wreckage. I would have — I would not have known it was her, if not for Hildisvíni.”

She had fought, protected him, all the while he had slept, dreaming of ghosts. Shame filled his gullet. “She has been poisoned.” 

“Yes,” Eir said. “The same as all of them. From the shape of the wound, I believe she was shot by an arrow while in flight. She fell from a great height.” 

The scars on his wrists throbbed. “You cannot… use magic?” This was addressed to Hildisvíni, although his eyes had not left her form. “Force her to change?”

“I have tried.” The shapeshifter’s voice was hoarse. Hildisvíni had a long scratch down the side of his face, and his hands could not remain still, clutching at his sides before twisting into his dishevelled locs as he paced back and forth across the room. “The spell — her cloak – she gained it in Asgard – it is not the true Magiks, the deep shapeshifting. Only her form changes — her mind — it is not meant to be held for this amount of time. But she has not — cannot —” he stopped. “Perhaps Freyr would know how to wake her, were he here.”

Fear made him cruel, as it always did. “He is not.” 

The other man fell quiet, sitting on the corner of Sif’s bed and resting his head in his hands. Eir was kneeling next to Gunnr, whispering hexes into her ear as she ran her fingers over the woman’s long wrists. And Thrúd was silent, so much so that Kratos would believe she had fallen asleep, if not for the slow clenching and unclenching of her fists, pressed into the sides of her skull.

If Atreus were here, he would know what to say to the girl: his son far more gifted than his father in navigating the ins and outs of others. But instead, they only had Kratos. The God Killer. The Ghost of Sparta. Atreus’ father. Mimir’s brother. 

She only had him. 

He would try to be enough.

“You… need something of me.” 

In his peripheral vision, he saw Eir and Hildisivini exchange a look. 

“We have tried everything,” Eir said again. “Magic, herbs, conventional arts. If she does not wake soon, she will continue to deteriorate. I can treat a God, but not an injured, dying animal. Do you understand what I am saying, General?” 

“Call to her, Kratos,” Hildisvíni said from where he sat. The Vanir was slumped, looking at the floor, eyes facing forward. “For Norns' sake, try to wake her, if you can.”

Confused, he leaned over Freya’s form. Talons lay half-curled and slack against the furs, and the animal hides beneath her were wet with blood, thin and damp. She smelled of summer air, of blood and bone. 

He spoke her name, once, but the injured animal did not stir. 

A myriad of emotions hit him simultaneously: loss, fear, shame. He had failed - there was no one else - Faye resting in bed, eyes tired - the thoughts burned, he stepped away - “I - I cannot -”

Eir rose, standing before him. “A name is not enough.”

His temper frayed further. “I do not know what you ask of me.”

“You said her name, but that is not what she needs,” Eir said. She stepped forward. “You must call to her.”

Kratos had lost his taste for witchery in his former homeland. He was better spent tracking the monsters who had attacked them, and twisting the antidote from their broken corpses. Then he would find Mimir. Kratos turned to leave but was stopped by Hildisvíni appearing before him.

The shapeshifter gripped his shoulders in an icy hold, his voice urgent. “She trusts you. Calls you friend.”

Kratos pulled himself free. “I have no magicks.”

“It is not magic we need,” Eir said. “It was you who persuaded her to forgo her vengeance. You, who turned her from the death path she raced along. You, who saved her life! She forgave you Baldur’s death. Do you understand the boon you were given? Do you?” He had never heard Eir so animated; her helmet shaking with the force of her words. “You only stand due to the enchantments she blessed you with!” 

“I cannot help her!” He roared. “Not like this!”

“You are the only one who can! Call her, Spartan!” Hildisivini shouted back, his face close. “Wake her! We have been wounded, and Vanaheim needs its queen! Damn you, Kratos, I cannot help her! Say her name!” 

“Try, General,” Eir said. “Please, that is all we ask.” 

Behind her, Thrúd had raised her head. Her eyes were wet and cold like her father’s had been before them. 

Please, Father, Atreus’ voice whispered. 

He placed his hand on her, and under her plumage, felt the harp strum of Freya’s heart. So much faster than his own. His entire palm almost covered the falcon's entire body. Underneath his fingers, her bones were delicate, light as air. 

In the half-light of the cavern, the feathers were the same colour as her hair.

“Freya,” he said.

They watched her twist and change as feathers melted into skin and fabric, into flesh and steel, until only her pale, twisted body lay beneath him, blood on her lips, his hand on her heart.  

Freya dreamed of Baldur, the boy she had loved, with his gold skin and blue eyes, and when she woke, for a moment, she had forgotten her son was dead. 

The realisation made her weep, tears falling and blurring the stonework above. She turned to wipe them away, but a sharp pain lancing through her shoulder made her stop, the intensity of the sensation forcing a gasp from her lips.

Cool fingers were on her in seconds.“My Lady.” 

Eir looked exhausted. Her fellow Shield Maiden had removed her helm, and the face underneath was dark-skinned and brown-eyed, with a long nose and wide, powerful eyebrows. Heavy bags hung under her lids. 

Even with how tired she looked, it had been many winters since Freya had last seen Eir’s true face, and, despite how terrible she currently felt, she could not keep the smile off her lips at the sight. 

Eir frowned upon seeing it. “I don’t see what there is to grin about: unless you believe a brush with death to be amusing.” The Shield Maiden gently rolled her onto a prone position, and Freya groaned at the sensation. The pressure eased off her shoulder, and she took another breath, feeling her lungs inflate. 

She coughed, attempting to speak. “Where?” And then remembering, she tried to sit up. “Kratos.”

“The Holt. And he is - while not fine, he is… moving . Your enchantments - plus his… constitution - saved him.” Eir easily pushed her back down with one hand. “If you had only woken up when you were supposed to have, you could have spoken to him. He just left. Hildisvíni too, to inform your council of your safety.” 

“They’re not my council,” she muttered, voice a weak croak. In theory, they were a governing body of equals, although sometimes she found that difficult to believe. Freya coughed, her throat parched. She felt, as Freyr would have said, like a steaming pile of wyvern shit. Every muscle in her body ached, her chest burned, and she could not feel the fingers of her right hand. 

She was in one of the smaller chambers, Freya saw, and, judging by the hardness under her, had been placed on one of the tables they had stored there. The air was stifling hot; sweat clung to her nape, and her shift had stuck to her body like a second skin. She looked to her left, looking for the source of the heat, and saw a fire had been lit in the heath. 

Gunnr and Sif lay before it. 

This time, Eir was too slow to stop her from rolling off the makeshift stretcher and lurching to her feet. “My Queen!”

Ignoring her, Freya staggered towards Gunnr. The woman’s brow was furrowed, her skin pale. 

“Poison,” she spat. The damned arrows must have been doused in the stuff. The tips of Gunnr’s fingers had been bandaged, she saw. 

A memory sparked. 

No, it couldn’t be, Freya thought. 

Fear engulfed her. She fumbled at the Shield Maiden’s wrappings, pulled neatly around each digit. The movement made her head swim; she staggered, and only Eir’s quick movement stopped her from sinking to the floor.

“Freya, you must sit! You have only just woken!”

“Her fingers - please, I must see them -” She had destroyed her notes, wiped the ingredients from her memory. And Freyr had sworn - he had promised her - “Eir, help me unwrap them -”

The other woman hesitated, but the urgency in her queen’s voice must have convinced her. Keeping one arm wrapped around Freya’s waist, Eir supported her weight, as Freya’s trembling fingers unwrapped the bandages around Gunnr’s fingers. 

The skin underneath was black. 

With Eir’s help, Freya moved to sit in front of the fire. She stared into its depths, watching the flames lick the wood, and remembered Kratos, chopping logs for their heath. Had it only been this morning? No, yesterday morning. The solstice had passed: the days would only grow shorter as winter approached on swift legs. Change was coming. 

“Self-pity does not suit you,” Eir said. A bead of sweat dripped off the end of her nose. She had returned from the main infirmary, checking in on the remaining mortal patients, and from the Shield Maiden’s pale demeanour, Freya could guess what she had found. She, herself, was too cowardly to watch the mortals die. She would fall to despair. And right now, she needed her rage. 

“I would argue it does,” Freya said. Eir was running a cloth over Gunnr’s bare shoulders. The contrast between the women’s skin tones was striking, Eir’s long fingers dark against Gunnr’s fair skin. “You cannot sweat this out, Sister.”

“I know.” The Shield Maiden’s movements were gentle, and, without her helm, Freya saw how her eyes followed the scars that had marked Gunnr’s skin: trophies from each battle she had fought and won. “But I must do something, and the heat appears to be helping them.”

Eir was correct: Sif had regained a bit of her colour, although her face was still flushed. More shame filled her. “Sif had wanted to speak with me, before….”

Eir looked up. “You believe she knew something?”

“Perhaps. More like suspected.” Sif was no fool, Freya knew this. She remembered the urgency in the woman’s eyes. If only her daughter hadn’t interrupted them… “Where is Thrúd?”

“Returned to the Asgardian settlement in Vanaheim. Her father’s daughter, that one, with her mother’s drive.” Eir wiped at Gunnr’s wrists. “Kratos could not dissuade her from accompanying him.”

Her stomach flipped. “Kratos has returned to the settlement? But - the attackers could still be there! And he has been poisoned. Is he so foolish?” Freya struggled to her feet. “And to bring Thrúd with him - a child - I cannot believe -” Her arm throbbed and she gasped.

Eir was on her in an instant, supporting her around her shoulders. “My Lady, you need to stay still. Any more sudden moves and I will consign you to bedrest.”

“It shouldn’t be taking this long,” Freya gritted, leaning on Eir’s side. Usually, her healing took place over a few hours, but she would have started seeing its effects by now. But she still felt as awful as she had initially: her chest throbbed in unison with her ribs, and her arm ached from within. 

“You have been poisoned,” the Shield Maiden said, taking a careful step forward. “It is a miracle you can even stand. Additionally, you fell a túnlengd to earth. Luckily you landed beak first: your stubborn skull protected your brains, although it did not do much for your bones.”

Ouch. Sulking, Freya allowed her friend to lead her back to her bed and sit her down on the surface. As a child, she had fallen out of trees that had been so tall, they had rivalled the Yggdrasil itself - and had bounced up laughing each time. But now, she felt sluggish, half-asleep; like she had fallen asleep in snow. She thought back, remembering the sudden barrage, the scramble to the forest, the panicked shouts of the hurt and dying echoing in her ears. Kratos’ skin under her fingers, the pebbled texture of the ash that covered it. The rest came flooding back - the dream, the man, his bow.

“I was shot,” she said, remembering. 

Eir retrieved a ladle of water and raised it to her lips. “Yes," she said simply. "Do you remember who did it?” 

Freya hesitated. “... it was one of the invaders,” she said, hating herself for the lie. “He shot at me when I flew out from the trees.”

“Hmmm. So you would have been safe if you had stayed put,” Eir said. “Sometimes, I wonder if you seek death. Perhaps you truly are as crazed as the All-father always claimed.” The Shield Maiden rested the back of her hand on Freya’s forehead. “Still warm,” she said, as if to herself. 

“Ha ha.” Freya drank deeply and wiped her mouth with the back of her wrist. She ignored how the movement made her ribs scream, and how the mention of her ex-husband still made her breath falter. “How bad is it?”

“Dislocated shoulder, cracked ribs, and a bruised collarbone. I’ve reset the shoulder and wrapped your ribs, and your chest should be fine if you avoid straining it. Your right arm was the worst, though: multiple open fractures. You won’t be using it for at least a moon.”

“I think you mean a day.” She did not have a moon: the poison operated on a strict time frame, and she had wasted enough time already. Her friend was checking the bandages on her arm: Eir had wrapped the broken digit in wet bark and strapped it tightly to a splint. She pulled at the wrappings, and Freya winced at the pain. “A little tight, don’t you think?”

“It shattered in three places. If you were mortal, I’m not sure I could have saved it. And, judging from the past hour, I think a moon is an accurate assessment.” Eir went to kneel before her and took her hands in her own. “Your enchantments - plus your godhood - are protecting you as much as they can, but you will not heal from these injuries until you are cured. Or more like - you will heal. Just at a much lower rate than you usually would. Closer to a mortal, than a goddess. And by then, the poison will have killed you.” She paused. “Gunnr and Lady Sif will be long dead by then, of course.”

Her friends, her people, once again in peril. Bound again, pulled to mortality. Hurt by another man. Freya shivered, despite the heat, and Eir squeezed her hands. 

“Kratos. He is under the same curse,” Freya said. 

“Yes, although, you wouldn’t know from the look of him.” Eir sat back. “Once he learned you had been poisoned, he left to find the invaders. Said he would come back with a cure.”

“He does not even know what that is!”

“I expect that does not matter. He had a look in his eye. Thrúd too,” Eir said. “I pity whoever they catch.” She took a breath. “Freya, I must tell you… Mimir is missing. We believe he has been taken.”

“Oh.” Freya was shocked at the weight of the bereavement she felt. Although she and the fae’s history was… complicated, she had spoken much with Mimir over the past seasons and had grown to care for the Head. For someone to have taken him… “Do you have any idea where he is?”

Eir shook her head. “We were hoping you could track him. It is your magic that revived him, after all.”

She may have been able to previously, but in her current state… Unlikely. More reason for Kratos and Thrúd to have left. If they found someone, they could find a lead to Mimir. But, Freya thought, whoever they caught would not know the antidote to the poison. Only she had that knowledge. And she had wasted too much time already. 

Her decision must have shown on her face because Eir breathed a sharp intake in. “I knew it,” she said. “You know the poison. You know the antidote. What is it?”

“Something deep in the jungles of Vanaheim.” Freya stood, ignoring how her legs shook beneath her. “I must go.”

Eir stood too. She reached out and, calmly, tugged at Freya's arm wrappings.

“Ouch!” Freya looked at the other woman in alarm. “Eir?”

“How can you draw a bow? Wield a sword? Your magic is depleted too,” the Shield Maiden said. “We could not shake you from your falcon body - Kratos was the only one who managed to pull you back. You cannot change, cannot fly – how will you be able to travel? To fight?”

“I still have a working arm and two legs. I will stick to the shadows, stay hidden,” Freya said, attempting to appease, and hiding her surprise at Eir’s tone. “I will be careful, I promise.”

“They will find you. And you will be alone, injured, and without your friend to watch your back.” Eir grabbed Freya’s uninjured hand again. “I will go and retrieve what you need. I will be swift, I assure you.”

“It is not that simple. I need to be the one to go.” Gently, Freya pulled her hand free. “It is the only way, Sister.”

“Hildisvíni will return soon. Kratos will return. Wait for them, is all I ask. You can confer with the council and decide the next course of action. Hel, raise an army if you need to, and return to Vanaheim in force. But leaving as you are - My Queen,” Eir stopped. “I cannot allow it.”

“You must.” Freya’s voice sounded dull to her ears. “We do not have time to waste. Eir - this toxin - it…” she stopped. “Three days, at the most. You are seeing the very start of the symptoms. They will increase. Tenfold.” And it was clear that there was more to the incident than was meeting the eye. She had a feeling that she was at the centre of it. Freya took a breath. “My weapons, Sister. Please.”

Eir straightened. “I will go with you.”

“No!” Freya’s voice echoed through the chamber. “You are a healer, and your patients need you. You will stay. That is an order, Eir!”

The Shield Maiden snapped to attention. “Yes, My Queen,” she said, although her eyes shone with worry, and her fingers shook slightly as she handed Freya her armour. 

Slowly, oh so slowly, Eir helped Freya dress in her leathers. She tried not to wince as her friend strapped her swords to her back, placing them lower than they would usually be, for ease of use. Behind her, the fire crackled and spat, and Gunnr and Sif lay silent. 

Regret swallowed Freya. “Forgive me my hash words, Sister. They are born of fear.”

“I understand.” The healer fiddled with Freya’s wrist wrappings, taking longer than she should. “I should not have mentioned Odin earlier, even in jest.”

“It has already been forgotten.” Freya hesitated. “Do you truly believe I seek death?”

“No. But I fear it.” Eir hung her head. “We are the last, Freya. Hildr, Olrun, Kara. All slain. Sigrun, gone. And - I am... afraid. Afraid of losing more people dear to me.” Freya could not see her face but could hear the tears in her friend’s voice. “Did you bring me back to life, just to leave me alone? Am I cursed to linger on,  haunting this mortal realm without my sisters?” 

“Oh, Eir.” Freya did not hesitate to pull the other woman into a hug, taking care not to bump her arm in its sling or her bruised ribs. “I will not leave you, not if it is in my power to do so. Nor will Gunnr. She is too battle-crazed to die on a sick bed, anyway.” 

“Then promise me something,” Eir said, her face pressed against Freya's shoulder, her voice muffled. “Promise me you will go to the settlement and collect Kratos before you run off into the Vanaheim forest. Promise me this.”

Freya sighed. “You understand that he has been poisoned too?” she said. “He may not be much help.”

“He called to you.” Eir pulled back, subtly wiping her face with the back of her hand. “It is enough.”

Freya nodded. It was time to make her exit before Hildisvíni returned and managed to convince Eir to force her to stay. 

Just before she reached the door, she heard Eir speak. “Freya?”

She turned back. “Yes?” 

Eir was kneeling by Gunnr. She had pressed one of the woman’s hands to her cheek, and although her voice was quiet, Freya could hear Eir's whisper as clearly as if the Shield Maiden was standing in front of her. “The poison. Just what did you create?” 

Freya thought on her answer. “A mistake,” she said eventually. “One I must continue to bear.” 

But this failure may be one she could actually fix, she thought.

Chapter Text

Thrúd hated Vanaheim. Which she felt extremely bad about, and tried to avoid saying out loud at every opportunity. But the place was just so. Damn. Sticky. Her inner thighs would stick together when she sat, and there were always gnats buzzing in her ears when she tried to sleep at night.

Mom had told her the humidity would break as the months got colder, but Thrúd was yet to believe it. She’d been in Midgard suffering through Valkyrie training for the majority of last winter, but, whenever she’d come home, she’d found that Vanaheim didn’t even get cold - just wet. And with water came mold, brightly coloured stuff that trailed up their lodge’s supporting beams, and quickly covered their food unless they kept it wrapped in wetted cloth. And zipping through the endless pouring rain - more bugs. It never really ended.

Of course, Thrúd knew how lucky she and the other Asgardians had gotten, being allowed to set up camp in Vanaheim after what Grandfather - what Odin had done to the realm. Gunnr had explained most of it, but part of Thrúd still couldn’t believe it. But she had to. She had to believe a lot of things. 

Now she was back here, heading towards the settlement her mother had poured her life into, trying to track down the cowards who had poisoned her last remaining parent. Thrúd tasted lightening on her tongue. It burnt. 

Kratos hadn’t said anything on the way over. The last word - if it could actually be counted as one - he’d said to her was a disapproving grunt. That had been when she’d told him that she was coming with him, and if he wanted otherwise he could physically try to stop her. Hildy had practically messed himself but it had gotten Thrúd what she wanted. And that was the chance to shove her mace so far up these assholes’ butts they cried steel. 

Just hold on a little longer Mom, she thought. 

Thrúd swatted her way through a cloud of gnats. “Are we far away?”

“Gnnn,” was what she got in reply. Kratos’ footsteps were so heavy they left deep holes in the slimy mud underfoot. Thrúd tried stepping in them - but had to hop from each one. Each hole was already half-filled with water.

“So, what are we going to do when we get there?” she asked. “Look for tracks?”

“Yes.”

“And then what?”

“Follow them.”

“No, I mean - do we get provisions? How long do you expect us to track these people for? Do you even have that much time?” Thrúd looked at Kratos’ back, as wide as an ox’s and three times as strong. Despite the poison inside of him, Kratos seemed his normal… vibrant self, but his steps were definitely heavier, and his shoulders were tense. Sometimes, Thrúd wondered how the silent looming man had fathered Loki, who, frankly, had never learned how to shut the fuck up. She’d seen the kid take countless beatings from Heimdall because of it. Thrúd would think Loki was adopted, except the two men had the exact same nose. It was weird. She wondered what her friend was doing now, and felt a pang of concern. He didn’t even know what had happened. 

Loki, wherever you are - I hope you’re having a better time than us, she thought. 

“Why do you think the Vanir attacked us?” 

The man did not reply. 

“Um, hello?”

“I do not think anything.”

“...okay. ”

He grunted in annoyance. “I do not… assume . Not without… surety.”

Assume?? “You heard Eir. The arrows - Vanir. The poison - Vanir . Not to mention a bunch of Asgardians moving into Vanaheim after wrecking the entire realm for centuries.” Thrúd kicked at a rotting log and watched with satisfaction as it flew, exploding against a far off tree trunk. “That’s not an assumption . That’s the truth .”

“Hmn.” She could tell he was considering her words from the tilt of his head. That was another thing she wasn’t entirely used to. An adult listening to what she said. Taking her words seriously. 

“The pieces…” Kratos said eventually. “They do not fit.”

“Can you explain?”

The grunt she got in return appeared to be a resounding no . Thrúd fought against the urge to start ripping her hair out. It wouldn’t help anything. The evidence doesn't fit because you don’t want it to, she thought, but kept her words to herself. She needed Loki’s father’s help to cure her mother, and pissing him off - while kind of fun - wouldn’t help the issue. 

They jumped a small stream, climbing up the roots covering the bank’s other side. The wind changed, and Thrúd smelt blood. She was still new to the smell - einherjar didn’t bleed, and draugr usually oozed paste. But she was learning the taste of it. They must be close to the settlement.

Kratos must have sensed it too. He turned to look back at her, warning in his gaze. “Are you ready?”

Thrúd looked at him challengingly. “I’m a Valkyrie, aren’t I?”

She thought she saw the corner of his mouth twitch. “Shield Maiden. In training. ” His gaze sombred. “You fought in Ragnarök, but this is a slaughter’s aftermath. It is not the same.”

Thrúd swallowed. “I’m ready,” she said, and unsheathed her sword.

He nodded, once. They skirted the trunk of a large spruce, and then they were there, at the village’s outskirts, standing at the edge of the sand that bordered the fire pit. Thrúd swallowed at the sight ahead of them. The town was a warzone. Bodies lay scattered across the dirt, arrows sticking from them like flags. Embers still burned in the fire pit. The great log had been chosen due to the fact it would burn for days: fire still smouldered in its core, and waves of heat emanated.

And the damned bugs loved it. Flies buzzed, black clouds over corpses. The air was thick with them.

Thrúd could feel Kratos studying her, so she purposely kept her face straight. She followed his lumbering form around the firepit, sand crunching under her boots. Blood had soaked into the gritty surface in places, curdling the stone particles into pits. 

They walked past the first body. Midges already covered its skin. 

Thrúd couldn’t stop herself from slowing. “Shouldn’t we bury them?”

Kratos’ steps did not falter. “We cannot help them.”

“But-”

“The living need us. The dead must wait.” 

“Right. Okay.” She forced herself to keep moving. Around them empty houses stared out, their residents having been herded through the gateway to temporary lodgings in Midgard, Thrúd had overheard Hildisvini telling Eir. The thatch had been burned away from most of the dwellings, and Thrúd felt invisible eyes, staring at her out from the open windows. In the distance, a bird cried. A raven. She suppressed a shudder. 

“You can still return to Midgard,” Kratos said, still walking ahead of her. 

How the Hel had he seen that? “I’m fine ,” Thrúd said, increasing her pace so she could walk alongside the other god. “It’s just… creepy, I guess.”

“Hmn.” 

Kratos wasn’t walking too fast, Thrúd saw. How in the nine - the eight realms was he even standing? Not even her father could have resisted a Vanir poison. Actually, considering all the times Thrúd had seen Thor fight an entire tavern while drooling mead, he probably could have, but it wasn’t the same as -

“Lady Thrúd?” someone called out to her. A man was hurrying towards them, a small crowd of villagers behind him. Fróði, Thrúd remembered his name as being; the unofficial head of the Asgardian refugees. She’d come home a few nights to find her mother and him bent over parchments - plans for a new storage house or grazing area. He was short, even for a mortal, with a trimmed beard. There was blood on his tunic.

“Fróði,” Thrúd replied, grasping his forearm. “Hey. What are you still doing here?”

“Me and a few of the lads are staying behind. Guard what we have left. We’re not leaving another home,” the man said. 

“Yet you leave your dead to rot,” Kratos said, and Thrúd internally winced. Behind Fróði and the tenscore crowd, she could see a handful of men - and a few women - peering out of the remains of the Great Lodge. 

Fróði, to his credit, looked shamed. “We were afraid the Vanir would return,” he said. “Please, Lady Thrúd, where is your mother? Is she well?”

Thrúd opened her mouth but found her throat had closed shut. Kratos, to her surprise, came to her rescue. “She was injured in the attack. Poisoned. We have come to find the invaders. And a cure.”

There were mutters, curses hissed from the crowd. Fróði had an ugly expression on his face. “Well you won’t have to look far, will you? The damn jungle is infected with them,” he said. 

Another man, a younger one with a soft face, spoke. “M’great-great grand-da fought in the Old War. He told Pa they’d vanish like smoke when you tried to get a lick in.”

“They all have magic,” another one chimed. 

“They don’t eat food, just drink tree sap.”

“Won’t break bread, won’t trade. ”

“Won’t even let us have a granary.”

“Browned skinned, black haired - not even proper fair .”

“Enough!” Thrúd couldn’t believe what she was hearing. “Vanaheim took us in, remember? Unless you want to move to Midgard. Do you like eating frost-bitten pine needles?”

“Apologies, My Lady,” Fróði said. “We mean no harm. Only that - with this … we are not sure if our kin will even return to our settlement.”

“ They attacked us ,” someone shouted. “They want us to leave!”

“Lady Sif promised us we would be safe,” a woman with dual braids said, her voice hushed. “She assured us the Vanir would not seek revenge.”

Thrúd could feel Kratos’ eyes on her. “...We still don’t know what exactly happened,” she said, deliberately keeping her tone calm. “We can’t blame anyone until we know what happened.”

“Freya will find the attackers. She will put an end to it,” Kratos said.

Fróði spread his hands. “Then where is she, my lord? Where is the Queen of the Realms when we need her warmth?”

“She was injured in the attack.”

“As were many. And yet, here you stand.” Fróði crossed his arms. “It appears the Goddess of Love has better things to be doing.”

It was negligible, but Thrúd heard it, all the same: “Goddess of Whores, more like,” someone in the crowd muttered. 

Kratos moved so fast he appeared a blur: vanishing from beside her. Within moments, he reappeared in the crowd: an iceberg rising from the ocean depths. The people around him scattered like buckwheat: there were shrieks, a few shouts of alarm; the soft-faced man from earlier now dangled from Kratos’ fist.

“You do not speak of her that way,” Kratos said. Each word was punctuated with a shake of his fist. “You do not.”

What. The. Fuck. “Kratos,” Thrúd yelped. “Put him down!” 

It was as if she hadn’t spoken. “You do not disrespect her with those words,” the God growled, and the man’s dangling legs lifted higher. 

“Yes, My Lord,” the man said, his voice a shrill squeak. “Sorry, My Lord!

“ Freya is the reason you are here. She is why you live.”

“She is the goddess of bounty, the mother of Vanaheim and queen of all places,” the man wheezed. His face, already rosy, was turning purple. “Please, forgive me!”

With a grunt, Kratos dropped the man to the hard ground. He turned, meeting the frightened gazes of the Asgardians huddled around him, and Thrúd held her breath, her hand dipping to her mace. 

The God took several steps forward, pulling his axe free from its perch. With a roar, he leapt into the air, and heaved the weapon into the soft Vanaheim earth. People screamed as ice shards flew, among clouds of dirt and dust. Coughing, Thrúd waved her hand in front of her, clearing the dust from her eyes.

Where the ground had once been, there was a massive canyon, carved deep into the earth. A hole. A mass grave, Thrúd realised. Large enough for all the bodies she could see.

“Bury your dead,” Kratos said, standing. “We will take care of the rest.”

He walked away, the Asgardians parting for him soundlessly. Thrúd hurried in his wake, ignoring the stares. 

She waited until they were a decent distance away before hissing at his back: “That was not a smart move.”

“Hrng.”

“You could have killed that guy!”

“Mngn.”

How the Hel did Loki communicate with him? “Look, my Mom worked really hard to get everyone settled in Vanaheim, so I would appreciate it if you didn’t destroy all her work over a stupid insult .”

Kratos stopped, causing Thrúd to almost bounce off him. She could see a faint layer of sweat covering the skin of his back.

“Kratos?”

He turned, and she was surprised to see his eyes were downcast. “I… lost myself,” he said, voice low. “Thrúd. I am… sorry.”

“Oh.” Thrúd didn’t know how to respond. She wasn’t used to people apologising to her so quickly. Usually, she was the one who had to make amends. Mostly after a fight with her mom. And her dad had been great at saying sorry, but, after endless fuckups, the word had kind of lost its meaning. “Uh, it’s okay, I guess. You didn’t hurt anyone, and that guy kind of deserved it.”

“They are… scared.”

Thrúd sighed. “Wouldn’t you be?”

Kratos nodded, turning away. “We should start at the furthermost gate.” In great, lumbering strides, he headed for the trees, only stopping when he realised she was not following. 

“I have to get some stuff from my place,” Thrúd said. She could see the log house she shared with Sif, a few hundred ell from where they were. “I’ll catch up with you, okay?”

Kratos openly looked at her, brow furrowed. “You are armed.”

“It’s… a girl thing I need.” She grinned at him. “Want me to explain it to you?”

He snorted at that, turning back to the forest. Smiling, she started walking away, and then suddenly remembered. “Hey, you better not leave without me!” She shouted at his back.

She saw Kratos twitch his shoulder, which she assumed meant a yes.  Not willing to risk it, Thrúd cut across the village centre to save time. The bodies had been moved, thank the Norns, and Thrúd could hear the crunch of shovels from where the mass grave was now located. Ahead of her, the majstång stood tall in the centre of the village. The flowers that had trailed over its surface had burned away, but the wooden pole itself was still standing. Bolts littered its surface. 

“Still creepy,” she muttered to herself. 

The home Thrúd and her mother shared was far smaller than the former court of the Aesir, but it was theirs, and Sif had done her best to make it comfortable. The attack had ruined those efforts. The carvings which had covered the external banisters had been burnt away, and the majority of the thatch had fallen. Thrúd swallowed, and pushed her way inside, easily moving the wedged plank of oak that covered its entranceway. Her bed was at the back, behind the fire pit. She had hidden what she needed under its surface. 

She could have called it, could have pulled it to where she was, but that would have left the lodge a shattered wreck, and Thrúd did not want her mother to come home to that. Instead, she sat on the bed and rummaged underneath, pushing aside her tunics and other junk until at last she felt the coolness of steel under her fingers. 

She had never polished it. Nor had her father. Yet, somehow, Mjölnir still shone. The runes that trailed over its handle practically glowed under the light filtering through the holes in the roof’s thatching. Holding her breath, Thrúd grasped its handle. Her father’s hand had left grooves in the leather, and Thrúd’s fingers slotted perfectly inside. Static gathered, small sparks pinging off the ends of her hair. The taste of ozone in her mouth grew stronger. Thrúd raised the hammer skyward, towards the patch of blue between the broken timbers, and felt the weapon’s pull. 

And then she was back there, in the ruins of Asgard, and her father was raising his hand to her as he faded into mist, and Grandfather looked at her, his spear still wet, and he said-

There was a knock. “Lady Thrúd?”

“Shit!” With a yelp, Thrúd dropped Mjölnir on her toe. “ Shit!” She got to her feet, kicking the weapon back under her bed, and, hobbling and swearing, managed to make it to the door without causing herself any further damage. “What?”

It was Fróði, his hand outstretched, ready to knock again. The man blanched at the sight of her face. “I did not mean to disturb-”

“No, you - you didn’t.” She beckoned him in, sitting at the table near the entranceway. Her mother’s scrolls still covered it, pages of delicately curled handwriting. “Come on in. I’m sorry about earlier. Kratos, he’s just-” weirdly sensitive about Freya “- he’s a little under the weather at the moment. Aren’t we all?” She laughed, a little maniacally.

Fróði sat, albeit gingerly, opposite her. “I wanted to ask after your wellbeing. Lady Sif’s illness is worrying. She is a strong leader for our community.”

That sobered her quickly. “I’ll save her. I’ll save all of them.”

“Still,” he said. “You must worry for her. She is your mother, and your last remaining tie to Asgard.”

“Yeah. I know.” Thrúd swatted away an annoying gnat buzzing near her face. “That’s why I’m here.”

He was looking at her closely. “Do you miss Asgard?”

“Um, sometimes. I guess.” The man had a weird look on his face, and Thrúd was suddenly aware that they were alone. “The weather, mostly. And the lack of bugs.” She laughed, trying not to make it awkward. “But Vanaheim is… Nice. I’m getting used to it.”

“Yes.” Fróði had a strange expression on his face. His fingers worried at his wrist, thumb rubbing at the tattoo there: a diamond with a cross intersecting it. “Indeed,” he said.

There was a moment of silence, where Fróði tried to catch her eye, and Thrúd purposely looked anywhere but him. It grew and grew, until finally, she couldn’t take it any longer. 

“Okay, I should be going. Mom to save, people to rescue, you know.” She stood quickly. “If you’re going to stay, look after everyone until Mom comes back. And remember -” she hesitated. “We’re still finding out what happened. We need to remember that. We don’t know for sure the Vanir attacked us.”

“Do you truly believe that, My Lady?” Fróði spoke slowly, his voice measured.

“I…” Kratos’ words echoed through Thrúd’s head. “I don’t.. just… just remember . That we don’t know. Okay? So keep the anti-Vanir sentiments to a minimum. For now, anyway.” 

Fróði said something to her but she was already out the door, heading towards Kratos. 

Man, what a weirdo, she thought. But he - and the rest of the Asgardians - would be her mom’s problem to deal with when she got back, Thrúd mused. And Sif would come back. She would make sure of it. Thinking on the issue, her thoughts turned her thoughts to Kratos. That big hunk of limestone better not have ditched her. 

She’d already forgotten about the conversation by the time she’d left the village. 

Kratos hadn’t left her, although not for lack of trying. A few rôst into the jungle, Thrúd found the god leaning against a tree trunk.

“You said you would wait for me.” Thrúd tried not to sound too petulant. “You promised.”

“I did not.”

“It was implied -”

“I did not… break our agreement. The tracks. They stopped here.”

“Oh.” Kratos was panting slightly, Thrúd saw. She suspected his stunt in the village had taken more out of him than he would admit. She looked around. “So where do we go now?”

“I… do know know.” 

“ Shit .” The god was sweating too, drops of sweat beading along his brow and catching on his beard. And if he was looking this bad… How did her mother look? Thrúd bit down her terror. Daylight was starting to fade, the day already shorter than the one before. They needed to rest. To figure out their next move. “We should break for camp. I’ll hunt us something.”

“We do not have time to rest ,” Kratos said. 

“Well, we also don’t have time for me to nurse you back to health when you collapse. And I’m starving. We need to eat.” She glared at him. “Look, I’m not trying to be rude or anything, but you look like shit. I’m no healer, and I’m not your son . I’m here to help my mom. We’re doing this as partners, so you need to listen to me.”

“Hmn.” Kratos looked kind of mad, but Thrúd didn’t break eye contact. She was a Valkyrie, and she didn’t take orders from anyone. Not even a grumpy, half-poisoned God of War. 

She knew she had convinced him when he started slashing at the undergrowth with those ridiculous swinging blades of his, clearing a space for their camp. She won this time, but Thrúd had the feeling this wouldn’t be the last battle. She suddenly missed Loki like a heartbeat. 

The forest sounded different at night. Hoots and howls could be heard, as well as rustles and squeaks. The fire looked small under the vastness of the sky ahead, and Thrúd almost felt small too. She squashed it down. She had hunted and slew a strange rabbit, one with moss growing along the spine, before skinning it quickly and without skill, then skewering it and roasting over the flame. The meat was edible, although boney, and Thrúd tried not to scarf it down too quickly. She hadn’t been raised a hunter, like Loki and Skjöldr, but Gunnr and sometimes Eir had taken her out for day trips when they were in Midgard. Although the animals here were different from the ones in the mortal realm… 

Kratos had barely eaten, just picked at the meat, eating a few mouthfuls with what appeared to be distaste. She wanted to tell him to eat more, to keep up his strength, but didn’t want to push it. She had a feeling he was a terrible patient. 

Finally, the silence got too much for her. “What’s going on with you and Freya?”

“She is a friend.”

“Yeah, well, Loki’s my friend, and I don’t strangle people when they insult him,” Thrúd said. He wouldn’t want that anyway, she thought. Loki had a heart of gold under that goofy haircut and scars. 

Thrúd watched Kratos swallow a mouthful of rabbit, obviously avoiding the question, and fought the urge to roll her eyes. Grown-ups were so annoying. “So, what are we going to do next?” she asked. “Keep heading into the forest?”

She got a grunt in response. “We will continue to search for tracks.”

“How long will that take? My mom doesn’t have that much time. Neither do you.” Thrúd leaned forward. “We should go back to Hildisvíni. Get him to take us to the Vanir. We can force them to give us the antidote.”

His eyes tightened with displeasure. “We do not know it was them.”

This time, she gave into the desire to eyeroll. “Look, it’s just us now. I understand what you mean, but… It was them. We both know it! They attacked an Asgardian settlement. They used Vanir arrows. And the fire pits?”

“We do not. Know .”

Thrúd stood. “This isn’t the time for you to get political . Not when my Mom’s life is on the line. Not when yours is. When Freya’s is.”

It had been a low blow, and she knew it when he stood too. “You speak on matters you do not understand.”

“You want to go wander in the forest!” 

“And you are too fearful to use the weapon bequeathed to you,” he roared back. “So leave the planning to your elders, Girl .”

“You-” Thrúd couldn’t speak. “You asshole!”

She turned to storm off into the forest before she took her sword to his big white head, and was met with a wide, brown eyed gaze. 

Freya sounded nervous. “Er… hi?” 

“Now this is a party!” Lúnda said. 

Oh great, Thrúd thought. Now she’s here. 

With the addition of two extra people, the fire-side party had fallen into dour silence. Thrúd was sulking, Freya looked confused, and Kratos was staring into the fire. Lúnda’s chattering was the only thing that could be heard. 

“Hildisvíni sent me out to retrieve the Lady from Vanaheim, so ah went and found her wandering in the forest. It weren’t hard t’do - you were going a mite slow there-” this was addressed to Freya, who nodded her head tiredly “- and then, when the Lady explained what was happenin’, I thought I’d skip the long journey and take her directly to this tall glass of milk. And Miss Baby Thor, obviously. An’ here we are!” Lúnda beamed at them all, and, to her credit, her smile didn’t falter at the deadened glares she got in return. “O’course, you weren’t hard t’find, what with all the yellin’ and screamin’ and all.” Lúnda’s voice did fade slightly. “Heh,” she finished, a mite awkwardly.

Silence returned once more, despite Lúnda’s attempts to catch someone’s eye. Thrúd sure as Hel wasn’t going to be the one to speak first. She and Kratos’ argument had sapped her ability to speak. What a knucklehead, listening to her, making her feel like her opinion actually mattered. Just to call her Girl. Like she wasn’t a Valkyrie. Like she didn’t matter . She mattered. She knew she did. 

Unsurprisingly, it was Freya who spoke first, although it wasn’t to Kratos. The goddess’ voice was gentle, her eyes dark in the forest’s shadows. “Your mother is stable, Thrúd. Eir is with her. She will look after her until we return,” she said.

Thrúd nodded, ignoring the twisting in her stomach. “Yeah. Um. I know.”

“I was… surprised to see you’d left her side,” Freya said, her eyes - one a puffy slit - darting to Kratos. “But I suppose a sickbed is not somewhere a young warrior would want to be.”

“I’m better here. Finding a way to help her.” Thrúd couldn’t keep the snap out of her voice.

“Yes. Yes, of course,” Freya said quietly. The Goddess sat gingerly on the log that rested under her. Scratches littered her visage, and purple bruises followed the line of her jaw. Her right arm rested in a sling, held close to her form. It made her seem more… mortal, Thrúd thought. 

Great, now she felt guilty. Thrúd stood quickly. “I’m going to get more firewood.”

“Ah should be goin’ myself,” Lúnda said, and stood too. “Goddess. Kratos.”

“Thank you, Lúnda,” Freya said. Her eyes were dark in the firelight. “Tell Hildisvíni we’re all well.”

“ Hmn .” Kratos’ grunt was not loud, but its meaning was clear. The God of War was not happy the Goddess of Love had joined their quest. Freya’s face stiffened, but she did not retort. 

Thrúd stamped away, feeling rather than seeing the dwarf hot on her heels. Lúnda let out a breath as soon as the fire vanished behind them in the thick underbrush. “Phewf! I don’t envy ya. Travellin’ with those two’s gonna be more awkward than a lyngbakr stuck in a water hole.”

“Why is she even here?” Thrúd took a swipe at a nearby bush with her sword. “Shouldn’t she be resting? Or with the council? Leading ?” 

“The Lady aint the type to sit by all pretty while others fight her battles. Plus, I think she’s got some secret knowledge of what went down. An' how t’fix it. You’ll do better with her alongside y’all,” Lúnda said.  

“They’re both poisoned. And old . I’d do better on my own.” Thrúd thought of her mother, face pale and drawn on her sickbed, and felt a thrum of fear. “They’re just going to slow me down.”

“Those two might have more years between them than the Yggdrasil’s roots, but slow?” Lúnda picked up a branch and looked at it appraisingly. “That ain't them, and you know it.”

Thrúd huffed, kicking at the dirt. She liked Lúnda - had met her a few times at various gatherings. The dwarf was a fine blacksmith, and honest to a fault. Thrúd would be an idiot to ignore her advice. But the idea that they were going about this all wrong, that precious time was being wasted - the thought gripped her. She couldn’t let it go. 

“Thrúd?”

“Yes, Lúnda?”

The dwarf sounded cautious. “Now, don’t knock my head off, but I can’t help but notice y’don’t got a certain hammer swingin’ from that hip o’yours…” She saw the expression on Thrúd’s face and waved her hands. “Don’t get all lighteningy on me. Can’t say I blame ya. Mjölnir’s got some history to ‘er.” Her tone dropped. “If Sindri were here, he’d be able to give you some tips.”

The name rang a bell. “That’s Loki’s friend.”

“... yes . Me an’ him? We go way back. O’course, I was always closer with his brother. Brok.” Lúnda’s bottom lip wobbled. 

Thrúd didn’t need to be Heimdall to figure out what had happened to Lúnda’s friend. She knelt by the dwarf. “I’m sorry.”

“Weren’t anythin’ t’do with you.” Looking away, Lúnda quickly swiped at her face. “He would’a liked you. Always loved gals with spunk. And he would’a been happy t’see his hammer with… with you , most definitely.”

If Brok had been anything like Lúnda, Thrúd was sure she would have liked him too. She ignored the way the dwarf had dodged mentioning Thor. “He… made Mjölnir?”

“Him and Sindri,” Lúnda sighed. “I don’t have the same insight, but if ya got any questions, I’m all ears.”

Thrúd hesitated. It had been a weird, exhausting day, and she really didn’t want to talk about this. But Lúnda was right. Advice would be helpful. “I… the first time I lifted Mjölnir, it was… wonderful.” On Lúnda’s nod, she continued. “But now, when I touch it, it’s like… I feel…” Odin’s face flickered before her eyes. “Out of control.”

“That makes sense,” Lúnda said. She gestured to Thrúd to lean in, placing her ear close to the dwarf’s mouth. “Imma tell you a trade secret, Baby Thor, so keep it to y’self. You promise? Good. Here it is. Weapons - they got memories . ” Lúnda tisked at Thrúd’s look of confusion. “Not like ours, nothin’ similar to that. But they remember stuff. Their owners, mostly. An’ what their owners used them for. And that hammer o’yours, it remembers killin’ a whole lot of people. Good people. Innocent people. ”

Thrúd remembered Mjölnir tearing through einherjar in the tavern. And they were already dead. Loki had been the last of the giants. Thrúd knew why. “So… what do I do?” she whispered back. 

Lúnda hummed, thinking. “M’not sure. It’s gonna take time for you to train it to your will. What I think you need t’do is teach Mjölnir some new stuff to ‘member. Being strong , but in a way that protects. Helpin’, ‘stead of hurtin’.” She smiled up at Thrúd, her blind eye crinkling. “If anyone can do it, it’d be you.”

“Thanks, Lúnda.” Thrúd carefully hugged the dwarf. Lúnda hugged her back, but stiffened as a shout echoed through the trees.

“Was that Freya?” Thrúd stood and looked towards the source of the noise, which was slowly growing louder. “What is she yelling about?”

“Not too sure, but that sounds like m’cue to leave. Good luck to you, Thrúd,” Lúnda said. “The tension between those two is thicker than a dragon’s scaly behind, and yer stuck smack bang in the middle o’ it.”

“For someone who looks like she’s half a wulver’s fart from blowing into Hel, she sure can scream,” Thrúd muttered. Freya’s voice was echoing through the darkened trees, although what she was saying was still intelligible. She looked down. “Lúnda?”

But the little dwarf was gone, vanished. Thrúd hated it when they did that. It was kind of cool, though… She gathered up the firewood she’d hacked and, easily holding it in one hand, slowly walked back to the fire, following the sound of the shouting. As she got closer, it became noisier, and words started appearing. 

“- poisoned, you should be resting -”

“You’re poisoned too! You should be the one -”

“-a burden-”

“ I’ll show you a burden-”

 The shouting stopped as Thrúd stepped into the firelight, although Freya’s face was flushed, and Kratos’ jaw was clenched. The two adults were standing face to face, a span away from each other, and, gathering from their body language, had been in the middle of a pretty intense argument. Thrúd internally sighed. Arguing had been one of her parents’ favourite past-times. Mostly because of the extremely embarrassing - and loud - reunions that inevitably followed. The fighting had eventually stopped when her brothers had died, but Thrúd was in no mood to play peacemaker again. Ignoring the two gods, she dropped her load of wood and sat down by the fire. 

Under her eyes, awkwardly, the two stepped apart. Freya was breathing heavily when she sat down to Thrúd’s left, and across the fire, Kratos’ fists were tight as he lowered himself stiffly to a sitting position. The silence stretched. The fire crackled. 

“What do we do now?” Thrúd’s voice quavered as her question hung in the air. 

Kratos grunted. “Tomorrow we return to the gate. Freya will be returning to Midgard,” he said, voice low. 

“I will not ,” the goddess hissed. 

“You have been injured-”

“As have you, you obstinate man , and I will not return to The Holt to waste away. Not when I know how to save us.”

The goddess’ words cracked through the air like a whip, its effects electric: Kratos blinked, once, and Thrúd sat up straight. “You know the antidote?” she asked.

Freya breathed out, a low exhale. “I do. It’s a rare poison, but a cure can be crafted. But I need an item.” Thrúd saw Freya hesitate. “I can take us to where we need to go. A day’s walk from here.”

Kratos ground out the following words. “One we can travel. Without you .”

Freya snorted, wrinkling her nose in a way that made her look even more human. “You look like mashed deer shit,” she told him drolly. “Not to mention only I know how to lift the enchantments covering the cave. Plus, the symptoms are going to get worse.” She coughed, and only Thrúd saw Kratos start forward, as if stopping himself from reaching for her. “No, we must all go. Together .” 

“Do you guys even have enough time?” Thrúd asked. Under her bruises, Freya had a grey tinge, and even Kratos was looking paler than usual. “I’m strong, but I don’t think I can carry both of you if you collapse.” Or die in the forest, she thought to herself.

Freya smirked at that, and Thrúd hated how it made her heart feel less heavy. “Even the daughter of Thor doesn’t have the arm length to carry Kratos’ almighty ass,” the Goddess said. “The poison in Kratos - and myself- is being counteracted by my enchantments, but your mother -” this she directed at Thrúd - “and the other victims do not have this blessing. We have two days. We must create the antidote before their end. But now, we should rest,” she finished. The goddess was swaying slightly, and, across the fire, Kratos was looking at her with palpable concern. “We have a sizeable journey ahead of us, and these woods are not empty. I will take first watch.”

With a plan in place, with an end in sight, Thrúd felt some of her anxiety lift. She nodded her assent to the statement, but Kratos did not respond, merely standing and walking to the treeline.

“Kratos?”

“I will take first watch. I will wake you before dawn,” was all the God said, directed at Thrúd.

“Of all the stupid - you must rest, Kratos. You’re poisoned too!” Freya’s shout only got a shrug from the Greek’s departing back, before he vanished into the night.

Ignoring Freya’s irate grumblings, Thrúd settled onto the mossy ground, resting her head on her hands and preparing for sleep. She was so tired, but Freya’s words echoed in her head.  These woods are not empty. Thrúd did not want to speak to the Goddess, did not want to bring back the feelings she had been chasing away. But she had to know. 

“Freya?”

The Goddess had lain herself onto the earth, wrapped in her cloak with her hands tucked beneath her. Her eyes were already closed, but Thrúd heard the woman’s breath hitch at the sound of her question. “Yes, Thrúd?”

“Do you believe they attacked us? The Vanir?” 

Across the fire, Freya opened her eyes and looked at her. Her eyes were black in the firelight. “...It appears so,” she said eventually. 

Thrúd nodded, choosing to roll over so her back was to the fire, and heard Freya do the same. She had gotten the answer she expected, but Thrúd didn’t feel satisfied. She just felt empty. Vanaheim wasn’t perfect, but, after spending multiple moons in the realm, it was - not home , but something close to it. They attacked us, the anonymous Asgardian had said, and Thrúd remembered the night of the solstice, the bodies spilling out from the night, falling endlessly under Gunnr’s blades, feathered headdresses glinting in dark. They don’t want us here. But where else could they go? Thrúd looked out into the darkness of Vanaheim, listening to the animalistic squeaks and snaps that made up the night, and thought of Loki and Skjöldr. She missed her friends. She missed them more than anything.