Chapter Text
The shore was littered with massive chunks of white ice, some as large as rafts. Frost crunched under their boots. Hungry feral dogs dug through the abandoned fishermen’s huts, barking viciously at each other. Black rats darted through frozen hedgerows.
A smart brown waxwing landed on the thorns of a holly-bush, and Atreus smiled at it. He dug through his packs until he found a crushed walnut to feet it. He retreated from the frozen path to listen to its message.
“Ah, pardon me for speaking out of turn,” Mimir spoke up from his belt. “But it occurred to me this morning that we’ve been travelling for some months…”
“I know,” Kratos said. “I will mention it to him.”
“Good, good,” Mimir said.
Atreus walked back to the path. The waxwing was tucked under his jaw and chirped softly.
“Atreus,” Kratos said. “You are a month out from term. We should move away from the coast.”
“About that…” Atreus said. “We are already headed somewhere to stay. We’re headed to the city.”
“The mortal city?” Mimir echoed. “Why? Using their ships is one thing, but the Midgardians don’t have much to offer us. Besides mead, which, by the way, you can’t drink.”
Kratos felt a prickle of suspicion. “We are going to Freya when you are due.”
“No… we aren’t,” Atreus said. “I don’t know if my body can accept any magic. I can’t risk it.”
“What do you intend to do?” Kratos asked.
“Go without. I can give birth on my own, without magic,” Atreus said.
“It is too dangerous,” Kratos said.
“All mortal woman do it,” Atreus insisted. “Your mother did it.”
Mimir made a noise. “That’s a death-wish, lad. I advise against it, strongly!”
“Advise whatever you want,” Atreus said, curtly. “I will not go to Freya.”
Kratos felt a stab of anger. “Atreus, think clearly. Freya is a good doctor, and she is our ally.”
“I haven’t forgotten how long she chased us for,” Atreus said. “She uses magic for everything, how can you trust that it won’t happen accidentally? She’s been unstable before.” He yanked his pack up and slung it over his shoulder, before darting up along the icy path.
“Wait, Lad--” Mimir started to say, but Kratos held up a hand to silence him. “Let me,” Kratos said, quietly. He unhooked the talking head from his belt and set it down next to their things, walking after his son alone.
The world was a pale blue. The mottled ice reflected them in smears of dark colour. Frost crunched under his boots.
“Atreus…” Kratos murmured.
Atreus glared at him over his thick scarf. “I know she’s your friend. But she hasn’t been very… ‘motherly’ for a long time.”
Kratos said nothing.
“I’m pretty much powerless right now,” Atreus said, a note of discomfort in his voice. “I don’t want to be near any other gods. If she held onto any grudges, if she isn’t who she’s been saying she is, if there’s any kind of trick…”
Kratos put a large hand on his shoulder. “I won’t allow anything to happen to you or your child.”
Atreus’ expression creased. His elbows were locked in right-angles, fists clenched, like a boxer expecting a blow. He eyed his father almost warily.
“If I go,” Atreus said. “I won’t be able to leave on my own. You have to promise…”
“I will help you escape,” Kratos said.
“Even if it’s a stupid idea? Even if you can’t see what’s wrong, even if you think I’m being -- hysterical?” Atreus pressed.
“I have always valued your instincts,” Kratos said. He squeezed his shoulder. “I am your protector, not your commander.”
Atreus watched him for a moment, before wiping his face with cold hands. He was shaking slightly.
“Okay,” Atreus said, finally. “Okay, let’s go.”
*
Freya’s house in Vanaheim was surrounded by golden grasses and buzzing with insects. Warmth peeled up from the earth, a very welcome change from the frigid blue of Midgard. Butterflies of every colour landed on the bare wood beams, their wings opening and closing like dozens of eyes.
“Kratos,” Freya said, walking out through the tall grasses to meet them. She wiped her hands on her apron. “It’s been too long.”
Kratos inclined his head in greeting.
“You look well,” Atreus said, stepping out from behind his father.
Freya did a double-take, brown eyes going wide. “You’re pregnant?”
“Is it that obvious?” Atreus asked. He was wearing a heavy fur coat which obscured most of his bulk.
“Goddess of fertility,” Freya said. She looked him up and down. “I was about to rip your head off because I heard your wife is in Jötunheim, pregnant and alone. But I confess; this raises more questions than it answers.”
“Angrboða isn’t pregnant, I am,” Atreus said. “There’s a lot of parties interested in killing our child, or worse. So she’s out there, acting as a decoy.”
“Clever,” Freya smiled. “I’ve always thought men should get a turn carrying a child to term.”
“Freya,” Kratos said. “We are seeking sanctuary. The time draws near.”
“Not just near,” Freya muttered. She gestured. “Come in. I will aid you.”
They followed her into the warm, deep darkness of Freya’s house. She closed the door behind them and with a flick of her wrist the fire stirred up. A long-faced cat blinked slowly at them as they passed, tail curling.
“Sit,” Freya said. She poured water into two flasks and set them on the broad table. “I’m glad you came when you did.”
“Is something wrong?” Mimir asked. Kratos set his head onto the table.
“Not yet,” Freya said. She fixed her eyes on Atreus. “Remove your clothes.”
Atreus hesitated, but released the front of his shawl and tucked it to one side. He unclasped the straps of his belt, pulled it loose so that he could unbutton his trousers, rolling up his scale armour to bare his skin. His belly was tight and round.
Freya put her hand on his belly and he restrained a flinch. “No magic,” Atreus said.
“Don’t worry, I know,” Freya said, closing her eyes. “The child is healthy.”
“So the birth will go well?” Atreus asked.
Freya let the question go unanswered. Her forehead wrinkled as she frowned, and she adjusted her touch on his skin. Eventually, she pulled her hand away. “You can redress.”
“What’s wrong?” Kratos asked.
“The placenta is misplaced,” Freya said, gravely. “The child cannot be born naturally.”
Atreus pulled his armour over his stomach. His expression was tight. “But you can’t use magic to help it.”
“No, I can’t,” Freya agreed. “Everything is in perfect balance. I can’t push in my magic or I’ll upset the system.”
“What other option is there?” Kratos asked.
Atreus and Freya exchanged glances. Atreus cleared his throat. “You can use a knife.”
“Caesarian. It is a surgery I am very familiar with,” Freya said. “I have performed it many times and there is less risk than you may think. But Atreus presents a unique challenge. He cannot be sedated with magic, and his body will not respond to mortal sedatives.”
“I don’t need them,” Atreus said.
“Very tough,” Freya said, dryly. “But it’s not just for your sake. I need you steady and restrained, so that I can perform the operation, but none of the bindings I have here will hold you.”
“Can we send someone to look for some?” Atreus asked.
“There is no time,” Freya said.
“There may be a solution, my lady,” Mimir said, and cleared his throat, glancing at the former Greek. “It may not be pleasant to hear, however.”
Kratos looked at the head. “What is it?”
“He means your chains,” Atreus realised. “The ones on your dual blades. They can extend far enough, can’t they? Could you use them?”
Kratos felt an unpleasant jolt. “I will not chain you.”
“It would be temporary,” Freya said, soothingly. “There would be little risk -- ”
“I will not chain him,” Kratos said, gravely. “Find another solution.”
Atreus bit his cheek, thinking hard. “Could we just get someone to hold me down?”
“What am I, a ship’s sawbones?” Freya’s eyebrows shot up. “No, I need you more than just pinned. I don’t want to pierce your liver by accident.”
Kratos felt a slight warmth in his pockets. He pulled out the small drawstring bag and set it onto the table. Freya picked it up.
“Jötnar twine,” Freya said. As she pulled, the twine extended easily. “Where did you get this?”
“A gift. From the mother,” Kratos said. “Will it work?”
Freya wound the glowing twine around her fingers. “It will. Warm up by the fire for a moment, and then we’ll begin.”
“Right now?” Atreus startled.
“Any extra day we wait increases your risk,” Freya said. “Besides, there’s no time like the present.”
*
Kratos watched his son being strapped down. The twine extended in a shining line down to the foundations of the house, winding around the wooden legs of the bed before snaring around his wrists and ankles. Even when Atreus huffed with effort, there wasn’t enough slack to move more than a whisker.
It reminded Kratos too much of a rabbit dangling by its feet. It didn’t help that the man was exposed, belly-up, bare arms flexing as he strained against the binding. Atreus restrained a flinch whenever Freya touched him.
“Ready?” Freya asked. Her scalpel flashed white. “I’m about to make my first incision.”
“Ready,” Atreus murmured.
Freya pressed the point of the knife to his skin, drawing it cleanly over the swell of his belly. Blood began to flow immediately. At first, Atreus only twitched and groaned. As the knife pressed deeper and the wound expanded, Atreus gasped and hissed.
Steaming blood soaked into the sheets. Atreus tried to jerk away, the hard twine straining and creaking the foundations of the house. Atreus sounded like he was being drowned -- he would tense and muffle groans, but something sharp would knock a full cry out of him. He sobbed. His face was tight with pain. Everything creaked and groaned as the taut twine dug deep scars into the wooden foundations.
Atreus made muffled noise, almost like speech. It sounded like he was begging. He choked on pleas. He kept his jaw tensed tightly until pain forced it open. He coughed and spat and let out bone-deep groans.
The scalpel clattered into the tin tray. A baby wailed.
Kratos didn’t realise he had closed his eyes until they snapped open. He stood in one movement.
“I’m done,” Freya said, finishing the last stitch of her sutures. Atreus had a broad, half-moon incision under his naval.
Kratos looked at the baby on the side-table, fighting the blankets that Freya had wrapped around it. Atreus was limp on the bed. Even when Freya unbound his wrists and ankles, they simply lay where they had been placed.
“Atreus?” Kratos took a step forward, but Freya put a hand on his chest.
She pushed the baby into his arms. “It’s a girl.”
Startled, Kratos looked down at the child. He took her into his arms. The baby was still wet with birth, blood webbing her thin black hair, and her eyes were screwed shut. She made a loud, almost irritated noise, throwing her tiny fists at the air.
“A girl,” Kratos said, almost disbelieving. He marvelled at how small she was, how perfect in form and design, every miniature eyelash and wrinkle.
The tiny girl gave a grumble, trying to wriggle out of her blankets. Kratos adjusted his grip on the baby, and she gave a howl of irritation.
“Great lungs,” Freya said, with a smile. “Big, too. She’s a little champion.”
“Atreus,” Kratos said, softly. He approached his son’s bedside and bent down, so that the baby could be next to her father. “Are you awake?”
Atreus was breathing steadily. Sweat shone on his face and bare chest. Freya had wiped his stomach, but flecks of blood had collected in his eyelashes and the stubble of his jaw. His blank, pale eyes slid towards Kratos.
“Atreus,” Kratos rumbled. He shifted his grip, so he could support his granddaughter as he touched Atreus’ cheek. “It’s a girl. Have you a name?”
Atreus just watched the child blankly. When the child began to make noise, Atreus’ eyebrows knitted together and he turned away.
“Kratos…” Freya said, quietly, her hand touching the old god’s shoulder. “He’s been through a lot. We should let him sleep.”
Kratos followed her into the next room. His boots resounded on the hollow wood floor. The discarded Jötnar twine shone like a golden snake, looping across the floor.
In the kitchen, Freya washed her hands thoroughly before she unwound her hair and began to re-braid it. Kratos sat down at the table, his granddaughter in his arms. The child had her mother’s deep brown eyes and although Kratos knew it was impossible, he felt like she could already focus on his face.
“What’s wrong with him?” Kratos asked. “Do not tell me he’s tired. He did not even smile to see her.”
Freya sighed. She was winding eagle feathers back into her hair. “He is melancholic.”
“What caused it? How long will it last?” Kratos demanded.
Freya just shrugged. “It is common enough with difficult births. Was your wife never like that when she delivered Atreus?”
Kratos looked down at the tiny child. He lifted her so she could rest with her chin on his shoulder and she stopped grumbling for a moment. “I’m starting to believe Fay’s pregnancy was unusually easy.”
“It sounds that way,” Freya said. “Or perhaps you were not privy to all the things she went through.”
Kratos merely grunted.
*
After a sling was fastened for the child, Kratos worked sorting herbs into small packets for Freya. The child did not like being still, did not like it when the blankets were too loose or too tight, did not like it when there was an unexpected noise or movement, and she was not afraid to make her dislike loud and clear.
It was a stark contrast to how Atreus had been at the same age. His son had been almost silent, white as a lily-petal, and it took a lot to wake him. At the time, Kratos had hardly worried -- he wasn’t familiar enough with babies to know a healthy one, and Fay had not seemed concerned. Now he wondered just how close they had come to Atreus slipping away, before he had even said his first word.
The child began to cry. Kratos shifted his hold on her, but she still wriggled like a mouse, wailing and wailing.
“She’s hungry,” Freya said, holding out her arms. Kratos let her take the child and she adjusted the fabric of her tunic so the baby could latch onto her nipple. The child went quiet immediately.
“How long will Atreus take to heal?” Kratos asked.
“His stomach incision will take a little longer than usual. His magic needs time to rebuild reserves,” Freya said. She petted the child’s soft, downy black hair. “I didn’t want to burden him with this but… Once he’s recovered, you should let him know that he won’t be able to safely carry another child to term.”
Kratos watched the child bunch Fay’s tunic in her tiny paws. He frowned. “Do you have a way of calling for Angrboða?”
“No, I don’t. She’s not aware of the birth?” Freya asked.
Kratos grunted.
“Listen… I know you are worried about him, but you should focus on the positives,” Freya said. The baby had stopped feeding and she pulled her tunic back into place. “Your son is recovering. Your granddaughter is very healthy. Vanaheim is peaceful and you are among friends.”
She held out the baby to him.
Kratos set the child back into the sling. She was quickly falling asleep. Kratos brushed her hair backwards. Not for the first time, he wished Fay were here. She had always been better at such things than him. The child sighed as she fell asleep, close to his skin.
*
For the next few nights, Atreus did not rise from his bed. Kratos let him rest. On the third night, after Freya had removed his stitches, Atreus’ bed was empty and unmade. Paw prints dotted up and down the clean floors, but other than that, Kratos saw no sign of him.
On a cold night, rain beat the wooden walls of the house. The child didn’t know what to think of the storm. She fought her blankets. Kratos murmured to her and she babbled back. She tugged on his dark beard.
The door opened, letting in a howl of wind and rain, before it slammed shut again. Claws clicked across the polished wood floor. An exhausted, dusky grey wolf flopped down by the fire. Water gleamed in his pelt.
“Atreus,” Kratos said.
The wolf’s blue eyes opened, ears pricking. Kratos approached, kneeling by the fire. When the wolf spotted the child, his ears pinned back and it lifted his head head, cringing away.
“Be at ease,” Kratos said, stroking the wolf’s nose. “You have nothing to fear.”
Eventually, the wolf’s eyes peeled open again. He sniffed the bundle of blankets and the child snatched at his long whiskers.
With a burst of embers, Atreus morphed back into human form, face still pressed into the blankets. He pulled his face back. He looked like a man hunted.
“What troubles you?” Kratos asked.
“I…” Atreus’ voice cracked. “I’m so… so, so scared. I mean… she’s so small. Look at her.”
Kratos said nothing. The baby shifted in her blankets.
“By the nine realms… I can’t believe I thought it was a good idea to have her.” Atreus pressed his dirty hands into his face. “I don’t know what I’m doing. I’ve made so many mistakes. I’ve been so stupid, I’ve hurt so many people.”
“You aren’t your past,” Kratos said.
“It’s not just that!” Atreus snapped, voice rough.
The noise startled the baby, who began to cry. Atreus looked helplessly down at the squalling child. Kratos rocked her gently, and she eventually quietened.
“You know what the world is like,” Atreus muttered. “There’s so much -- awfulness. So much horror, so much misery. What the fuck was I thinking, bringing a child into this?”
Kratos watched him. He took his son’s hand and put it onto the child’s back to support her weight. Gently, he let Atreus take his daughter into his arms.
“To have a child,” Kratos said, “is to believe in the future.”
Atreus looked down at his child. She pulled on his braids. The young god’s face was heavy with exhaustion; circles under his eyes and a thinness to his cheeks. His expression softened.
“It has been five nights. You should name her,” Kratos said.
“Yeah. Her Jötun name is Hela,” Atreus said. “But we -- me and Angrboða were wondering if you would give her a Greek name, too.”
Kratos was silent for a moment. A warmth burned in his chest. “Thank you. I will think on it.”
*
When the storm broke, sun shone golden and brilliant, and Angrboða dashed through the front door. She threw her arms around Atreus’ neck.
“Loki!!” Angrboða exclaimed. She pulled back to inspect his face carefully. “Are you alright? I was so worried. You look tired; do you need anything?”
“It’s good to see you,” Atreus said, brushing her cheek with his thumnb. He kissed her ear.
“Daughter, come here,” Kratos said.
The frost giant broke away from her husband and took the baby from her father-in-law’s arms. She cooed at the little baby. “She looked just like you, Kratos.”
“Hmm,” Kratos said.
Angrboða pressed her face into Hela’s. The child yanked on her round earring. Angrboða noticed the goddess leaning against the door-frame. “Thank you, Freya.”
“Any time,” Freya said.
Angrboða blew raspberries onto Hela’s belly and the child garbled, yanking on every piece of hair that was in reach. Angrboða laughed.
“I can’t wait til you’re big enough to eat sweetbread with us,” Angrboða cooed. “I can’t wait to teach you to paint and farm and cook. I can’t wait to find out what your favourite things are!”
Hela mumbled meaninglessly, pleased by the attention.
“So, father,” Atreus said, resting a hand against Kratos’ shoulder. “Have you thought of a name?”
Kratos looked down at the chubby face of his granddaughter. “Haima.”
“Haima,” Angrboða repeated. “I love it. Welcome to the world, Haima. I know you’ll like it here.”