Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Atreus wonders if he is truly awake.

A dull ache pulses in the back of his head, blurring his view in spinning the world with each second it persists. It reaches all the way to the nape of his neck, between the blades of his shoulders that force him to arch back in an attempt to escape the pangs. He raises his hand to grab the back of his head, to try and ease the throb in any way, but his hand only lifts an inch from his side before suddenly stopping, reaching a point of resistance.

He is tied, his entire body encased in a light silvery fabric that encases his body as if submerged, water woven into each strand. He strains and moves back and forth to break free, but the fabric retaliates and tightens its hold around him.

It knows not to let him go, it needs to keep him entrapped.

Atreus blinks, tries to make sense of what is happening to him. His mind is a labyrinth of confusion, fatigue, and memories that continue to fade and blur with each second he runs through the imaginative passages. No matter which corner he turns, which mental wall he traces his hand upon to memorize the way, he only feels like he is losing himself more and more. He only remembers the biting cold of Fimbulvetr, the sudden burn of adrenaline, and it all ends with the sharp sting of fear.

His memories will be no help here. With a huff of anger, he opens his eyes to see if maybe his surroundings would offer an answer.

It is so dark around him, a black void that eats into infinity. A faint blue glow reflects off the ground, only visible if he strains. It reveals the floor to be a smooth cold marble, polished to the point of looking like glass. Behind him is where the light originates. Twisting back and forth, he eventually manages to roll onto his side, and is immediately blinded by the light. Only when he blinks the spots away can he, at last, recognize the ethereal blue glow of the Bifrost, the shimmer of the silver tree centered in the room.

And in the glow, almost hidden in the expansive darkness, is an enormous figure.

“Father?”

Atreus coughs. His throat is so dry, his voice hoarse. He does not remember why.

The figure turns towards him, begins to approach, but does not speak a word. Again, Atreus cries out.

“Father?”

Still silent, the presence now stands in front of him. He squats down and stares, and does nothing more. Clearing his throat, Atreus tries to talk again.

“You think you could-”

The doors of the Bifrost open. Atreus stops, his throat and entire body tensing with fear.

What stands before him is a man.

But not his father.

The stranger possesses the same body as Kratos, large and burly and adorned with a massive beard, but that is where the similarities end. Where his father had a smooth, silken black brush, the man’s is unkempt, tangled, red and reaching to his swollen belly. The man’s skin is deeply tanned from old burns and long exposure to a never ending sun, whereas his father’s skin always retained that unusual snow-white hue.

And the eyes. Atreus’s fathers were always gentle, a golden amber that hides mystery and sadness. He could always find kindness in his father’s eyes, even when he yelled at him or grew angry. It was the one thing that made Atreus believe that he may be wanted.

But the stranger’s eyes are red. Scarlet that pools around the iris, anger that never goes away, a fire that burns and destroys anything it looks at.

The raw, unquenching fire of thunder.

Oh no.

“So, you decide to wake up now, small one?” Thor says. His voice booms and roars in the small chamber, an avalanche trapped in a forest. Every breath is a gust of wind that shakes the trees, that breaks their roots, and throws them to the ground.

Atreus says nothing in return. The god ignores it

“Well, better now, where you can see your new home.”

Thor reaches his hands out to the small child, and Atreus tries once again to break free of the cloth’s bind. But he only succeeds in making it tighten further around his body. The god laughs. It is like the roar of a bear.

“Good luck, small one. That is skyggekappe, a cloak made out of pure shadow. No one can escape the shadows.”

Nevertheless, Atreus continues his struggle, and Thor watches until boredom overtakes him. He picks up the child, one hand on his back and the other under his knee.

“Where’s my father?!”

“Oh, him. Left him where I found you two, with a nice hammer blow to his chest. Should still be there, in fact. I’ll get Mjolnir back eventually.”

Atreus immediately fears the worst.

Thor steps outside of the Bifrost, and Atreus is immediately greeted with lush green, warm blue, and insurmountable gold.

“What is this place?” He whispers to himself.

“Your home. Welcome to Asgard, small one.”

Atreus’s lungs burn, the air is so crisp and clean. From endless horizon to endless horizon, there were fields of the greenest grass, with the occasional patch of bright golden flowers. In the distance there are small clouds of snow, turned a crisp aurous color from the forever setting sun. Even the buildings ahead seem to be made of the coveted metal, with vines and moss elegantly encircling the walls and wooden bases.

“What do you think?”” Thor asks

“...I prefer silver. Gold’s too tacky.”

Thor frowns, and Atreus smirks back, only for it to fade when questions of his own infiltrate his thoughts.

“And how did you find us?” He dares to ask the god.

“Pretty simple, really.” Is all Thor says. Atreus hears the slight of anger in his voice, and decides to not say anything for the rest of the walk.

When they reach the buildings, Atreus feels many eyes upon him. The townspeople, all staring at him with their sharp, judging eyes.

He wonders if they are golden, too. Or red like Thor’s. Silver like his, maybe?

He tries to ignore them, looks down at the cloak that encases his body, then looks away as the ever-shifting material hurts his eyes. It reminds him of the little trick Sindri had shown him, and he began to worry about what happened to them. He hopes they had hidden as soon as Thor opened the doors to their shop. He knows Sindri to be the smart one, but what if Brok let his cockiness overcome him? What if he confronted the god of thunder, demanded to know why their enemy had Atreus strewn over his shoulder?

…No, best not to think about it.

When they reach the palace, Atreus can’t help but stare in awe at the way it towers over them. The sun cowers behind the building, turning the oak frames black from the shadow. This building is far older than the rest, made of deep bronze clay to reflect its age.

The age of the gods.

Thor opens the door. A blast of cold air sinks into the boy’s skin, and he shivers. He turns his head away from the stinging air, into the chest of his captor, the furs warm. An excuse to not look at the godly interior.

If he keeps his eyes closed, Atreus can imagine the furs belonging to his father’s shoulder guard. The only difference is that his father’s guard was made of thick and bristly boar’s hair, and this one is soft like a wolf’s.

It isn’t long until the footsteps stop, and the momentum that swayed Atreus from side to side slowly ceases. He looks up, squirming in Thor’s arms to see over his shoulder, and sees a hallway, long and never-ending. Murals encase the walls, elegant paintings of histories that Atreus knows to be wrong.

“Is this him?” Atreus hears behind him. The voice is smooth, gentle, and fatherly, nothing like what the demigod expected an Asgardian to have. It is calming, Atreus feels like he wants to fall asleep if only the voice would command it.

He sees Thor give a brief nod out of the corner of his eye, and turns back to see who the stranger is. The man is old, unbelievably so. His thin white beard trails down to his waist, along with his silvery white hair tied into a single neat braid. His back is overcome with a crooked hunch, one small push can easily make him tumble had it not been for the oaken staff in his gnarled hands. Wrinkles decorate his face, the skin of his cheeks dangling below his chin. There is an eyepatch that covers his right eye, a golden rune glowing on the black cloth. Atreus looks the old man in the eye, feeling his heart seize with fear.

His eye. It’s red like Thor’s.

Odin, the Allfather, the Lord of The Hanged, the Bearer of Knowledge, is staring down at him.

And he’s smiling.

“Welcome, son.”

Atreus looks up at the god, and cowers.

Chapter Text

“So you’re the Fayeson?”

Atreus doesn’t answer. Nevertheless the old god continues to give an aged, gentle smile that only sends chills down the boy’s spine.

“I must say, you’re a lot more… mortal than I imagined.” 

Odin bends down and grabs the face of the young boy. Atreus struggles against the hold, unable to escape as the All-Father turns his head from side to side.

“The eyes are most definitely not, but the hair, the scars, the flesh looks so vulnerable and damaging.” 

Atreus pulls away from the wrist, feels the elderly skin bend and fold around his face but not let go. Without thinking, he darts his tongue out and licks at the hand. Whatever embarrassment at the childish act is dashed away with pride at seeing Odin recoil in shock.

“Says you old man! You look like your own back is gonna break you!”

Odin laughs, which surprises the boy. It isn’t at all like Thor’s, that deep animalistic shout that rumbles Atreus’s very being. Odin’s is airy and ancient, constantly trapped wheezing as if he can never catch enough air. 

It reminds him of Mimir’s, somewhat.

“I like you boy! You speak well, for yourself. That’s more than some of my own men can say.” He rubs his hands together, giving an all too sincere smile. 

“Thor, how dare you treat him in such an undignified manner. He is a god, not a babe! Let him stand on his own feet!”

Thor obeys without question, placing the tied boy on the smooth floor. He grabs the edges of the skyggekappe , which Atreus still cannot see, and pulls. 

The boy spins in a circle before landing on his stomach, the ground shockingly cold as it seeps through the furs of his clothing. His head reels from dizziness, and he’d be lying if he said he isn’t the slightest bit embarrassed from the undignifying release.

Standing up as quickly as he could, Atreus only realizes then how tall the gods are compared to him. He cranes his neck to see the two Asgardians look down at him, one with a grin and the other with a frown.

“Come, boy, I would-”

“You don’t get to call me that.”

Immediately he feels a force hit the back of his head, one that sends him falling back to the floor. He looks up to see Thor’s hand raised, ready to hit the child again if necessary.

“You shall not talk to the All-father that way, half-breed!” Thor shouts. His words of anger force Atreus to cover his ears, the thunderous yell loud and destructive.

Atreus swears that the room darkens, that the light disappears.

Suddenly he feels a hand on his arm, and the light returns. Odin gently pulls him up, and smiles down at the child once again. But Atreus catches the glare he sends Thor, and the tightening of Thor’s fist as it’s lowered back to his side.

“Now why can’t I call you that?” he asks.

“Only my father can call me that.” Atreus growls under his breath, hoping the anger will hide the lie. 

That isn’t the reason. Atreus can care less about who calls him what, he cares even less about that word. The word his father called him for so long not as a term of endearment but as a means of separation. His own father wanted nothing from him, and it only took an entire adventure and the spreading of his mother’s ashes in a forbidden realm for his dad to finally start calling him by his name, to start actually acknowledging him as a son and not an inconvenience.

He hates the word, despises hearing it come from anyone’s lips, but does not want to give it up to someone like him. Not give the All-Father a way to begin a path.

Odin laughs again, places a hand on the child’s shoulder.

“Well, small one, I hope that one day you will allow me to call you that.”

Atreus isn’t foolish. He knows what the old god is implying.

“You will never be my father.” 

For a short second the allfather’s form flickers, from the seemingly kind, elder man to one that forces Atreus’s heart to stop, making his blood freeze.

Atreus nearly dies from fear at seeing it. 

The withered hand on his shoulder suddenly grips harder and harder. Atreus grabs at the crushing hold, tries to pry off the fingers one by one unsuccessfully as he falls to one knee.

There is an audible crack. Atreus feels tears prick the corners of his eyes as he tries to hold in whatever cry wants to escape his throat.

“If it weren’t for me, there would be no world for you to live in. You wouldn’t even exist, nor your father, nor any of you ungrateful, weak-willed humiliating rats that bend to the very will of the seidr.”

The voice is deep, dark and hollow. A never ending void that grabs at Atreus’s soul, pulls at his mind and tries so desperately to drag him down into the abyss that desired all knowledge. Even the air seems to be devoured by the powerful voice, leaving behind only dust that sticks to the boy’s throat, choking him.

And just like that, the void disappears. The air returns, sweetly burning Atreus’s lungs and freezing his skin. Odin’s grip lessens, and the boy falls to the ground on his hands and knees.

His shoulder throbs, his entire body pulsing as the blood returns. Atreus gently pulls at the blue cloth covering the aching joint. He isn’t surprised to see a bruise in the shape of a handprint begin to appear, bright red cuts at the edge of every fingertip releasing tiny drops of blood.

Then the god is once again back to his familiar appearance, still smiling down.

“Would you come with me, child?”

Atreus doesn’t say anything. He nods slowly, hesitantly.

“Then follow me. Thor, come along.” 

The god of thunder nods and pushes the small boy in front of him. Atreus says nothing and follows the allfather further down the never ending hallway.

“Sorry about that, child. I did not mean to hurt you.”

For a moment, Atreus thinks he heard concern from the god’s voice.
He knows differently. 

At that moment he wants nothing more than to spit at the god, but he values his life more.

The three soon stop before a large set of doors, the gold, silver and white apertures towering high over the two gods’ heads, sturdy and armored. Yet all Odin has to do is knock twice with his staff, and they bend to his will like string around a finger, swinging open without hesitation.

“Here we are.”

“And where is that?” 

“The hall.” Thor booms before pushing him in.

The first thing Atreus notices is the floor. Instead of the normal gilded bricks that he had grown familiar with, the wood is a deep reddish brown pleasing to the eye, seemingly smooth to the touch. In the center of the large chamber, the strange bark splits from the confines of the ground, twisting and turning into a table that glows with green vanir magic, expanding across the entire room. Adorning the elegant piece of furniture are plates of silver, gold, and ruby, decorated with fruits and meats that Atreus had never seen before. Sitting around it are other people, other gods, all staring up expectantly at the three newcomers. 

The boy recognizes a few of them, but most remain unknown. In fact, there are many seats that remain empty.

Atreus can guess who they once belonged to.

“Come, sit by my side child.” Odin says.

Atreus, in awe of what he sees, doesn’t say anything as the allfather takes his hand and pulls him along, leading him to the very front of the table. A throne made entirely out of stone stands out among the wooden chairs, looking down upon them all. Odin takes his seat there, and watches smiling as Atreus hesitantly sits down in the small one to the old god’s right. The boy stares down at his knees before looking at the unique cooking, all of it nothing like he's ever seen before. Even when he recognizes the toasted smell and look of hog flesh, it is so adorned with fruits and glazes that it might as well be something else. 

He wrinkles his nose, and returns to looking down.

“Are you going to eat, child? Surely you must be hungry.” 

“I don’t see you eating.” The demigod retorts.

Odin chuckles.

“I don’t need food, only wine.” 

Odin holds up an extravagantly designed drinking horn as proof, and places it to his lips. The gold rimming makes the All-Fathers lips shine in the torchlight, a mouth of gold ready to spew whatever “wisdom” the alcohol brings forth to his mind.

Atreus still refuses, and continues to just watch the others, avoiding any eyes that dare him to look back. He does not want to do anything, does not want to interact with anyone in fear that one wrong word would lead to one wrong encounter.

But it seems his wishes would go unrequited, as he hears a loud shriek of metal legs running against stone right next to him, a new presence at his side. The newcomer takes a slice of a reddened boar and places it on his plate, cutting it into little chunks.

“You must eat, little one. It is not well for a growing child to starve himself out of spite.”

The demigod looks up, wanting to shout at the god at how he is not a child, and can only gaze in awe as the harsh words stop dead in his throat.

The person next to him is a goddess, astonishingly beautiful to the eye. Her skin is as pure and white as the snow, not a single blemish marring the seemingly smooth surface. Her eyes, as blue as the lake of nines, stare gently back at him, like a mother observing a child. Her hair is braided away from her delicate face, the golden strands of barley and wheat meeting into one massive ponytail that reaches all the way to the ground, yet did not collect any dirt.

For once he sees the color gold and doesn’t revolt.

“My name is Sif, little one. You have nothing to fear.”

Atreus absently nods to the beautiful goddess, and reaches for the pork, unable to look away. Sif, seeing his hands reaching to grab the sliced piece of meat, frowns and gently slaps his hand away. It doesn’t truly hurt, merely surprising the boy as he looks up to see his dinner companion pointing at two utensils Atreus had never seen before.

“What’re those?” He asks.

“Tools for eating. Odin learned this trick from the Persians, little one. In all honesty it makes eating much cleaner.”

She holds them up, showing the child how to hold them. Eventually he copies her, ignoring the discomfort of balancing the metal between his index and thumb, and she shows him how to cut.

She’s right, a lot cleaner than his bare hands.

She smiles as he finally begins to eat, reveling in the taste of the godly food as he grabs more and more. Satisfied with her work, she turns back to her own food, occasionally glancing at him to make sure that he is still eating. He returns the glances with a smile and a gesture of putting more food on his plate. Eventually the goddess becomes confident in her success, and turns her attention back to herself. Atreus watches her for a moment before he looks back down at the strange silvery tools. One is like a trident, the weapon his father used for fishing in the summer, back when such a season still existed. The other is clearly a knife, with a metal grip instead of a wooden one and the blade much thicker than normal. Holding it up, he touches the tip with his finger, presses down until he sees a tiny drop of red. The knife is sharp.

Sharp enough to kill? 

He hopes so. 

When no one is looking, Odin too busy drinking the last drops of his wine and Sif trying to ensure the other men of the table ate as finely as she, he picks the knife up from his plate and slips it into his sleeve, relaxing at the familiar feeling of cold and dangerous metal ready to cut.

Time passes as the little demigod continues to eat along with the Asgardians, eyes wary and shifting as the cold iron presses closer to his skin. He smiles at Sif every now and then, but he hardly eats as he waits for this meal to end.

When they are all satisfied, Odin stands up from his iron seat and begins to thank everyone for their presence, slowly walking towards the demigod.

“This is truly a wondrous occasion, my friends. As you see, we have accepted a new god into our family. One who shall carry our legacy, who shall bring forth the knowledge of the world before us…” 

Odin stands directly behind Atreus and places his hand on the boy’s shoulder. The grip is tight, but old.

Atreus takes his chance.

He pulls the knife out of his sleeve, leaping out of his seat and towards the allfather, the weapon aimed straight at his neck. It was a blow that could kill the god instantly, like it did with Modi. He doesn’t care if the other gods killed him, as long as he-

Atreus stops, the knife mere inches away from the old god’s throat.

There is a barrier, a swirl of light and color that wraps around the young boy’s body, freezing him in place. He strains, tries to push through, but they only pulse and shift from his feeble resistance. It stings against his skin, too hot and too cold at the same time

“My apologies, Allfather. I should have reacted sooner.”

The voice is unfamiliar, dry and all too loud within his mind. He strains, tries to fight against the kaleidoscopic prison as it wraps further around him and slows everything to a crawl. There are footsteps behind him, almost drowned out by the shimmering waves. He strains his neck, slowly turns to see who holds him still, and is greeted with eyes made of infinity.

The person is thin, too thin for anyone to be alive with a pallor to match. His clothing contrasts his lifeless appearance, however, consisting of bright colors blinding to the eyes. Around his ears are two ram horns that curl and tap at his chin, a strange addition that makes him look more like a fool than a god.

But the eyes… 

He knows who this god is.

“Well, child,” Odin mutters, breaking Atreus’s attention back to him. There is the sting of disappointment laced in his words, like a father having to scold his misbehaving child.

Atreus finds the comparison ironic.

“You haven’t even spent a day here, small one. Why must you cause mischief for your new family?”

“Maybe because I don’t need this new family. Or want it and the backstabbers it comes with.”

There is silence. A long, ugly silence.

“Maybe this will teach you,” Odin says. “Heimdall, you know what to do.”

“Yes, allfather.” The guardian, Heimdall complies. He places a hand over Atreus’s eyes, every detail of the scarred skin encases the demigod’s vision. The flesh is dry and adheres to his face like sap.

“Kan du ikke lenger se.” the child hears, barely above a whisper, and his vision slowly begins to darken as the hand tenses and curls.

It isn’t long until the guardian’s touch begins to burn, searing into his skin like metal. But no matter how much he tries to move away, his body stands completely still, his skin trapped against the bifrost.

By now he has shut his eyes, tries to ignore the pain, tries so hard not to scream. But it hurts so much, he can't do it as his entire body grimaces at the sensation, as his hands dig so deeply into the one holding him that blood catches under his fingernails.

Is it Heimdall’s, or his?

Once the man finally releases Atreus from the magic grip, falls to the ground and grabs at the burning skin, his own hands cooling to the touch. As soon as the sting fades away, he opens his eyes…

Only to see that everything is still black, nothing but an endless void around him.

His heart stops.

Atreus is blind.

Chapter Text

Kratos awoke to an intense pain burning in his chest.

It was almost overpowering, even the slightest movement made it surge across his body, rolling through every muscle and rattling every bone.

He groaned in pain, his body tensing. Nevertheless he still tried, and only made the pain worse.

He couldn’t feel the cold blade of the Leviathan Axe by his side, a lost comfort. The Blades of Chaos were trapped underneath him, indenting into his back and preventing him from dying of the cold.

Opening his hand, he heard the magical weapon fly through the air before it landed in his hand. He let a gasp escape as pain shot throughout his body from the jarring experience, his weapons of fire burrowing even further into his body from the sudden movement. There was a noise in the distance, trying to break through the roaring storm of snow and reach Kratos. The god strained to hear, barely making out the words against the screaming wind.

“You have to get up, brother! Please!” said the almost lost voice.

It was the head.

The voice of the horned man was so far off, instead of at Kratos’s side.

The dazed god looked around, his vision blurred with the white powdery snow. He blinked away the frozen fluff, to see that the valley behind the house was completely decimated, the stumps of trees turned black with ash, with pits of dirt and mud bursting as they filled back up with snow. The wooden home, the one that he and Faye had built together when their child was only a babe, still suckling on his lover’s breast for nourishment, had two giant holes in the front and back. The edges were seared, and pieces of the ancient wood still fell away to the wind, creating a strewn path that led to the injured god. If he squinted, he could see the glowing eyes of Mimir resting on one of the bed’s, still trying to shout at Kratos. He tried to find anything more, only to have more fall into his chilling features and whitening his vision once again.

Damn Fimbulvetr. Damn it back to the frozen winds of Hel that brought it to the realm of Midgard! Three years of snowfall was far more troubling than one would believe. The food became scarce, both of the earth and of the blood. They had wasted so many of Atreus’s arrows, having to spend hours out in the cold to find them, lest they lose their only way of killing prey.

Kratos suddenly broke out of his daze, fully remembering what had happened to his son.

“Atreus!” He coughed out, feeling blood tickle at his lips. He spat it out as he tried to move again, only to tense back up and remain on the frozen ground. More filled up in his mouth and stained his teeth even more red.

“He’s gone, brother! Taken!”

Kratos remembered fully, the great storm that had let the thunder god sneak up so easily on the two. They were unprepared for the attack, for the power of the Odinson warrior.

“Father!” Atreus shouted. Thor held the boy by his hair, the fiery red locks straining against the grip as he thrashed around.

Kratos, tired from the ongoing battle, blood rushing down his ashen skin and his muscles bursting with took in another breath as he threw the axe at the adversary, using the remains of whatever strength was left in his non-broken hand. It didn’t even make it half way, the Aesir pointing a brawny finger, and a bolt of lightning burst through the trees. The arc of electrical light shot the magical weapon away into the forest. The Spartan, desperate, held out his hand, and could feel the axe trying to fly back to its owner, a metallic whir in the air that grew closer and closer. But his concentration was broken, as Kratos felt the full force of Thor’s hammer slam into his chest, sending him flying. It was in that moment, that one moment when Kratos was no longer on the ground, when he felt his body flew through their house and he landed back in the snow with a thud, when pure magic crushed against his chest with a very audible SNAP, that he felt completely, utterly, helpless.

The last thing he heard was Atreus’s scream suddenly cut short as the hammer dug deeper and deeper into his body. It grew heavier and heavier with each second, no matter how many times Kratos tried to remove it from his burning body. All he remembered was the sound of metal sinking into flesh, a bright spurt of red, then nothing more.

The memory released a rush of rage in Kratos’s body, and he tried once again to stand up, ignorant of the pain as anger and fury coursed through his muscles. But it did not last long, body still weak from the fight, and he fell back down, his Spartan rage already gone.

“Okay, now I need you to listen to me. I know this may sound ridiculous. Completely and utterly ludicrous, mental, maniacal-”

Kratos growled.

“Okay, you need to cut yourself open.”

There was a tense silence.

“Now, I know it may sound-”

Without question, Kratos took a firm grip of the axe in his hand, holding over his broken . He took in one big swell of breath before he brought it down upon his stomach, the magical metal cutting through his flesh like paper.

For a second there was no pain, before it burst across his body, encompassing his entire body and making his body tense and freeze. Warm blood began to pool in the deep cut, trailing down his skin and merging with the snow in an artistically disturbing manner. But he ignored it, and drew it further up his body, creating a wider wound.

“You’re so lucky you're a god, brother.”

“Shut up head,” Kratos strained out. He covered the wound to prevent any snow from falling into the burning gash. “Just tell me what to do next.”

“Okay, judging from what I can see, your chest is shattered from the blow. Completely shattered. I’m actually surprised that it isn’t missing entirely and is just splattered on the trees. You really-”

Kratos growled, growing even more impatient. The disembodied head sighed, knowing he was stalling time.

“It’s actually quite simple. You need to look for the bits that’re broken.”

“Nothing’s broken, head. Nothing can be broken. I’ve taken worse from gods and came back.”

“Yeah, but they also never broke anything important, like a god with a hammer made out of pure bloody magic that can hinder any enemy and make everything feel ten times more painful than the most infected wound.”

Submitting to the head’s rambling, Kratos braced himself, and shoved his hand into the gash.

Blood overflowed, and whatever his hand touched stung. But his expression remain stoic, with the occasional grunt as he searched among the mesh of squelching organs and viscera for the source of his pained stillness. Fortunately for him, it wasn’t long until he found it. Soon he came across a hard material, sturdy and strong, brushing on the back of his hand. It felt like the claws of a draugr were scraping his skin, albeit thicker than the fragile nails of the beasts. They were distorted, uneven, proof that they were broken.

“I found the bones, head. Now what do I do?”

“Are they the right ones? If not, then you’re gonna-”

“What do I do?” Kratos asked again, his voice rumbling in impatience.

“Well, now comes the tricky part. You need to break them again.”

“What?!”

“You absolutely need to. Your body has healed wrong, and you need to fix it as soon as possible before it becomes permanent.”

Kratos sighed. “Fine.”

He took hold of the distorted bones, feeling the inner warmth of his organs seep into the osseous matter. He tensed his body, and pulled.

The snap was loud, so loud that it had silenced the rustle of leaves, hushed the endless wind. Kratos held back a yell of pain, letting the burn run through his body for a short time before he grabbed another bone and did the same thing again. With each one he waited less and less, wanting to finish it as soon as possible. Not because it hurt, not because he never felt anything like this in all of his battles, but because the longer he took, the longer it would take for him to heal.

And less time would he have for him to save his son.

As soon as he was done, he layed back down in the snow, his mind growing fuzzy once again as he forcefully willed his body to heal. It stung, his skin growing hotter with every second he used his godlike ability. The endless torrent of snow melted upon contact, creating a cold puddle of water around his burning body.

Damn Fimbulvetr.

Chapter Text

Atreus could hear them snickering, hear them laughing at him as he felt the darkness closing around him.

He stretched out his hands, searching for anything to hold onto, anything to grasp at. But the only solid thing he could find was the ground beneath him, cold and unforgiving. He pressed his hands against the floor and pushed himself up, his balance long forgotten as he tried to make sure he didn’t fall back to the ground. But it seems like the gods wouldn’t have it, as he felt a force push him back down to be embraced by the cold metal floor.

Sif watched from afar as her celestial brethren surrounded the small boy, like a crowd around a dancing fool. Whenever he moved, they moved with him, making sure that there was an empty circle for the demigod to stumble around in. Occasionally one would step in and push the child, startling him and making him fall back to the ground in a shivering heap. Never before had she felt so embarrassed for her kind.

Atreus, however, only ever felt this scared once in his life. It was when he was hidden underneath the house, trapped in darkness as he heard he heard his father fight Baldur, the only sign that anyone was alive the invulnerable god’s constant taunting and threats. The shadows had clung to him, making his thoughts echo louder in the small space as they whispered of his father's demise and, soon, his. 

Now the only sign that anyone was there was the constant, neverending caws of the Aesir, shrill in his ears like that of a crow or a cat. He quickly covered them, but the laughter seemed to sneak through and reverberate in his ears, making him want to scream in anger, fear and anguish.

“Watch your step, small one!”

“Can you see into the future now?”

Crows, cats, a never ending stream of pain that infests my head, worms into my mind make it go away make it stop.

Suddenly, Atreus heard someone speak, far off beyond the sounds of laughter, concern lacing its hidden speech. The voice itself was thin, hoarse and brittle, almost like the speaker was merely a spirit lost on its way. And, like many spirits he had met, they began to mourn and plead to the small child, asking for any way it could help him and protect him.

Atreus recognized the dry and fragile voice. It was one that used to whisper to him in the cold of night, desperately trying to warm him and protect him from the freezing clutches of the winter, but control its urge to help, lest it hurt him like it had so many times before. It would keep him company whenever his mother left to hunt, keeping the once sickly child smiling through the constant pain in his body, and it giving his mother a friend to talk to whenever he was too weak to speak.

What can it do, what can it do to protect him, it constantly asked, the question never ending.

The answer was simple.

Burn them all! Atreus ordered the voice.

“Sviða þau allr !” He shouted into the air.

Immediately the shrill laughter of the gods turned into ghastly screams of fear and pain. A ring of strong, almost unbearable heat surrounded the boy like a coat, stinging at his skin and melting through his clothes. He could hear it constantly snarling and biting at the Aesir gods, warning them to stay away from the young giant. If they didn’t listen, it forced them away from the demigod with its burning bite, pushing them farther and farther back, in fear of being hurt again.

Atreus could feel a smile form on his lips. If only he could see their pain like they mocked his.

Suddenly a force, cold and unforgiving slammed in front of the demigod. It blew him back, away from his protector as it cried out in its strange tongue, the pain reverberating through the air and into Atreus’s ears, pounding inside his head. The scream stopped, and the burning, somewhat comforting pain of the heat quickly died away, leaving Atreus once again alone in the dark, now mourning for his fallen friend.

But he wasn’t alone for long. He could feel the allfather’s suffocating presence in front of him, void and forever taking from everything around him.

At that instant Atreus was glad he couldn’t see the old god standing in front of him, see that terrifying form that he knew was looking down at him with a gleaming red eye.

“Interesting, child. Very interesting.” Was all the god said, before he disappeared, and the void with him. He swore he could hear many of the gods running off with their lord, their padded feet thumping against the gilded floor.

Again he was alone. Trapped in that small cellar, his only companion the thoughts in his head.

Suddenly Atreus felt arms wrap around his own, and he shouted. He raised his hands, trying to claw at his attacker’s face, all too much like a wounded animal. But he could hear the person holding them fervently whisper at him to calm the demigod down. Her breath smelled of fresh bread, a delicacy for Atreus and his family, and he could catch the slightest whiff of earth after rain on her skin.

“It’s okay, you are fine. No one will hurt you now.” Sif soothed the child, running her long soft fingers through his short hair.

Atreus just held onto the smooth silk fabric of her dress with all of his might, trying not to tear it. He rested his head against her breast, slowly accepting his fate before Sif gently urged him to stand with her. She was much taller on her feet than he expected, having to let go of her collar so as to not force her to bend down to him.

Boldly, he asked her the question burning in his mind. “What happened? What did I do?”

The goddess was silent for a moment.

“Child, you burned the gods. You burned them with the lantern fire.”

Atreus could feel the smile grow back.

Chapter Text

Sif was in awe of the small child. What had began with sadness and pity had quickly turned into shock and fragments of fear that were still buried in her chest.

Not only had he spoken the old language, he had made it obey him. He had shouted out the words, ones that had rumbled the ground they stood on, quickly silencing the aesir as they struggled to keep their footing. The flames flared at his words, the light shimmered, the wood curled, and everything had grown cold .

For a few seconds there was silence, no one laughing or even muttering of what just happened. Then, the soft blaze of the lanterns, ones that offered light to see by with a gentle warm breath, suddenly burst with rage, and jumped out of their braziers. It flew across the ground and breached through the ring of gods, not caring if it burned them. If anything, it tried to scorch their skin, make it redden, sting and peel in revenge for the child it now circled.

For a split second, Sif could see the flame take the form of a beast, savage and angry, pieces of the blaze turning blue with heat to create eye, claws and feral teeth. It stared at every one of them, warning of the burning pain if they dare even insult their ward.

Then Odin, not amused by the little trick, simply snuffed the living blaze with one step of his boot, a huge gust of wind from the force pushing the gods and the blind child back.

Sif was sure that the allfather would punish him again, would burn his lips shut, cut out his tongue, another symbolizing torture. But all he did was smile at the child, then turn and leave. He walked passed the bewildered Aesirs, many of them all too busy to soothe their burns with faint breaths or gentle touches, only stopping by Sif’s side and placing a withered hand on her shoulder. The grip held back an unearthly strength, one that Sif and many others have always known to fear and avoid.

“Take him to his room.” He whispered, then left, looking unusually pleased. All of the gods followed, exiting the dining hall and complaining about the burns on their skin. Many of them did not even look back at the boy, who was once again alone.

Sif, however, ran forward and wrapped her arms around the demigod, trying to comfort him as he cried in fear of the unknown. Eventually he calmed down and held tightly onto her dress as she told him of what happened.

“Come, let’s take you somewhere else. Somewhere to get cleaned up.”

The child just nodded, holding onto her wrist as she led him out of the dining hall.

For most of the long walk they said nothing. The goddess could tell that the child was trying to get a bearing of his surroundings, focusing on every sound. His head spun whenever a fire crackled, or when a breeze blew by.

“Don’t worry, the lost sight is usually only temporary. Odin shall most likely return it to you in due time.”

“How do you know?” The child asked, his voice merely a whisper as he looked up to where he assumed her head was. She couldn’t help but feel a twinge of guilt at the sight of his eyes, literally seared shut, the pale fragile skin around them now an ash black.

“I’ve seen him do it to others to test them, to see if they’re worthy.”

“Why?”

“Because he believes not everyone is deserving of the title of god.”

She knew he could hear the animosity in her voice, and decided not to press her any further. A wise decision.

Again they remained silent as she led him through the palace, eventually stopping in front of a door with colors of green, silver and blue adorning the metal. She didn’t know how she recognized it as the child’s room, most likely because Odin planted the memory in her mind.

It wasn’t the first time he has done it, much to her chagrin.

She opened the door, and wasn’t surprised to see the youthful decorations.

The bed was centered in the room, far smaller than her and Thor’s, with silk of the darkest blue as the sheets, with a large window behind the head that overlooked the city, and two more on the left and right walls. A table of dark wood was pressed into the corner, with a notebook and quill for writing, a stack of ancient books with broken spines and torn covers, and a small pyramid of scrolls, the parchments cracked and yellowed. There was a chest at the foot of the bed, open and revealing small folded clothes. There were even a few toys on the floor, colored wooden figurines of animals both magical and natural. She kicked them out of their way with her feet, letting the child sit at the side of the bed. She found next to the bed a golden basin, with a cloth draped over the rim and a note next to it that said ‘to clean the boy’s face.’

So the allfather was planning on blinding him anyway, Sif thought solemnly. Nevertheless she took the basin and dipped the cloth into the water.

The boy seemed to have heard it, his body tensed as he looked at the direction of the noise.

“Relax, it is just to clean your face, nothing else. It won’t hurt.” She soothed the boy, taking his hand and letting him feel the texture of the now wet material. Reluctantly, he nodded and let her clean off his seared features.

“Why are you helping me?” he asked.

At first Sif didn’t answer, only dipping the cloth back into the bowl and removing more of the black ash. She could see Heimdall’s fingerprints pressed into the skin, red and raw like a war mark, and it shall remain there until Odin sees fit.

“Because you are a young child trapped in an unknown world surrounded by all too powerful tyrants?” Sif answered jokingly. But the boy did not smile.

“I killed your sons. My father did, too. I’d think you would hate me for that.” He muttered.

Sif couldn’t help but laugh. She could hear the dark sound that left her lungs, very unlike the goddess of farming.

“Child, if anything I should be thanking you. They were not my children, but the bastards of my ungrateful husband and two whores whose names I’ve tried desperately to forget. The only child Thor ever had with me was our daughter Thrúd, and Odin got rid of her as soon as possible.” She told him, her heart overflowing with a variety of anger, despair and self-disappointment.

“How?” The child asked, his whitened eyes darting back and forth nervously and curiously, trying to pinpoint the goddess’s face.

“He filled her mind with the idea of becoming a Valkyrie. In many ways it was a high honor, a worthy cause for a woman to become. But she fell with the rest into the realms. I am sure that she was one of the many who did not make it.”

Ironic. A goddess associated with fertility could only ever produce one heir. She thought as she removed the last of the ash. The boy took in a breath, ready to ask more seemingly innocent questions, but was stopped by Sif’s teasing tone.

“Ah-ah-ah. Now let me ask my own questions child.” Sif chuckled. Atreus nodded in resignation.

“To begin, what is your name? I cannot keep on calling you child.”

The boy was silent, she could tell he was pondering. He even placed his hand on his chin in thought, wondering if he should trust her.

“It’s Loki.”

“Loki? That’s an odd name.”

“Well I don’t know about you, but it was quite popular among the giants.”

Sif smiled.

“Alright, Loki, my next question is this. What are these scars?” She asked, running a thumb over the mars on the boy’s face. They were old and faded, thick maroon on pale white, a grotesque feature to his youthful complexion.

“I was attacked by a wolf when I was smaller. I was out on my one of my first hunts with my mother, and I managed to bring down a deer. But I killed it in the territory of a wolf pack. They told me to leave it there for it was now their property, but I didn’t want to. So, one of them fought me, and managed to scratch me. He apologized, but he took the deer anyway and left me in the snow.”

Sif was curious. A wolf apologizing? She has heard of Odin trying to learn the language of beasts, but never of one who could truly speak it.

Fascinating.

“Well, my husband always says that a scar or two creates character, no matter how much I want him to be rid of the one on his forehead. That chunk of metal cannot be good for what little mind he already has.” She jested.

Atreus chuckled at her simple attempt at humor. It was light and childish, sending little bounds of joy through Sif’s chest.

“Now, how did you control fire like that? I haven’t seen a trick like that since the Vanir had lived here.”

“I didn’t control it,” he responded. His face bore a look of confusion.

“Of course you did, child. How else would it have swarmed all over the Aesir? How else would it have protected you with the fierceness of a mother?”

“I just asked it to.”

Sif frowned. Loki blinked.

“You cannot ask fire. You cannot talk to fire, for fire has no tongue, language or even a soul.”

“Everything has a soul. And even though it doesn’t have a tongue to form our words, that doesn’t mean it can’t speak. It just speaks with what it is, like all things do. It talks through emotions, urges, things that even we don’t have words for. You cry and people know you’re upset, you laugh and people know that you’re happy, more or less.”

Sif, not truly satisfied with his answer, finally finished cleaning off all the ash, the white silken cloth now black with magic soot. She placed it on the floor and moved to unscrew the window to pour the water out, not wanting the boy to trip over it. She could hear the child, Loki , get off the bed and begin wandering around, using his hand to feel and know his surroundings.

She opened the window, feeling the pure air of Asgard on her face, and poured the water out with a loud pitter-patter on its tumble down.

She swore she could hear a scream of surprise below her, and couldn’t help but smile.

But the silly attitude did not last long, however, when the room, the palace, the whole land began to quiver and shake. In the corner of her eye she could see the room behind her darken.

She pushed herself back into the room, turning around to find the corners of the chamber being encased in ice that crawled down the walls like the webs of a spider. Loki stood in the corner, next to the table, where his hand traced out the heavily inked words of a scroll in a language she couldn’t read.

“Láta sá… íss gøra… herklæði… hlíf… ásjá- ” He muttered

“Loki! What are you doing?!” Sif shouted in fear, roughly grabbing his wrist and pulling his hand away from the pages. He yelped in surprise, and the ice on the wall cracked away and launched at the goddess, a sharpened point aimed straight for her heart. She felt the sudden tug on her scalp, and felt her long golden strands unravel themselves from the intricate braid and launch in front of he.

But they were no longer the same silken threads that adorned her scalp, the tender strands that had given her the name “Sif of The Golden Hair.” They were now thick, rough cords of vine, heavy and verdant with flecks of brown spotting the green rind. They rustled like aged grass as they entwined into thick ropes, swiftly wrapping around the spear of ice in an attempt to defend their host. The creeping plants, with one swift squeeze, swiftly broke the shard in half, pulling it away from the frozen web on the wall. They then threw it to the side, where it shattered instantly, a loud crash reverberating off the walls.

She couldn’t help but cry out in pain as the Vanir curse attempted to protect her and harm her at the same time.

Loki just looked into the air, his glazed and pearly eyes wide with fear as he struggled to understand what was happening.

“What were you doing?!” She shouted again. She could see in the corner of her eye her living hair slowly change back to the thin gentle threads of gold, could feel it shift its very essence from verdure to creatural, a process that was once painful, but she had built a tolerance for. Proof that she has had the curse for far too long.

“Nothing. I’m just trying to-”

“You were speaking magic! The realm was shifting around you, distorting in pain! You summoned ice! Living ice!”

“I was just trying to read them with my hand.” He stuttered, holding his balled hands up in some sort of defense against the goddess’s anger. The tips were smudged black from pressing them harshly against the pages, smearing across his palms as he clenched and unclenched. The thin coating revealed to the goddess strange markings embedded into his skin, a pale pink to the grayish black. Taking the child’s hand in hers, she could see that, much like the texts, they were in a language she couldn’t hope of understanding.

Only then did she realize the meaning behind the child’s stay. Her heart sank for the poor boy as she fell to her knees, pulling him to her and hugging him tightly.

“Don’t worry, child. Your sight will return very soon. It is the whole reason why you were brought here, after all.”

“What do you mean?”

She sighed in despair. Oh how she missed having such innocence, a feeling she had last felt back before Freya was betrayed by her supposed-to-be lover.

She wonders how similar this play of betrayal will be to that of the Vanir queen.

“You will learn soon, Loki. Very soon.”

Chapter Text

Kratos couldn’t deny that he was overjoyed when the pain finally stopped and he could finally sit up without another snap from his side that would send him falling back to the snowy ground. His body was stiff from lying down for so long, the muscles literally creaking from misuse as he slowly got to his feet and walked back to the house, his axe dragging through the snow. The fire in the center was still going, barely clinging onto its temporary lifeforce. It made the broken wooden structure warm compared to the endless torrent of snow, a welcoming feeling.

“You’re up! Great! Now we-” Mimir started, only to be interrupted when Kratos roughly picked him up from the bed and attached him to his belt, still not saying anything other than a few grunts of pain.

“Well, now that’s just rude.”

The god said nothing as he grabbed whatever necessities he needed for the short journey, from provisions to medicine.

Hopefully he won’t have to use most, or any of them.

The boat was frozen to the pier, thin layers of ice clutching the two wooden structures together. All it took was a kick from Kratos’s boot, and the shards dropped into the water, the boat rocking free.

The ride to the lake was long and silent. No matter how many times Mimir tried to spark a conversation, the Spartan would only reply with a few words, grunts, or nothing at all. Eventually the disembodied head gave up, and the only noise the two cared to listen to was the sound of water running over water as Kratos rowed as quickly as he could.

The smell of seawater permeated the two’s senses, sharp and warm as they left the cold confines of the snowy mountain. But the chill did not leave, the effects of the Fimbulvinter reaching every edge of Midgard. Every plant was frosted, every breeze was sharp and cutting, every body of running water was still.

Had it not been for the giant snake’s constant shift in the salted lake, the large body of water would have already been frozen to the very bottom.

And it was this serpent that stared down at the Spartan, its eyes a strange mixture of confusion and interest that followed the boat as it docked, and both passengers step onto the metal temple.

“Do you think he saw anything?” Kratos asked.

“Most likely. I mean, he and Thor are the cat and dog of the gods. Neither would’ve been able to resist at least a fight with each other.”

But they only found disappointment with what the serpent told them.

“What did the serpent say?” Kratos asked, even though he could already guess the answer from the way the Giant looked down at them with pity.

“He says he’s as surprised as you are. Thor just ran past, too much of a coward to take him on.”

Kratos began to worry. So the abduction of his son was more important than a battle with the thunder god’s biggest adversary.

“Ask him if he saw anyone else with Thor.”

“Will do.” Mimir cleared his throat, or what remained of it, and spoke the question in the giants tongue. The serpent seemed confused before giving its long and deep answer, a bad omen for the Spartan.

“He says that no one was with the fat gobber. But he was carrying something on his shoulder, something that forced him to look away, the only reason why he escaped without a fight.”

“What?”

“My guess is that it was the skyggekappe .”

Kratos remained silent. Mimir knew what he was asking.

“The skyggekappe, one of Odin’s favorite toys. A piece of magic clothing that defies all belief. It was created by the dark elves as a gift. Made out of the shadows of the Light of Alfheim, its very transgression to reality makes the wearer seemingly invisible. And those who can see it shall experience intense pain, their eyes unable to look at such an abnormality.”

“Is that how he managed to sneak up on us so easily?”

“That could’ve been a factor.” Mimir told him, preparing to speak to the serpent once again. He was stopped, however, when the god just put the head back onto his belt and lowered the platform.

Kratos had grown impatient. None of this was useful to him.

The black metal of the temple had turned gray from the ice, casing the floor in a new, chilling layer. It crushed under the Spartan’s boot with a gentle crunch, turning into a thin powdery snow. Ice shattered above him and fell to the floor as he pulled against the giant door, forcing it open. Heat wafted out of the formerly closed space, a welcoming sensation after hours of bitter cold stinging the skin.

Brok and Sindri were at their forge, working on various weapons, tools, machinations that Kratos did not care for at the moment. He ignored them as they greeted him, asked pointless questions, and yelled in anger as he did not answer and walked past them.

The room of travel was not even touched by the snow, the magical chamber almost as warms as the dwarves’ hearth. Even the bridge of light was free from any of the crystallized waters, still the same glassy and pristine surface. The elegant tree in the center seemed to be unfazed of the continuous torrent of frost. Silver flowers gently bloomed at the roots, crawling along its trunk until the withered and fell away, swiftly turning into dust before they hit the marbled floor. Some managed to land on Kratos’s hand as he placed the bifrost key into the opening.

With a single spin the Spartan pulled up the gateway to the realm of the Aesir, the miniature statue glaring happily at him as he tried to open the gate.

Only to be greeted with a loud stone crack, and for the circle of marble figures to begin to spin out of control, too fast for the naked eye to tell which statuette led to which realm.

The entire room was affected by the seal that Odin has placed on it, trying to complete its task and breaking in the process. Lights flickered, doors opened and shut without warning, spouting forth the harsh winds of Hel, burning atmosphere of Muspelheim, and toxic fumes of Niflheim. The tree began to grow and wither at a much more rapid pace as well, many of their strange flowers blowing into the wind before popping in a blue burst of flames. The bright blue pool began to bubble and foam, overflowing and searing into the marble floor, causing the Spartan to jump back, lest the skin of his feet be melted away as well .

“What in the nine realms is going on?!” Mimir shouted, his golden eyes shifting as they tried to comprehend what they were seeing.

Kratos said nothing, and quickly took the bifrost key out. The chaos began to lessen, the table slowing, the lights once again stabilizing to a steady glow.

For a short time, nothing was said.

“I… I think you broke it, brother.”

“I don’t need you to tell me that.” Kratos growled.

“Well, it can’t be that bad, though. It could probably mend itself, given time. Let me see it, it’s probably suffered worse.”

Kratos complied, unlatching the wrapped head from his waist and showed it the table of statues. Many of them were chipped, missing chunks entirely. The blue pool continued to bubble and hiss, still cooling down from the erratic and demented sequence that had just occurred.

Mimir sucked in air through his teeth, before letting it out in a long, long whistle.

“Yup, very clearly broken. So broken, it should take years for it to mend itself,” he muttered, repeating the sentence as Kratos exited the travel room.

The doors creaked, another sign of the machine’s collapse.

“Do you mind telling me what in the realms of fire and fuck is going on here?!” Brok shouted, his brother cringing at the vulgarity in his words. Kratos said nothing as the dwarves once against swarmed him with questions, asking where the boy was, what had happened, and why was the travel room making such unusual noises.

Kratos didn’t have time for these questions.

But then an idea grew in his mind, one that wouldn’t hurt to ask.

“Dwarves, you know how to travel between realms. Tell me how I can to get to Asgard!”

Or rather demand.

The two brothers were taken aback by the sudden question one rendered silent while the other muttered expletives.

“I said, tell me how to get there.” the god growled. He could feel his blood begin to boil, his skin begin to heat from the small pebble of anger that began to grow in his chest at the magical beings incessant defiance. He gripped his axe harder, could feel the sharpened blade begin to glow in response.

“We can’t get to Asgard! Why do you think that Odin had to come to Midgard for any requests?!” Sindri stuttered, uselessly holding up his gloved hands to keep the filthy god away from him. He couldn’t stop himself from retching at the scent of blood that encased the Spartan’s skin, even more potent due to the warm air of the fire.

Kratos let out a long, sobering breath, letting the now giant boulder of anger shrink back into that unimportant pebble that he has managed to control for so long. He turned and left the two dwarves to bicker about his behavior and the weather,  abandoning the warmth of the temple for the cold freezing harshness of Fimbulvetr.

The serpent was still there, its amber eyes staring in worry as the Spartan began to pace back and forth, making a thick black line through the crystallized sheet of white as he tried to think of a solution.

“If you don’t mind me saying, brother, if we are to release the gate to Asgard, we’re going to need permission from the people who live there. And last I checked, no Asgardian wants a big blood-thirsty Spartan coming to their evening meal, even less if the dinner he wants is their own liver and lungs.” Mimir informed.

Not that it really helped.

Kratos grunted in understanding and annoyance still continuing the constant pace. Only did the World Serpent’s breath, a sudden warm gust so powerful it made the Spartan stumble. He could feel a small stream of freezing cold water run around his ankles, endlessly burbling along with the hiss that was the creature’s breath.

He turned to face the being, more than a little unnerved by its close proximity to the Midgardian. Every teal blue scale was in sharp detail, the snow and wind cleaning off any grime and dirt it had collected in the centuries it had lay resting to reveal every scrape and scratch. The blood red pattern that adorned its body was in sharper contrast with the earth than ever before, pure white against blood red.

All too much like Kratos and his ashen skin.

Its long and slow exhalations managed to melt the snow that covered the metal temple, a stream of pure water flowing into the lake of nines. But during its deep and sluggish inhalations gave the clouds just enough time to bring down more snow and undo the giant’s work. But it did not seem to care, only staring at the former war god as it tried to convey its message, one that it did not speak for Mimir to translate, meant for only one.

Atreus was right. How disheartening it must be to only speak one lost tongue, the others of your realm lost to death and tyranny.

Kratos suddenly had an idea.

“Perhaps. But maybe we can get in without the Aesir’s help.”

Mimir sighed in pity. The old Greek god was truly losing it, be it from old age, or the inability to naturally grieve.

“You can’t brea-” Mimir started, only to be interrupted by Kratos’s hand striking him on his temple. It didn’t hurt physically, but definitely injured whatever little pride the man had left.

Which wasn’t many, considering he was a severed head on the belt of an exiled god.

“You of all minds should know that there are those who can still travel from realm to realm, despite any… setbacks. And those who can… may owe us a favor or two.”

Mimir thought for a bit. A smile spread across his disembodied features.

“Or more like nine. Oh, you’re far smarter than you look, brother.”

Kratos growled.

Chapter Text

As Sif had predicted, Odin had Heimdall return Atreus’s sight a few days later. Again the guardian’s dry touch revolted the boy, and his grip burned, like fire was striking at his flesh and searing their touch into his very being.

But Atreus knew that fire would never hurt him. Not like the gods did, anyway.

At first it was slow, almost unnoticeable. If anything, he believed that it was just a cruel prank from the Aesir. But the next day, when he opened his eyes, he couldn’t help but flinch from the brightness that had filtered through the windows, then tear at the revelation, absorbing the design of the room.

Thank the giants that only the walls were gold.

He was given new clothes, ones that matched the delicate and fragile designs of the Aesir. The fabric was thin and silky, much unlike the rough and thick tunic that he wore for warmth during the long winter. The leggings, too, so transparent that they almost didn’t exist. And, of course, it was a light golden color, decorated with deep blue etchings that crawled across the cloth. He decided to keep his old shoes, as they were far more comfortable than whatever contraptions they had given him to wear. The brown leather contrasted heavily with the clothing, which made him all the happier to wear them.

Anything to annoy the gods, no matter which way.

However, Atreus was curious (and somewhat relieved) to find that the gods kept their distance from the boy, the name of ‘Loki’ already spread as a troublemaker and reckless harmer. Maybe because they were fearful that he would call upon the fire to attack them again, to burn their skin even more. Atreus, too young and childish to miss this opportunity, toyed with them. He would point his fingers at the gentle flame of the braziers and mutter under his breath, watching with a snicker as they either backed away from him or ran altogether.

Little did they know that he was muttering utter drivel.

When he wasn’t making the gods fools of themselves, Atreus would read the giant’s texts on the table in his room. They brought some semblance of comfort, as they reminded him of the times when he was sick, trapped in the small confines of his home. He had relied on the stories the animals and plants would tell him, filling his head with images of a wolf convincing a crane to remove a bone from its throat, or when a great oak tree had fallen and died because it had resisted the power of the wind, and many more. He was careful not to read them out loud, in fear of causing more damage like before. The ice was still growing in the corner of his room, and nothing could break it or melt it, at least none of his attempts could.

And there’s no possible way that he would ask any of the gods for help.

He wrote a few of them down. Many of the minor, insignificant passages he kept in his journal, knowing full well that Odin was looking through it while he slept, ate, or whenever he left the small memoir defenseless to the curious eye.

He smiled as he imagined how disappointed the god would be when he read an excerpt about an old remedy for scorched skin.

But a few he came across, a few he managed to decipher would make him frown with fear. Such powerful spells, concoctions and rituals that only sent shivers up his spine and made his gut wrench in disgust. How daunting that the only barrier between a power hungry deity and a key to destruction was a lost form of communication.

He was also tempted to write down his thoughts, specifically the thoughts of the dreams he’s been plagued with ever since he came to this place. So many of them were just the same, pain and burning and fire that made Atreus wake as quickly as it took him to fall asleep in the first place. He doesn’t understand what they are supposed to be, nor does he really want to.

“Loki, are you alright? You stare at your food like it shall consume you instead.” He heard next to him.

“It’s alright, Sif. Just not all that hungry.” He replied, looking up and smiling at the golden goddess.

The two were eating alone, the enormous hall empty save for them and the unlucky livestock they feasted upon. It was a request from the Aesir that the young giant not be feasting with them, or even be in the palace. Odin, to appease his people, allowed the demigod to sit and eat alone an hour after the others had already left. At first Atreus did not argue, not wanting to be near such demeaning and cowardly people, but he will admit that it got very lonely very quickly. The silenced atmosphere of the large room was suffocating, gripping at Atreus’s skin with an obsessive desperation. It reminded him all too much of those nights where it was just him alone, sick and waiting

The saying ‘misery loves company’ truly does have some merit in it.

Sif had not let him stay alone for long, however. Soon she began to join him with his late feasts, stating that she liked his company far more than the Aesir.

She reminded him of Freya, in many ways. At least, before she turned her back and sealed her heart from the demigod and his father. The thought still saddened him, somewhat.

But he wouldn’t let it show.

He was drawn from his thoughts by Sif once again, who took a pitcher and poured herself a long, thick glass of a watery gold liquid into her ivory horn. It bubbled and fizzed upon contact with the white rim, much unlike the boy’s small cup of water.

“What’s that?” Atreus couldn’t help but ask.

“This? Oh, it is just mead. A common drink for the gods, although I don’t think you would enjoy it. It’s much too… inebriating for someone like you.” She said with a small smile.

“I can handle mead. I was able to drink wine from the land of Lemnos!” The demigod childishly boasted, taking the cup from Sif’s hands and placing the golden brim to his small lips.

“Really? I’ve never heard of that place. I would like to see it.” The goddess replied, placing her chin in her hand and watching with amusement.

Atreus nodded, and took one big swallow. He immediately spat it back into the cup. The bitterly fermented drink burned his throat dry, and he couldn’t stop himself from spurting a seemingly endless cough.

“I’m assuming that the people of Lemnos are not the best at holding their drink.” Sif chuckled.

“Stop laughing!” Atreus shouted, followed by another cough.

In truth Atreus was happy that he could make Sif laugh. It sounded like the rustle of wheat of leaves that shook in a breeze, a calming and soothing noise that Atreus missed from Midgard. It also meant that he had one ally in this realm, this kingdom that only wanted to beat him down with a clawed fist.

But the mood quickly deteriorated when Odin appeared behind the boy. He turned to see the elder god smiling down, as if he was proud of the small giant in front of him, of whatever accomplishment the deity could conjure in his mind.

“It is nothing to be ashamed of, child. One’s first sip is always the most repugnant, yet satiating.” The allfather acknowledged, placing a hand on Atreus’s shoulder. The demigod stiffened under the touch, not knowing what to do or say as the withered fingers rapped across his shoulder, a small thud against bone audible to his ear. He could see Sif’s breath halt in the corner of his eye, her eyes shifted worryingly from him to the old god and back, trying to discern the cause of the god’s presence.

“Hello, allfather. It’s a surprise that you have decided to visit us at this time.” She said, standing up. Even though she stood almost a head taller than the old god, it was clear that he held all the power, the boy and the goddess trapped under his verbal thumb.

Odin ignored Sif’s greeting, his one eye looking down at the boy who refused to look back.

“Come with me, child. I want to show you something.” He ordered. He grabbed Atreus’s wrist and pulled him along, the demigod not even attempting a resistance in fear of the consequence. He only looked at Sif with an apologetic look before the two turned a corner and began to walk away from the dining hall, a passageway that Atreus didn’t know where it went.

Damn this palace and its forever changing corridors, it made the boy’s attempts to memorize the place all the more harder.

“I see you’ve been expressing an interest in all those texts you’ve got, Loki.” Odin inquired.

Atreus hesitantly nodded. He was glad that he had given his other name to be used by the Aesir, but still disgusted as the title his mother wanted to give him was spoken by such foul tongues.

“Well, I know for a fact that you have an unusual understanding of language. Any language, really, be it of the giants or of the dead. It is quite fascinating, really.”

Atreus nodded again. He had already lost track of where this hallway would lead, far too many twists and turns for him to remember.

He wonders if it was Odin’s doing.

It wasn’t long before the maze ended in front of a door, old and wooden. There were thick strips of bark peeling off from the rough and dusted wood, easily breaking off into Atreus’s hand as he picked at them.

“I’d like to welcome you to one of my more favorable rooms in all of Asgard.” Odin said.

Atreus raised one brow.

“Why would you want to show me such an important place?” He asked, not trusting of the allfather.

Not that anyone could blame him.

Odin ignored the boy’s statement as he ran a hand over the withered timber, muttering a few magic words that the boy could barely make out.

There was a gentle hum that followed the allfather’s spell, emanating from the door as it unlocked its magic seal and opened for the two deities.

Inside was a wonder, a library.

As far as the demigod could see, there was a deeply intricate maze of shelves, the wooden structures a deep oak brown that held row after row of books and scrolls, both old and new, all neatly lined for the curious eye to pick from. Lanterns were placed precariously on top of the old wooden structures, revealing layers of dust that decorated everything with a thick gray film.

Atreus ran ahead of the old god, stopping in front of the closest shelf. Many of the books resting on the ledges had spines of red leather, black canvas, or none at all. All of the papers were yellowed from age or browned with dust, crinkling at the slightest touch as he picked up one of them. He recognized the language of the elves, an old tale that piqued the boy’s interest.

“This place holds the knowledge of almost every creature of every realm, all just at our reach.” Odin informed the child, gently taking the scroll from his hands and placing it back onto the shelf. He motioned for Atreus to follow, leading him further into the labyrinthine chamber. He had to resist picking up every book and scroll, of learning more stories that he could tell his verdurian and bestial friends to repay for the hundreds they have given to him. Occasionally he couldn’t help himself and would take one off the shelf, skimming it as quickly as possible before Odin would once again take it from him and place it back.

“How did you get all of these?” He asked.

“Centuries and centuries of searching and trading, my child,” the allfather chuckled. But his tone quickly grew somber. “Sadly, most of them are lost in a different language that many of us don’t understand.”

The gears quickly began to turn in the little boy’s head.

“I’m guessing you want me to translate more stuff for you?” the demigod asked.

“Well, yes. But that is not the sole reason for why I decided to bring you here.”

Atreus wanted to ask further, but, much like the hallway, the two deities had reached their supposed destination, much to one’s surprise.

Ahead of them was a small circular clearing, devoid of any books, scrolls, or papers ( The center of the maze , Atreus thought). The black marbled floor was polished clean from the dust, clear dark footprints among a sea of dullen gray. There were not even lanterns to light the room, not that the two needed them to see. The barren crown had, right in the center, an altar-like basin that emitted a strange silvery glow, making the steely dish more ghostly. But as they drew closer, Atreus could see that it was not made of steel, but rather of ice, crystallized water that released a thin freezing mist, cool and gentle against his skin.

“What’s this?” he couldn’t help but ask. He pressed a finger to the side, and could feel his flesh freeze against it.

“The clay of Angrboða.” Odin informed the young boy, running a hand across the brim. A gentle hum reverberated in the air.

“That’s a giants name.” Atreus said, shock and confusion muddling his mind. He looked at the strange bowl of ice frozen to the ground, an ethereal blue in a sea of gold, black and red. It seemed incredibly out of place among the labyrinth of knowledge, an unusual centerpiece to be worshipped.

“Aye, child. For it was a giantess that created this magical substance.”

The allfather motioned for the demigod to come closer, which he did so reluctantly. He looked deeper into the strange altar-like basin, and saw that it was filled to the brim with what he thought to be clay, boiling and bubbling despite the freezing temperature. The smell was abhorrent, like dried mud that had been cracked open to reveal the wet and pungent center.

“Sure doesn’t look or seem magical at all,” he replied, his voice nasally from the attempt of blocking the stench from his senses.
“That it doesn’t, child,” Odin laughed, a gentle, wheezing, elderly chuckle. “But trust me that it is. For instance, no matter how much I take from it, it never empties. Even if I pick it up and turn it over, the clay will just continue to pour and pour and pour.”

“Okay? What… does this have to do with me?”

The allfather placed a withered hand in the bowl, scraping a small chunk. There was a bright silvery liquid that leaked out of the gray earth, evaporating into an even brighter freezing mist as soon as it hit the ground.

“You know how I created man, Loki?”

The boy thought, trying to remember the stories both his mother, Mimir and the forest had told him.

“You made our ancestors, Ask and Embla, out of two logs that drifted from the ocean.”

Odin nodded, smiling.

From the waters you used to kill everyone. He thought bitterly.

“Well, I was not the only one who had the same idea of creation. The giants wanted to make life from nothing much like how our great ancestor created us out of every piece of his body. This is the result. The sorceress Angrboða made magic from the very ground she walked on. She dedicated her entire life to this, a power that I only held once.”

As Odin told the child the story, he began to mold the shapeless mud, his hands shaking as he pinched, stretched and pulled, creating an unusual figure that didn’t look like any animal Atreus had seen. It was like a bird, with four wings instead of two. Its beak was unnaturally long, about as long as Atreus’s finger while the being itself was no bigger than his hand. And, unlike other birds, its feet were covered in feathers, right down to the nails.

He couldn’t help but be fascinated.

“And she succeeded. All I have to do is mutter a few words, imagine the creature in my head, and I create life. So simple, yet so powerful and capable.” The allfather said, placing it in the boy’s hands.

Atreus held it up to his face, further observing the statuette. It seemed like a harmless imagination, one that made the demigod mentally smile.

He was unprepared for the sudden gust of breath that fell across his face, smelling heavily of mead and ale.

“Ek veita ér ǫnd.” Odin muttered. Atreus understood.

The small statuette suddenly began to shiver in the boy’s hand, rocking back and forth. The clay fell off in flakes and dust, dispersing into the air as magic flowed through the statuette, turning it into a living being. The gray was replaced with purple, the sticky silt now dry rough skin and soft downy feathers.

The newborn creature looked up at the demigod, its golden eyes blinking rapidly in an attempt to remove the clay dust. It released a squawk, small and stuttery.

‘Hello,’ it said.

“Heilsa,” Atreus responded.

The unnamed creature trilled, spreading out its four wings and taking flight. It weaved around the two gods’ heads, constantly chattering and telling the boy of everything it saw, much like the seagulls at the Lake of Nines. But soon its squawks turned into coughs and wheezes for air, which made Atreus frown in concern. Its four wings began to freeze in the air, causing it to fall up and down in the air, until it fell and landed back in Atreus’s cupped hands. It grew completely still, its body shivering under the petrification, the only sign that it was still alive its darting, fearful eyes.

“Hverr ir verða?”  He asked, desperate to save the unnamed beast. But all he could do was watch as the color in its body faded back into that deathly gray shade, as its eyes quickly dulled away until the life was nonexistent, as it changed back into a simple mold. And, as if to spite the innocent creature, its very body began to crumble, turning into a pile of dust that fell through the boy’s hands and mingled with the dust on the floor.

“Alas, no matter what I try, they don’t seem to last more than a few seconds. A few minutes, if they’re lucky.”

Atreus could feel grief begin to seep into his chest, a sting that dulled into an ache, travelling up into his throat and making him want to sob. But he simply held his breath and beat it back down, ignoring the insignificant burn. He felt Odin place a hand on his shoulder, but he quickly shrugged it off.

“Again, you wanted to show me this why?” Atreus asked, still skeptical despite his mourning for the short-live being. There was a defeated tone in his voice, his heart still wrenching for the unfortunate beast.

“Well, I was wondering if you, as a Jotunn yourself, would maybe know a way for them to live longer. Maybe indefinitely.”

This piqued both the boy’s interest and distrust to the god.

“But, why do you want to know this? Why do you want to know how to create life out of mud if you already did it with wood? Can’t you just do that again?”

The old god became silent. Atreus’s eyes widen with realization and he resisted to smirk.

“You had help, didn’t you?"

Odin continued to remain silent. His grip on his staff tightened with a muffled creak.

"I’m guessing your giant brothers, before you killed them.”
He could see the allfather’s hands grip his staff tighter, the wood creaking from the force. But the boy ignored the warning and continued to gloat, happy that he could find another flaw of the supposed gods.

“You Aesir can’t do anything. You use the success of others to further your reputation as gods. The Vanir’s magic, the dwarves creations, the giants wisdom, everything is from someone else. You’re really just spineless-”

Atreus was interrupted when Odin, tired of his verbal tirade, suddenly wrapped a hand around the boy’s neck, and lifted him off of his feet. It was too fast for the him to catch, and all he could do was squirm, struggle, try and fail to break the hold that strangled the very air out of him. It pressed into his skin, gripped into every muscle and crushing into every bone. He dug his fingers into the old god’s withered and wrinkled flesh, deep enough to draw a dark red blood. But the allfather did not react, only looking down at the suffocating child as his fiery red eye blazed brightly with anger. He pushed the boy forward, and Atreus could feel the small of his back bash against the cold rim of the basin before his head was plunged into the silt.

The clay was thick, sticky and cold, clutching at Atreus’s face and siphoning on every pore with its frozen grip. It blocked his vision, only filling it with dark gray and bright silvery-blue. It was both blinding and entrapping. He could feel it crawl into his mouth, swim up his nose, infiltrate his lungs that begged for air, only to be greeted with something much more different. What little breath he had was quickly taken away. The only thing he could feel was this intense burn inside his body, setting him aflame as it fought against the forceful cold surrounding him, turning his skin into ice.

It hurt, it hurt so much.

He swore he could hear voices, almost lost to the absorbing squelch of the clay. They were crying, screaming, whispering in a tongue that Atreus knew was not human as it looped around his ears and moved along with the swirling earthy water.

He held strands of gold in his hand, soft and smooth to the touch. He only realized it was hair when it thickened into coarse verdure that twisted and lengthened, become an intricate weave of rope that led into the darkness.

He clutched at a woman's shirt with bloody hands, holding her tightly as her arms wrapped around him with a tender and protective nature. Her hair was long and red, just like his own, and her skin was shockingly cold as she looked down at him with enchanting green eyes. It was his mother.

No, it couldn't be.

Now he held a heart, bright and fiery, the organ burning his now scorched hand with rage, power and love. The sight of it made him feel sad, broken, and lost.

What was he seeing?

The boy was broken from these strange sights when his head was pulled out of the magic clay, his body suspending in midair for a split second before he fell to the marble ground.

Atreus coughed, his body expelling whatever remained of the silt. He clutched at his throat, his fingers just as cold as the clay he escaped. It dripped off of him in clumps, before melting into a thin and slippery water that blinded the child. Desperately wiping it away from his eyes, the boy could see that Odin was on the floor as well, struggling to stand back up as his wooden staff slipped in the puddle of wet clay that surrounded him. As if it was alive, it clung to the old man’s clothes, to the very edges that made it seem like cloth and ground were merged into one. Atreus swore that hands formed out of the earthy substance, holding the god down as best it could. But eventually the allfather was victorious, kicking the muck down until it was once again a lifeless puddle.

“You… you made it… attack me.” Odin muttered, somehow out of breath.

Atreus looked down, blinking away new droplets from his lashes, and could see the runic marks on his hands glowing once again, a sight he had not seen since Tyr’s temple. The strange talismanic designs were snow white against his skin, telling of secrets that not even he could read. They even stung slightly, the intensity of their magic almost too much for him.

He wondered if they were spells, meant for his protection, and how long he has had them.

“You are an unusual child. Even if you are born from that species, you are still… unusual,” the old god swore. His red eye glared down at him with both curiosity and anger, a common fusion for the leader of the Aesir. He turned and walked away from the child, his feet squelching from the clay that still clung to his boots. He left behind new footprints, now a grayish white.

And Atreus continued to kneel on the ground, still coughing up the magic clay. There were a few specks of blood intertwined with the silvery silt.

Chapter Text

The council ground was empty.

Not that Kratos was surprised, it was always devoid of life, even after the residents had returned. The residents were merely spirits, after all.

Or rather, those who carried the spirits, the Valkyries.

“Sigrun! Do you hear me, wraith?! I call upon you!” The Spartan shouted. His voice reverberated against the stone ground, crawling up the nine thrones made of rock and leaping into the air as a powerful echo.

And only silence followed.

“Did you seriously expect that to work?! You can’t just-” Mimir began, but was quickly interrupted by Kratos’s hand smacking him to the side.

The Spartan looked around the ancient circle. It was sparse, the only decorations of the long forgotten architecture torn banners of red, golden inscriptions and faded gray sea moss. The thrones themselves had been withered away by the churning waters that had once hidden them from the mortal eye. The ritualistic indentation at the very center seemed to have dulled away, ever since the exiled god and his son had defeated all of the Valkyries, releasing them from their mortal prison. The lapping water had turned some of the stone floor into small pits of sand, reminding Kratos of the sandy beaches back at his home, back in the land of Greece.

The helms of the Valkyries still sat in their thrones, right where the Spartan had left them. In many ways they seemed out of place, bright newborn gold and silver among elder black and gray.

Absently, he picked up the helm of one of the Valkyries. Its cold touch was familiar, almost an unearthly feeling emanating from the metal.

Suddenly, a wind blew through the abandoned field, making the god stumble to the side. It forced him to drop the helm back to the withered chair, where the winds slowly died away.

But not before whispering a warning to the Spartan, an urgent message to not disrespect those above him.

“Ohh, I wouldn’t do that again, brother. Only the giants would know what would happen if you decided to piss off the Valkyries again .” Mimir muttered, all too worried of being crushed by a Spartan corpse if his carrier was to die.

Kratos, of course, reacted properly.

He took the helm off of its stone throne, and hurled it across the empty courtyard. It landed with a loud clatter, a lot like the sound of dropped plates.

The effect was almost instantaneous. The clouds had begun to gray, away from the gentle silver of snow to the black of thunderstorms. Winds began to bellow once again, rain began to pour in torrents and streams, and there was even a rumble of thunder.

“Who dares to disrespect the Valkyries in such a vile manner?!” Kratos heard, the voice traveling faster than the wind that swirled around him.

He could see a light burst forth from the black sea of clouds, shining down in delicate rays that made the Spartan squint his eyes. From them came a shadow, a figure of an elegant woman, with wide wings splayed across the sky, many of the feathers filtering through the strange light.

The being landed in front of Kratos, a sharp burst of air striking the god. It stood up and faced him, prepared for battle with its muscles tensed and a spear made of watery mist in hand. But, before they could even take one strike, they saw who the ‘defiler’ was, and quickly fell to one knee.

“ Oh-oh my, it’s you! If-if I had known, I would have-” The Valkyrie began. Her deep voice was troubled and stuttering.

“Hello, Olrun dear. Always with the flashy entrances, you. Sorry, we don’t mean to be a bother, but do you mind if we have a quick word with Sigrun?” Mimir interrupted cheerfully, even smiling despite him not even facing the magical woman.

“ O-of course! Just let me call her!” She stammered once more. Placing her ethereal spear in its sheath on her back, she walked (“or would it be gliding?” Mimir mumbled) to the main throne, the resting place of the Valkyrie queen. Taking the helm in her hands, she began to mutter in a language the Kratos couldn’t understand, or even wanted to.

“You know, you really should have thought ahead. Who knows what would’ve happened if she had skewered first and asked questions later?!”

Kratos responded by smacking the head silent once again.

In only moments later, Olrun gently placed the helm back onto the throne, hesitantly turning to face Kratos once again.

“ She should be here at any minute. I must say, Savior, we did not expect a call from the mortal world. And especially from one of the living and…”

Kratos tried his best to hold in his sigh, enduring the endless chatter of the spirit.

It was not the worst thing he has had to suffer in his surprisingly long life.

And fortunately, he did not have to suffer long.

The queen of the Valkyries did not have as much of a splendid entrance as the other. All the Spartan had to do was blink, and the high spirit was in front of him, hovering above the ground. Her wings gently flapped to keep her in the air, yet nothing reacted to her presence, not disturbed by the ethereal woman whose very skin warped and shifted to accommodate for her shift into the foreign realm.

“Kratos, exiled deity, bringer of blood, savior of spirits and of the Valkyries, protector of the remains of the Midgard realm. I welcome you.” The queen stated, holding her hand out for the Spartan to shake. He did so, somewhat surprised at the corporeality of her see-through limb. It was bitterly cold, colder than the endless winter. Kratos could admit that he was relieved when he let the hand go, his skin still stinging from the touch.

“Thank you, Sigrun. This means a lot to us.” Mimir acknowledged, his voice sick with old love.

“ Mimir, of course I would do this. You know I am a woman of my word.” She responded, the same sweet tone given back to her former lover.

Kratos didn’t have time for this.

“I need a favor, spirit.” He stated.

The queen nodded in understanding.

“I shall do to the best of my ability. So far we have been trying to restore the balance of all the realms, take the warriors to their proper resting place, and the weak to their proper prison.”

“And from what I have seen, you have not done the best of your work.”

Mimir instantly began to scold the Spartan, spitting out insults and instructions in numerous languages. Sigrun, did not react to his petty insult, used to many insults that many spirits had thrown to her over the years, and waited until Mimir took a breath before she spoke again.

“That is because of our spite against Odin. If possible, he would refuse the spirits we bring. The only reason why they can celebrate is so that they can die once again for the very god they already fought for.”

Kratos did not care.

“It is because of Odin that I require your assistance.” He informed her. He could see her body tense, her wings twitch, her fists curl.

“ May I ask why you need my help, when it is connected to the presence of an all-powerful and all-insane man?”

“I request that you take me to Asgard.”

There was an unexpected and indecisive silence, broken only by the sharp wind that whistled through the stones.

“I cannot take you to Asgard,” she finally said, mourn coating her words.

“What?” Kratos muttered. He could feel his skin begin to heat in anger, the chilled air literally beginning to steam from the raw energy that exuded from his form as his rage slowly grew uncontrollable. Sigrun was unfazed, however. Even though she was defeated in the end, she knew that the god had struggled against her strength, her prowess in battle. She was not afraid.

“ We send spirits to Valhalla, where they shall feast and drink until Ragnarok. That is all we can do. Unfortunately for us, Valhalla has been sealed off from the rest of the realm, leaving all the spirits trapped. We have been asked numerous times where Odin was, and why he was not feasting with them.”

“Ha! The dunce wouldn’t even share a cup with ‘em! Thinks he’s too high and mighty.” Mimir guffawed. Neither magical being took notice.

“I am sorry for this, friend.”

Kratos could barely hear her apology. His rage had overtaken his control, encasing him in a red hot anger that burned the very air. It was all consuming, making the Spartan’s body tense, grit his teeth as he growled, and force the Valkyrie to take a few steps back, lest she be burned by the foreign influence.

Kratos desperately tried to keep the rage inside his body, to hold the control over something that had already destroyed his life already, and he wasn’t willing to let it happen again. He searched through the labyrinth of anger, trying to find the source in order to extinguish it.

And when he searched in the very core, he found what he had expected.

Nothing.

And as he found that nothing, that very basis, he could feel it, he let it slowly eat away at the red hot rage, until it was only that nothing that was left, pitch black and void.

The war god slowly sat on the ground, uncaring of the freezing snow that stuck to his flesh. He placed his hands over his eyes, allowing the darkness to consume him physically as well, while the internal void still ate away at what was inside him.

All that was left, was nothing.

Kratos could only know nothing.

“There is one who can help you, however.”

It was like someone had snapped their fingers right next to the god’s ear, like he had been staring at a cloud-filled sky, only to have the sun suddenly burst through. It jolted his entire body, made his heart skip a beat, made his nerves stiffen.

“Who?” Was all he could ask.

“ I dare not utter the name, for fear that the winds scream in agony.”

“Who?” he repeated.

“The bargainer with the Valkyries, the one of both beauty and monstrosity. The ruler of Helheim.”

“Take me to them!” Kratos shouted, his patience no longer existent.

“I am not sure if that it wise. The person I speak o- ” The queen warned, only to be interrupted by the enraged shouts of the exiled god.

“I must reach Asgard! You do not understand what is at stake! You do not understand the horror of what might happen if I don’t reach the realm in time!”

Kratos was taught many things during his life in Sparta. He was taught to steal for food, to fight until death, to never take a step back.

Another was to never beg.

But now, he was on his knees, holding both blades in his hands for some form of warmth as the snow continued to rest around him. He looked up at the spiritual woman, his amber eyes glowing with a fierceness, not for revenge, but for help.

Sigrun nodded.

“I understand. I shall take you to my leader. And trust me when I say that I do in fact understand. I noticed the absence of the boy, do not think me foolish. I know what it feels like to have a child, one that relies on you like a human does with faith.”

Her statement both made Kratos’s muscles tense with fear and his heart clutch with desperation.

“Take my hand, War God. I shall do as you ask to the best of my ability.”

Kratos obeyed, taking the cold, gentle hand of Sigrun. He could feel his feet leave the ground, his body now as heavy as a leaf in the wind. A chill began to settle on his skin. Not one of cold, but a sensation he only ever felt in one place before, on the branches of the Yggdrasil. The land of Midgard began to fade away and be replaced with everchanging cosmos and nebulas, all deep hues of blue, black, silver and purple.

They were travelling between realms. No, they were soaring .

“Off to Helheim we go. Again.” Mimir muttered into the spiritual wind, not sounding excited at all.

Chapter Text

The incident at the library had quickly spread all throughout the realm of Asgard.

Not that it was told accurately, by any means.

The mischievous and sly Fayeson had attacked the wise and gentle god Odin. Even worse, he had used the ancient magic that the allfather had given to the boy, and the great deity had to quickly imprison the old sorcery and bring it under his control.

Gullible, the lot of them. Atreus swore that he could trick all of the Aesir with just one lie if only they weren’t so afraid of him.

In all honesty, he wondered how the story had gotten around. Was it because someone witnessed the attack, or was it Odin’s answer as to why the allfather’s clothes were soggy with mud? The latter one made the boy snicker with childish mischief.

Atreus had taken advantage of his allowance in the library, reading the ancient texts of elves, dwarves, giants and more. Much like before, he had written them down in his journal, dedicating many of the loose-leaf papers to once lost scriptures and stories. He would share them with whoever was willing to listen, be it with Sif, the fire, or even the ice that continued to grow in his room, giving the chamber a much cooler interior that misted every breath. All seemed to enjoy them, telling him that he had such a way with the tales that he made them seem almost real.

Sif had grown to call him “Loki Silver-Tongue,” a name that he actually quite liked.

Others had grown to call him “Sly Loki,” another name that he quickly became fond of.

He decided to write that name down into his journal, along with the many others that people had called him, such as drittsekk, tispe avkom, and uhellig rot.

For once he was glad that his father hadn’t bothered to learn any more forms of dialect, chuckling to himself as he sat alone in the center of the strange library. Books surrounded him in a makeshift hut, all with pages marked, folded, scrawled on, or even torn. His back was leaning against the stand that held the bowl of Angrboða, the table pleasantly cold through his clothing. Although every now and then, the strange substance would overflow the rim, and would drop onto the shoulders of his clothing, and sometimes it would spit out and land on his lap or his journal, leaving a bright gray smear that he would try to wipe away.

The demigod would be lying if he said that he wasn’t intrigued by the strange substance. It seemed so simple, so undistinguished, yet he knew that it held many mysteries that defied every law he once understood.

Letting his impertinent nature take over, he stood up and placed a finger into the clay. Immediately he leapt back, holding onto his head as it throbbed, mixing some of the magic silt into his red locks.

There were voices .

Voices, mumbling in his head, whispering at him to do something he could not comprehend, all of them overlapping each other to the point of being indecipherable.

He knew that he should leave it be, know that if he toyed with the magic substance, that he would be playing Odin’s game.

Nevertheless, the curiosity was just stabbing him through his chest, urging him on. He does not understand why.

Hesitantly, he placed his hand in the ice bowl, and scooped out a handful of the earthy substance. It froze to his fingers, sticking to every cell of skin on his body as he rolled it between his palms, molded it with his fingers.

He didn’t really know what to make. Odin had shown him that the only limitation was his imagination. But he did not want to create a new species, give new life to this world, if it would only last a brief moment.

Soon he held the desired creature in his hand: a snake, no bigger than his palm, but long enough to trail over his hand, the endless body and tail dangling in the air.

“Ek veita ér ǫnd.” Atreus whispered to the shaped clay. He gently blew on the earthly material, just like Odin did, and imagined the creature in his head: its color, texture, even its very personality.

And he prayed that it would live.

Much like the unusual bird, the statuette began to shiver, a gentle rumble erupting from its core. Clay fell away and was replaced with scales, and soon the boy held a living breathing being, born from nothing.

The snake’s scales were a bright sea-green blue, with a few pieces of silver delicately shining out along its body. The bony plates shimmering kaleidoscopic colors whenever it shifted in the demigod’s palms. The frills along the side of its thin face curled in and out as it stretched, flexing every muscle, every bone as it came to life.

Its eyes, a bright, gleaming, pulsating yellow, looked up at Atreus with confusion and wonder.

The boy waited, counting out every second that passed, hoping that the creature he had created would last one more than the other unfortunate beast. But, as he reached that inevitable number, as he readied himself for the poor new life to fade away, he was surprised and happy to see that the creature did not cry out in pain, did not wither away to clay-dust, but continued to sit in his hand, breathing, living.

Atreus couldn’t help but smile in glee.

“Hello there. Heilsa .” He said to the newborn creature. Its small forked tongue flicked in and out as it tasted every scent, acting as if it hadn’t heard a word the boy said. Quickly it lost interest in him, and began to encircle around his fingers, creating scaled, neverending rings around each one.

He frowned. He thought the creature would at least react to what he said, much like the one Odin had made. He tried the other languages he knew, dwarvish, elvish, even a few more of the runic tongue, but the creature just continued to slither across the boy’s flesh. It eventually tried to wriggle into the young boy’s sleeve, seeking warmth like any other snake, which Atreus prevented by gently shaking his wrist until the serpent retreated back onto his hand. Atreus knew the creature could hear him, he knew that it was not deaf, for he didn’t imagine it to be so. He could see intelligence and understanding hidden in those sharp eyes, almost as ancient and lost as the tongue of the giants.

Atreus suddenly had an idea.

Looking the newly-born creature in its yellow eyes, he spoke to it.

“Yooooo-mooooo Atrooooo-voo-uuuuuu, ” I am Atreus.

The little creature seemed to react to Atreus’s statement, gently tightening around his wrist and fluctuating its scales in happiness.

“Heeeroooooo. Iaooooooo-unduuuuuu-staaaaaarod-uuuuuuu, ” hello, I understand you, The newborn creature rasped. Its voice was thin and grating, fitting for a snake. It’s eyes shined again, and it began to speak more rapidly in the tongue of Jotunn, which Atreus replied with just as enthusiastically.

The boy was now even more curious. Why could it speak the ancient tongue, and no other? Odin’s creation could speak the tongue of magic perfectly, as if the entire vocabulary was inside its head. Was it because the serpent was made by a Giant, while the bird was made by an Aesir? Or was the bird able to speak the Giant’s language in its short lifespan.

The snake seemed uninterested, unlike its creator. It already held all the answers in its mind, Atreus could see them glimmering behind the hypnotic eyes.

Unfortunately, he was not the only one who saw the secrets behind the youthful eyes.

From seemingly out of nowhere, from the shadows of the shelves, the allfather appeared, making the boy jump in surprise. He snatched the serpent from the child’s hand, holding the creature’s head between his index and thumb as he examined it.

“Interesting.” The god muttered, turning the head of the snake side to side.

The serpent was screaming, however, as if the god’s touch burned into its very muscle and bone. A thin hiss raked against his ears, but Odin didn’t notice as he began to run a thumb over the newborn creature’s scales.

“Stop! Let it go!” The boy cried out. He grabbed at the allfather’s arm, not knowing what to do without his bow or his knife. He used all of his weight to pull and try to sway the god’s gaze away from the serpent, but after so many years of sickness the child had hardly any to speak of.

“How has it managed to live far longer than anything I have made? Am I pronouncing the words wrong?” the god muttered. He lifted his wrinkled hand, unfazed from the clutching boy, and ran a finger down the its scaled body. The serpent began to cry in pain, its long physique twisting and writhing in the air.

Atreus, blinded by anger and desperation, deafened by the screams of his creation, grabbed one of the books and hit Odin in the back with its long and withered spine.

There was a loud echoing thud, and to the demigod’s credit, the allfather stumbled from the force, taking a single step to regain his balance. But it was not long until the old god stood straight once again, his posture stiff and dominating.

Atreus could only stare as Odin turned to face the boy. Like so many times before, the very room bent to the allfather’s will, the air disappearing, the lights dying, the boy cowering.

“You… dare to hit me, child?”

The boy said nothing, only staring in horror as the god encircled the boy’s neck with a withered hand and lifted him off the ground, preventing any air from reaching his lungs. Surprisingly, he did not struggle, his hands only gripping the thin wrist of the Aesir king, petrified by the very presence of the man in front of him. His bright blue eyes were wide in fear, staring at the one red eye that stared back with anger and cruelty.

And it was as blue conflicted with red, Jotunn against Aesir, that a burning silver-white suddenly emerged.

Atreus clutched his head, an ache splitting across his skull and encircling his mind.

And he could only watch as strange visions burst across his eyes, all flashing through his head, all too fast for him to discern.

But he could feel the emotion, the meaning behind these images. He felt the anger, the hate, the fear, and the emptiness .

He was terrified.

And Odin was fascinated.

The boy, no longer struggling, was looking beyond the god and the captive serpent, staring into a realm beyond this one, beyond the limitations of mortal sight. The child’s eyes were an unearthly white, cold and brilliant and striking against the darkness of the room. They shifted back and forth, as if he was witnessing something that should not be seen.

At least, not yet.

Odin smiled. His patience had now been compensated.

For too long had he watched this child, seen the knowledge flow through his dreams and subconscious, and be infuriated that it was not his, that it had slipped past the child.

But now, it was right at his hands, and he knew the demigod understood.

“What do you see child?” He ordered.

The boy said nothing, his eyes still continuing to dart around, trying to catch everything they saw. The allfather tightened his grip around the giant’s throat, hearing the skin crackle and the child croak.

“What do you see?!”

Then Odin heard a hiss, deep and threatening. The allfather turned his head to see the small serpent open its mouth, fangs secreting a strange black substance that dripped to the floor in a small stream. Where it touched, the floor bubbled and foamed.

With a sharp shriek, it spat the essence straight at the god, a massive clump landing on the old man’s cheek with a splat.

Immediately he cried in pain, dropping both of his captors to the ground as he clutched at his cheek, feeling the venomous substance melt into his flesh with a bright burning sting and a sharp sizzle.

The boy gasped for breath, choking on his own saliva as the cold air filled his body. As soon as he recovered, he scrambled away from the writhing god, grabbing the snake and hiding behind the stack of books, as if the makeshift wall of paper and leather would defend him. But surprisingly, the allfather did not run towards him or the creature, only standing there and rubbing his cheek. The smell had disappeared, as well as the strange bubbly hiss. Atreus remained silent, watching as the god slowly stumbled away, muttering expletives in numerous languages that the child perfectly understood, his heartbeat slowing down. It was not until they were truly alone that the boy’s body released all of its tension, breathing a long sigh of relief.

The serpent noticed its creator’s tension, wrapping around the child’s wrist and tightening reassuringly. Atreus fervently stroked the smooth scales, the tingling sensation it sent up his fingers calming.

“Thaaaaaaartaaaa-uuuuuuuu ,” Thank you , he whispered to the creature. It nodded its head, a purr rumbling throughout its body.

I need to give you a name. Friend isn’t enough, Atreus thought. He searched through his memories, trying to find the perfect title for his creation.

Jormungandr? No, there was already one who was called that, and he probably would not enjoy having his name duplicated.

Nidhogg? No, it would be just the same outcome.

The little boy continued to run many names through his head for any names. He had come across many in the ancient texts, heard his father mumble many of them in his restless sleep, along with words in a different language. Zeus was one that he heard often, along with Athena and Ares, mostly with disdain. Sometimes he would awaken screaming one of those names, scaring the child and mother as they desperately tried to soothe the former war god.

It was actually because of his father losing sleep that Faye had decided to take the boy hunting for the first time. It was because his father was so tired that Atreus had that fateful and humbling encounter with the wolf pack, his fight against a true opponent that, even after, continued to visit the boy and teach him ways of the wild in hopes that the demigod would leave his bed and travel the world.

The boy smirked. He knew just what to call it.

“I’ll call you… Ymaru.” the demigod told his creation, gently poking it on its long belly.

“Ymaru,” he slowly repeated.

The little snake looked down at the child’s finger and nodded, understanding despite its inability to speak the Midgardian tongue. It hissed in happiness, making Atreus laugh. But his eager smile quickly disappeared as he recalled the images he just witnessed only moments ago.

Fire burning, bones crushed under godly fists, a betrayal of brethren. A snake, with bright amber eyes and red marks of war, expelled its acidic venom, burning through the flesh of thousands in mere seconds. A wolf, with fur as black as midnight, tore through people with its razor teeth and covering its cavernous fur with dark red. A girl… no, a woman, with hair as red as flame, skin as pale as a corpse, and eyes full of magic and hate, shouted in the ancient tongue.

All she said was “vega!”

All she said was “kill.”

He didn’t understand any of this, or know if he wanted to.

The boy’s attention was brought back to the small snake as it wrapped around his wrist completely. It spotted the tip of it’s sea-green tail, and proceeded to chomp down onto it, unaware of the consequences. Atreus laughed again and hooked a finger under its neck, gently forcing it to release its poor end before it caused any damage.

“Ymaru… you’re my own little world serpent.” he muttered under his breath, the smile growing back.

And so, Atreus and his new friend continued to talk, telling their childish stories and wonders in the lost language of the giants.

And Odin watched with the eyes of Thought, infuriated that he couldn’t understand a single word.

Chapter Text

The “landing” was far more jarring than Kratos expected.

For one second, he was soaring, flying through the spectral air and ethereal wind like he himself was only a spirit. Then, like a sharp bite from a Tatzelwurm, the stinging cold of Hel had sliced through his body, sizzling away the fire that burned inside him. He could feel the Valkyrie’s hand suddenly let go of him, leaving him to fall through the air and roughly land on the ground, his feet cracking the frozen marble and breaking the ice with a resounding crunch.

As soon as the god regained his footing, he drew forth his blades, using them as a source of heat to fight against the magical chill of the realm. He watched through frozen lashes as the ghostly form of the Queen fluttered through the air and gently landed in front of him.

“Where have you taken me, spirit?” Kratos growled, his breath turning into mist as soon as it escaped through his teeth.

“I have transported you as far as I could go through the realm, at least spiritually. We have by now crossed the Bridge of the Damned, and are on our way to the centerpiece of this cursed realm,” Sigrun informed him, looking over her shoulder to the greater limits of the domain. The exiled god could see her expression tighten with despair as she watched spectres of the wandering souls slowly crawl to their final destination, arms wrapped around their thin skeletal forms in a subconscious attempt for warmth that they could no longer generate.

“We have only a little farther to go. I shall escort you, to protect you from the guardians.”

“I do not need protection, woman. I can defend myself.” He warned her, letting the fire of his anger grow a little out of control, just to show her, to remind her that he was a warrior.

She merely shrugged, unfazed.

“Then at least I can be a guide, of sorts. Follow me.”

The god said nothing to this, and just followed the Valkyries as she started down the frozen trail. The spirits around them dissipated into dust at the very touch, only reforming when the warm bodies of the living were far away from them. If Kratos listened, he could hear their moaning, their pitiful pining for the eternal rest that they will never receive, left to suffer in the forever cold.

It was easy to ignore. After all, it was not the first time he had went through the dead.

With each step the wind would grow colder, freezing more and more of the Spartan’s skin, crawling over his body like insects. It wasn’t long until the god was forced to hold the blades close to his head, lest his breath be frozen in his mouth and he choke on the crystallized air.

“Did I ever tell you about how much I hate the cold?” Mimir asked the god, his tone thick with sarcastic intent and voice trembling from his chattering teeth. Crystals had frozen his scraggly beard into one long strand, along with his brows. Even his horns had a thick coating of frost, glistening in the unholy light emitted from the realm.

“Yes, you have. I do not need to be told again” Kratos growled.

The head got the message, and wisely stayed quiet.

Sigrun took no notice, unwavering in her path. She would look behind to make sure that her two followers id not stray from the path, and would every now and then fall back and pull the Spartan along in a meagre attempt of encouragement.

Even though Kratos said nothing, he couldn’t deny that he was grateful for the support. Especially when the lids of his eyes were frozen shut, his only guidance the wind and the queen’s hand.

He couldn’t tell when they reached their destination, but soon the winds seemed to curve around him, their bite being replaced with a growing howl. The air began to feel less cold, something that both confused and relieved him.

Once the arcane ice encasing his face melted into mere mystical water, the god opened his eyes and looked up to see a tower, made entirely of the bluish-green ice that already surrounded it. It had many doors along the wall, all open and accepting the spirits of the dead, much like the honeycomb of a hive. Atop it was an eagle, a giant bird that blocked the realm’s source of light with its enormous figure and pure white feathers. It looked down at Kratos with its beady black eyes, before staring off into the distance and beating its wings. The wind created by it burst across the surface of the tower, creating a sharp howl as it the cyclones flew to every corner of the realm.

“That is The Great Eagle. It keep watch over all the realms, and makes sure the the dragon Nidhogg doesn’t move away from the roots and destroys any of the realms,” Mimir advised the war god. “It’s also the reason why Fimbulvetr is ongoing. The gust of its wings is sending the winds of Hel all the way to Midgard.”

“A controversial purpose. It destroys a realm while trying to defend them.” Kratos muttered.

“Well-”

“And it is not of our concern at this moment. Come, we are at the gate.” Sigrun interrupted. She walked ahead of the two and rapped her knuckles alongside the rim of the doorway, holding her arm out to prevent the god from simply walking in.

The message was clear. Kratos trusted her.

For the longest time, the only noise that could be heard was the screech of the wind, loud and shrill in their ears. The dead walked past them and stumbled into the palace. If Kratos squinted his eyes, if he focused his sight, he could see the spectres dissipate into dust, that spread into the darkness, clinging to the walls and sinking into the unnatural ice.

They did not reform.

“I can hear footsteps ahead. The new guardian approaches.” Sigrun whispered, drawing the god’s attention back to the gaping doorway. Indeed he could hear the scuffle of feet among snow, and a silhouette began to form in the darkness, more physical and brighter than the dull stray ashes of the dead. The exiled god could feel the person’s stare on them, could see their eyes glowing brighter and brighter as they stepped into the ghostly light, their feet not making a sound in the magic snow.

And who greeted them was a face the Spartan never hoped to see again.

“Baldur!” Kratos shouted. Immediately he drew forth his blades, feeling their heat intensify from the willpower and anger they fed off of. He lunged for the Aesir god, ready to plunge the metal deep into his chest and end him once again. And for a split second he was in the air, mere inches away from his target's heart.

The next his wrist was trapped in the Valkyrie’s grip, freezing and crushing into his bone.

“Calm yourself! This man can do you no harm here. He is a dweller, no longer a warrior.” She warned him, her tone deep and dominating.

The Spartan didn’t want to listen to her advice. He wanted to rid the realms of this enemy that was the source of their problems in the first place. It was because of Baldur that the allfather knew the location of their home, knew where his son was, and sent his lapdog to take him away.

But, it was the thought of finding his son that stilled his hand.

Slowly, he lowered the blade, feeling Sigrun slowly let go as he did so.

Baldur did not react, his sharp gaze unwavering from Kratos’s own.

The son of Odin was different than before, as to be expected. His heavily tattooed body was colored a deathly gray, his veins protruding around his neck, wrists and stomach in thick black labyrinths. The man’s blazing hair of fire was frozen with thin sheets of snow, using literal bands of ice to hold back his braided hair.

And his eyes. They had lost their godly glow, their despicable spark replaced with a dull forlornness that could only be labeled as surrender. The light Kratos thought he saw in them was merely a reflection of the realm's, and nothing more.

“Come this way. She is waiting.” Was all he muttered, his dry voice almost lost to the neverending screeches of the wind as they flew over the ice. He beckoned for them to follow with a tattooed hand, turned blue from death and frost, before turning back to the shadows. Sigrun followed without question, yet it took Kratos many hesitations and convincing from Mimir before he, still reluctantly, followed his enemy.

Although warmer in the ice palace, there was still a biting chill that stung at the god’s skin. The screeching wind outside was somehow gone, replaced with a gentle hum that was soothing to the ear. It was like an instrument, one that Kratos had seen long before his time of exile, made of reeds and tied together with string. He remembered the Satyr god Pan, how he would always play one to lull the plants to sleep. He had even offered one to Kratos, only days before he had used the strings of the instrument to choke the nature deity's to death.

He had taught Atreus how to make one, when he was small. Not that he could generate enough air to create the noise, with all of his coughing.

“This is what the dead hear above the wind. It calls to them, tells them to seek shelter here.” Mimir whispered, his voice amplified by the glassy ice. Baldur’s breath was magnified too, a stuttering inhalation that made the Spartan tense with each exhalation.

“What are you doing here?” Kratos dared to ask.

At first Baldur said nothing, his shivering breath the only noise that escaped his blue lips, before turning to face the visitors with a smirk.

“Well, I didn’t die in battle. You just... grabbed me from behind and snapped my neck. So no Valhalla for me.”

The war god remained silent. No one else was willing to talk either, only letting the wind sing through the halls. It was not until they had reached another door, with two more guards standing with their backs against the wall and faces hidden by shadow, that Baldur decided to break the quiet with a crazed chuckle and an accusing finger.

“No Valhalla for them either. No Valkyries to escort one, or maybe he didn't want to abandon the other, who was only given a humiliating murder. And at the hands of a child’s blade, no less.”

As the small group grew closer to the two figures, the fire of Kratos’s blades gave more light to the dark room, gave more expression and shape to the hidden faces. And when they came into the full glow of the chaotic blaze, Kratos once again had to desperately resist the urge to plunge his blade into the two guardians throats.

“Magni and Modi?!” Mimir shouted, the names of the minor Aesir bouncing back with fervent fear and strident shock.

Sigrun quietly placed her hand on Kratos’s shoulder, in case they needed to suddenly take flight. But the two sons of Thor did not move or even flinch at their appearance, staring down at the ground as if in stupor. Their skin was the same grayish hue as their uncle, their eyes sported the same helpless gaze. But the Spartan could see their teeth widen into sadistic smiles, ones that grew more vicious when the blades’ red flame grew closer and closer.

“So, the thick bastard’s here.” Modi muttered to his brother.

“Took him long enough,” Magni whispered back, before asking his brother “How do you think he died?”

“Probably choked to death on the cock of a boar.”

Kratos ignored their petty insults, and followed the once-invulnerable god further into the freezing structure.

It was not long until they came across a set of doors, tall and towering over the strange group. Much like everything else in the accursed realm, it was made out of the strange green ice. Delicate etchings decorated the edges, haunting designs of men who had fallen outside of battle, who had died of old age, sickness, hunger, thirst, what was thought to be a weak and pitiful end.

Kratos wondered if the door was in fact made of those who had died, along with the ice.

“Leave your blades here, my good guest. The mistress… she does not take kindly to heat. Not at all, no.” Baldur muttered.

“No.” Kratos said.

This just made Baldur chuckle.

“You know that is not a request.”

The former war god said nothing, his grip on the blades only tightening. Baldur’s smirk quickly turned into a frown.

“You do not want to make an enemy of the mistress. Even though you are a guest, I will not hesitate to rip them off your hands.” He warned, the Odinson’s hands forming into fists as he glared at the visitor. His breathing became more rapid, the warm puffs of air escaping his mouth and dissipating much quicker as he let his body be fueled with anger. Kratos repeated the gesture, lifting the weapons for the inevitable fight. But as he was about to step forward and behead the Aesir prince, he felt the Valkyrie’s hand on his shoulder tighten. He turned to face the spiritual queen to see her shake her head in worry, not wanting a fight so close to their destination.

“Please do not make her an enemy, especially when she is the one you want to make an ally of,” she whispered, fear evident in her tone.

For a short time, there was only the hum of the wind, and the crackle of the greek fire as it fought against the chill of the realm. But, reluctantly, Kratos dropped the blades to the ground with a clang, slowly unwinding the connected chains around his wrists and letting them clatter to the icy ground as well. Baldur’s smile returned, and he placed his hands on the door. A dry cracking noise could be heard when his flesh made contact with the ice, one that grated on the god’s ears.

“Well then. Now that that’s beyond us, let me introduce you to the mistress.”

With a big heaving push, the doors hissed open, and Kratos was suddenly blasted with a cold unlike any he has ever felt before. It did not freeze him, not like the sharp winds of the realm. Rather, it had infiltrated his body, a foreign and unwelcoming presence that seeped into his soul and drained at all energy, all power that he once held.

It left the god incredibly drained, exhausted and susceptible as he stepped into the room, and saw the mistress on her frozen stone throne.

The woman was wearing a thin and ragged blue dress, faded and torn with age. Dark brown embroidery decorated along the neckline and the lose sleeves dangling around her thin, skeletal wrists. The dress reached below her feet, the end brushing against the frozen ground and collecting the blue-white powdery snow. She was thin, unhealthily so. He could see the joints of her wrist and elbows poking out of her muscle and flesh, her clothing rested on her as if she was a child wearing her mother's garb. Her cheeks were slightly sunken as well, burned a bright crimson from the harsh winds that roared against the walls. Her hair, a dull red, was weaved into a long braid that ran over both her shoulders, tumbling down to her waist in a thin fiery trail that contrasted heavily with her corpse-like gray skin.

Her appearance sent shivers throughout the war god’s body.

She reminded him of Faye. Faye when she was sick, the week before she had passed away. She had thinned due to being unable to eat, her skin had grown pale, her bright flaming red hair had lost its shine from being trapped inside for so long. But her eyes, those stunning, silver-blue eyes that he had loved so dearly, they had kept their glow, smiling even when she cried in pain, smiling until her last breath, telling the god and child not to worry about her.

But this woman, her eyes were an eerie, supernatural green, unlike any he had seen before. The only glow in them was a sharp and unforgiving animosity, of a revenge that had burned for all too long.

Kratos recognized that glow, for it used to shine in his own eyes.

“Hello, Kratos. Welcome to my home,” the woman whispered in a thin voice, like ice chipping off the dried skin of a corpse. “Welcome to the house of Hela.”

Chapter Text

The allfather was sick.

As soon as word reached the citizens, there was much talk of the inconceivable feat traveling around. A god of all people falling ill? Impossible!

But Atreus knew more. All he had to do was look at his serpentine companion, at the sharp yellow eyes that gleamed with hidden wisdom, and know that there was more than meets the eye to the magically-born creature. More to that foul-smelling venom that it spat at everyone in the boy’s path, that its spat right onto Odin's cheek, causing him to fall unexpectedly sick. Sick enough to worry the Aesir, sick enough for rumors to spread, sick enough for the old god to take short leave of his reign and give it to Thor.

And Atreus couldn’t tell if that was better, or worse.

Thor, with his short and sharp temper, and his tendency to throw his hammer as a form of diplomacy, made it all the harder for the gods to prevent their temporary leader from attempting to conquer every realm. It was amusing, watching so many of them run to and fro, trying to appease the thunder god before it was too late and they were plunged into yet another pointless war. Many of the conversations he overheard would begin with “Bloody Thor and his…,” or end with “Thor will be the death of us all!”

How unlike he was to his father. One was a preacher of knowledge and insanity, while the other only cared for blood and glory. One was a fighter of fists, the other a weaver of words.

And, very unlike Odin, the god of thunder did not trust the boy at all. Although, did the allfather trust him in the first place? Perhaps not, that would be the wiser decision.

The first day of his rule, he tried to have an Aesir warrior follow the child wherever he went, a golden shadow whose metal footsteps boomed over the silent scuffle of his fur shoes. At first Atreus was angry at the Aesir god for placing a guard over his shoulder, an accompaniment he did not care for. But he did not want to anger Thor in any way, knowing full well that the consequences would be gruesome, and decided to make the best of his opportunity. So he practiced his magic on the unfortunate soldier.

Granted, they were not anything dangerous that he had taught himself during his time in captivity. Just a few mischievous tricks that he had learned from the texts. Turning the floor into mud underneath the guard’s feet, making it rain above his head (with the occasional electric shock as a substitute for lightning), and even placing Ymaru above his head when he became inattentive, scaring him with hisses and nips at the air with venom dripping and melting into the ground.

Needless to say, the demigod had made an enemy.

And now, using a little trick he had just learned, he was invisible to the naked eye, watching his stalker and trying to hide his snicker as the Asgard resident began to search and call out for the child. He could hear Ymaru hiss quietly in laughter as well, the snake coiled gently around his  shoulders, the venomous head resting on top of his own.

Perhaps if he actually tried to shout, instead of whispering in hopes he won’t be caught failing his assignment, Atreus thought. He quickly grew bored of the stumbling guard, and wandered off with his serpentine companion, wondering for the hundredth time if there was any way to map the castle, or if there was indeed a strange magic that kept it forever shifting and endlessly confusing.

Then he wondered if any of the Aesir have gotten lost themselves if that were true.

It was not long until the two came across a door, the entrance to the dining hall that oh so commonly appeared in front of the boy. Maybe it was the default area, the one place Odin trusted him to be while he was ill.

Maybe he and the Thor were not so unlike after all.

The boy could hear whispers beyond the darkened wood, some thin and delicate and others harsh and abrupt. Yet they remained indecipherable, even when he pressed his ear against it.

“We… give us… defeat… ”

Atreus couldn’t deny that he was curious. Who wouldn’t be? Humans were designed to be after all, and Atreus needed to... get back in touch with his more mortal side.

He placed his hand against the frame, ready to investigate the strange conversation, but as soon as his fingers made contact with the fashioned timber, he leapt back as if he had been shocked, clutching at the side of his head as a voice whispered the same continuous message in a language that he had hoped to not hear in a long time.

Stay away, ordered in the harsh language of the dark elves.

Fear began to run through the Atreus’s body, making his muscles tense and his heart race as memories began to flood back. Memories of buzzing wings, harsh cries and sharp spears. Of a general, wrapping his claws around the boy’s small frame, the child unknowing of his fate as he flew away into the elven realm. But, with a will worthy of a god, he forced the memories back into the far recesses of his mind, and placed his hand back onto the door, ignoring the warning of the spell and the urgent cautioning of his companion.

Humans were also designed to disobey, after all.

The aperture was thankfully silent as he pushed the door open, squeezing through the small gap and making sure that it closed quietly behind him.

The room was unnaturally dark, pitch black to the boy’s eyes. He held his arms out, and he was only able to merely see the shapes of his hands.

Immediately he began to whisper, mutter in an ancient language as he asked the stone in the floor to guide his feet.

He had learned a few things during his time sightless.

He could hear the floor begin to shift underneath his body, a sound of rocks rubbing together. Immediately he whispered to them to be quiet, to not alert the voices that were steadily growing louder as he grew closer. Just because he was invincible to the naked eye, that did not mean that they couldn’t hear him.

Many questions began to run through his head, ranging from substantial to miniscule.

Why did the dining hall have to be so big?

And, most importantly, why could he hear the voices of dark elves, of all the races, in Asgard?

“And what have you done for us?”

It sounded angry.

The child’s hips soon bumped into the edge of a table, his hands lifting up to enclose around the thin board. He fell to his hands and knees and began to crawl underneath.

Ymaru slithered across its owners body, coiling around his stomach with its head resting on the small of his back. It stuck its tongue out every other second, sensing the heat of the other members of the room.

The voice grew louder and louder as Atreus crawled further and further,

“We have fought for you for centuries! We demand a return in this treaty!”

“And we have kept our side of this agreement. We have not attacked your realm, and we keep others out, do we not?” another voice said, one that Atreus recognized.

Although he never expected Thor to sound so… exhausted.

The spell that was keeping him concealed began to wear off, he could feel it, like dried blood pulled of fresh skin. But he did not worry, his mind far too focused on the argument that took place above him.

“And yet, one came and wiped out most of the army, and even gave the light to the enemy! He moved like the Fárbauti, the lightning of the nine realms!”

Thor laughed at that. Atreus could feel the ground shake from the booming thunder that followed the god’s chuckle.

“Surely you lie, now. No one moves like the Fárbauti, none except for me!”

The dark elf cried out in rage.

“I do not lie! This being was as fast as you, and just as vicious with his axe of ice!”

Atreus tensed, knowing full well who they were talking of.

“We know that they infiltrated your territory, we were aware of your situation. We warned you and gave you orders to bring them to us.”

“And your orders came at the cost of our king Svartáljǫfurr!”

Thor said nothing to this, only sighing in annoyance.

“As ambassador to the new king Reginháidurr, I will only tell you the message I was given. We demand that you give us payment for our servitude, we demand that you aid us in our quest.”

“Well… I do not know if I indeed hold the power to-” Thor began, before interrupted by his visitor.

“We want your permission to go to the human realm, to hunt the man of the Fárbauti and kill him and his filthy offspring!”

The boy gasped.

It echoed.

The voices suddenly grew silent, now aware of the other unwanted presence. Atreus desperately tried to remain quiet, one hand slowly reaching up to pet and calm the unnerved serpent that was wrapped around his body while the other covered his mouth in an a. Its tongue flicked in and out more fervently as it tried to locate the now voiceless strangers.

It was quiet, unbelievably so. An unnatural blue light began to burst forth from an unseen source, seeping under the table and giving stability to previously unseen textures. The boy looked to his right and to his left, watching to see a pair of boots, of bare feet, of any sign of anyone, but all he could see were Thor’s steel shoes, Mjolnir by his side. Lightning crawled alongside the metal of the short weapon, giving off the uncanny glow that stuttered every now and then.

But, as he held his breath, as his eyes continued to search for the owners of the other voices, he was unprepared for the loud noise of splintering wood above his head.

Suddenly Atreus was face to face with a spear, made entirely of silver wood and bone, little splotches of dried blood decorated the crevices and chips. The spear twisted before pulling out of the self-made puncture, and Atreus could only push himself back as it came down once again, right where the child’s neck once was.

He scrambled back, Ymaru slithering across his body as the demigod crawled back further and further, away from the attack.

But the spear only followed the boy’s rush, continuously breaking through the wood, pulling out and breaking through again. The loud sound of buzzing wings filled the boy’s ears, making him want to cover them and silence the dissonant noise. But he knew that if he did, he would slow down and be inevitably skewered.

As Atreus reached the end of the four-legged furniture, he placed a hand on the end to pull himself out, to burst forth and run for the door. But as soon as his hand curled around the edge, as his nails curled into the smooth wood, he felt the sharp end scrape against his hand, cutting the flesh open and tearing into the muscle.

He drew his hand back in pain, holding it up to his lips and trying not to scream as blood began to bead out of the cut. Ymaru hissed in worry, but he quietly shushed the creature and placed it in a pouch by his side. But his attempt at silence was futile nonetheless, as he saw arms, skin a grayish-black and overgrown claws browned with blood, lunge from the darkness and grab at his ankles, pulling him out into the open. No matter how much he squirmed, their grip remained tight, slowly clawing up his legs until the animalistic hands rested on his chest and hips to keep him trapped on the ground.

Atreus looked up at his attackers, the twisted faces of three dark elves. Their appearance still sent shivers down the boy’s spine, made more haunting by the ethereal static light. Memories of their war cries and their barbaric attacks flashed in the corners of his mind, of gore sleek on his hands, of arrow after arrow plunging into oily muscle.

And they remembered as well.

“The Farbauti’s child! It is the child we speak of!” one shouted, followed by screeches and accusations by the other two.

“Killer of our king!”

“Ally of the enemy!”

“Light-stealer!”

“Kill!”

“Kill!”

"Kill!”

The harsh language grated against the boy’s ears, and clawed at his mind with fear. He felt their long nails dig deeper into his skin, and he swore he could feel them draw blood as they shouted and muttered dark wishes to the child, their desires to slowly kill, to give him to the void of endless suffering.

Only to be interrupted by the very voice of thunder.

“Step away, elf.”

Atreus bent his head back, and the elves looked up to see the thunder god standing up, hammer in his hand and eyes darkened with fury.

At first no one said anything, their bodies still as stone at the sudden statement. Atreus dared to break the silence, afraid of what would happen if he let it remain still.

“Thor, help! They’re going to-”

The boy was cut off by one of the elves suddenly wrapping his hand around the boy’s neck, choking him silent. The aura in the room suddenly darkened further, thunder rumbling in the distance. The elf that held Atreus silent gave a fanged smile of apology, and stood up, taking one shivering step forward to the thunder god. He bowed, and the boy easily guessed that he was the ambassador, with his spineless approach to the Asgard heir.

“Thor, we apologize for our… sudden barbarity. You must understand that this child is-”

The ambassador was suddenly cut-off when Thor, with a speed unseen, rushed to the dark elf and wrapped a gloved hand around his neck.

“I will only warn you once, elves. Step away from that boy.” The god rumbled, his stormy eyes glaring at the two who still held Atreus down.

“What are you doing?! This is-”

Thor sighed and, with a single swing of his celestial hammer, brought it across the side of the ambassador’s head with a thunderous boom and a squelching splat. Dark blood burst forth from the explosive decapitation, drenching the thunder god’s clothes and hands, and even splashing against the child’s face as he looked away in shock and disgust. The skull and bone matter shattered completely from the impact, shards and fragments crushed into dust that spewed into the air. Muscle and flesh completely disappeared, evaporated by the lightning that still travelled through the decapitated body.

Immediately the other two elves scurried away, their wings buzzing as they flew to the door and flung it open, fearful of the Odinson’s wrath.

Atreus, scrambling to his feet, watched as the thunder god threw the headless body to the side, the sound of sloshing coming from the dead muscle as it lay against the cold stone floor. The foul smell of copper and fat began to permeate the cool air, nauseous and familiar to the boy's senses as he saw the body twitch once, twice.

He felt Ymaru squirm in the pouch on his hip, and ignored him.

“You… you… you…” Atreus stuttered, his eyes still staring at the gory mess in front of him.

“Child… the things I do is because my father says so. Nothing more.” Thor replied. He took the edge of the cloak around his shoulders and began to rub off the blood on Mjolnir’s edge, ignorant of the boy’s fear.

“But-but-but they’re supposed to be your allies.”

That made Thor laugh.

“This is not the first time that I have killed an ally. I believe that I lost count by now.”

The many other stains Atreus could see on the cloak agreed with the thundergod’s statement.

“Come on, up you get.” the thunder god ordered, giving up on a patch of blood that had soaked into the handle. He motioned with his hand for the boy to stand, but when he stayed on the ground, he sighed and walked to Atreus and grabbed his arm, pulling the child out of the room.

There was leftover destruction across the hall from the fleeing elves, breaks across the walls and floors and scratches disrupting the smooth marble. Not that Atreus couldn’t blame them, the abolition a mere side effect from their fear to escape the wrath of their once-ally.

“Where’re you taking me?”

“To get that wound looked at. I know for a fact that even the smallest cut can be fatal.” Thor replied, tapping his forehead.

Atreus said nothing after.

It was not long until the two deities reached a door, small and aged. Thor had to bend down under the frame to enter the room, an act that made Atreus wonder again the architecture of the palace, how long it had stood before the presence of Thor, maybe even of Odin.

The room itself held nothing special, it was no library or throne or dining hall with elegant etchings, decorated furniture, or any sort of exquisite design that could discern the area from any other, except for the beds that rested on the outer rim of the wall, perfectly lined together. Yet, as Atreus took a step in, he felt an aura seep into his skin that gave him a sense of calm that he hasn’t felt in a long time.

A lone woman stood in the center, spinning to face the newcomers. Her face was lined and sunken with age, long hair withered and gray and hands shaking from either deterioration or fear the boy could not tell.

“Meet Skavir, Loki. She is the new chief healer of Asgard.”

To replace Groa, the sorceress you widowed and your father killed, the boy thought, but Atreus dare not speak it aloud, not wanting to anger the god holding his already bleeding hand.

“The child has an injury, sorceress. You know what to do.”

“Yes, of course, of course. Depends on the injury.” She replied, her voice brittle and cracked. She reached down to the floor, at a small circular indentation right by her feet, a handle interrupting the smoothness of the ground. She pulled it up, revealing an array of medical supplies that surprised the boy.

“You like it? It was designed by the dwarves. It makes storing items much easier and less cluttered.” Skavir told the wide-eyed child, letting out a wheezing chuckle at his expression. But her cheerful and young demeanor quickly change when the thunder god stepped closer. He held out the boy’s hand towards her, and she gently took it, examining the injury before giving a gentle pat on the back of the child’s hand.

“Needs nothing special, my dear. Just some medicine and a dressing.”

Atreus didn’t listen, his eyes only shifting between the two other residents of the room. He watched as the old woman gently applied a salve to the cut, one that surprisingly did not sting, before wrapping three times in a bandage.

It was at this time that, without warning or reason, Ymaru managed to escape the outer pocket and lunge at Thor's neck, black venom overflowing from its hissing mouth.

The thunder god did not react to the sudden attack, merely holding out his hand and capturing the head of the snake in his giant grip. Nevertheless, the serpent struggled to continue the pointless fight, writhing and trying to break the Odinson’s skin before Atreus ordered the creature in the language of the Giants to calm down, that there was nothing to fear of the Aesir deity before scolding him for biting through the cloth of his pouch.

“Your pet seems to not be very fond of me.” Thor muttered, lifting a hand to show Ymaru that he meant no harm.

“It’s not a pet!... and it doesn’t really like anyone besides me.”

“Well... I hope that one day we can become allies, much like you and I.”

Atreus said nothing about Thor calling him an ally. He watched as the Aesir prince slowly traced a hand along the serpent’s belly, a sharp purr eliciting from the fanged mouth. He swore that he could see the creature smile in enjoyment from the bizarre caress.

Atreus quickly turned his attention back to the dressed wound on his hand, dragging a finger along the smooth bandage around his knuckles. He found it nearly impossible to clench his fist, and hoped that he would be able to do so once the bandage was removed.

“...Why do you just follow his orders? They were your allies, it would’ve been best to just leave me to them.”

Thor smiled at that. It was not a kind smile.

“The few times I’ve questioned my father, it always ended poorly. He knew what to do, the best outcome of every situation, and I foolishly ignored it. Let my arrogance as a god tell me that I knew just as well. And because of that, there is blood on my hands that I do not want.”

Atreus could understand that, despite not wanting to.

“Anyway, I best be off. The allfather is still sick, and I have many more duties to attend to. Skavir, send him back to his room once you deem him healthy.” The thunder god ordered, handing the serpent back before turning to leave.

“...Thanks for helping me,” Atreus muttered.

The statement made Thor stop in his tracks, only one step away from the small door, a hand on the upper frame. He turned to look back at the boy, his overwhelming power still suffocating to the child as his expression shifted and rolled like clouds of thunder. But soon it returned to that chilling smile that the demigod was slowly becoming sick of.

“Well, it would be wrong to let our neighbors scare you off, wouldn’t it, my boy?... Wait, I am not supposed to call you that. My apologies.”

There was silence, rich and thick as Atreus continued to look down at the serpent crawling across his hand and arm, rubbing its head against the bandage as if to ask if it hurt.

“It’s fine… this time.”

Thor just chuckled and left.

Chapter Text

It has been three days since the meeting with the dark elves, since the discovery of their enemy, the murderer of their king, in the very heart of their allies’ home.

And they let their fury of it known to the Aesir.

Atreus overheard one too many times from the Aesir about the meetings with the citizens of Alfheim, how they would only speak with the allfather, how they wanted the boy’s head given to them on a platter. Yet every time they were refused to even enter the palace, only allowed to talk to Heimdall at the border of Asgard before being turned away once again.

But that did not stop them from trying to get in.

In the three days they had been banished, twice they have tried to force their way into the palace, to reach the boy and exact revenge for their fallen king, no matter the cost. According to the gossiping deities, Thor had already lost count of the amount of bodies that rested at the gate of the temple. And Atreus had already lost count of how many times he had switched rooms, the thunder god telling the child that he was not willing to take chances in case a few managed to sneak past the guardian’s watchful eyes. But he wouldn’t be surprised if Heimdall allowed a few to sneak by, their relationship still a sour one since the boy’s arrival all those days ago.

Has it really been that long, since his kidnapping? Atreus knew that time worked differently in each realm, but he wondered how differently. Was it as quick as the warped land of Niflheim, or as slow as the frozen tundra of Hel? Or maybe, did the gods have some form of control over it?

The boy was broken from his thoughts by Ymaru, hissing worries and concerns to its master as its body gently squeezed his ribs. He smiled, stroking a finger down the long scaled head before turning back to the task of feeding the little beast, taking pieces of meat, fruit and other forms of sustenance from the table and dropping it into the serpent’s mouth, watching as it slowly travelled down to the creature’s stomach.

He heard a noise behind him, and turned to see a familiar face enter the dining hall. But it did not seem that she noticed him, for Skavir ignored the boy as she began to collect fruits of varying color and shape into the thick fold of her dress, making her belly appear far bigger. He watched as she stood right by him, unnoticing of the boy’s presence as she continued her task, moving on to grab a pitcher of mead and place it in the crook of her elbow.

“Hi Skavir.” he muttered. Ymaru repeated the greeting in the ancient tongue, making the chair and table rumble.

The old woman jumped and shrieked at the sound, spinning around to face the boy with a look of terror and her hand clutching at her chest. All the food and drink she was carrying fell to the ground with a loud clatter that made the demigod flinch.

“By the filthy bristled beards of the dwarves, you nearly scared my very soul out of my body!”

“Sorry,” Atreus replied, merely grabbing an apple in front of him and tossing it from hand to hand. With as much force as he could muster, he broke the tart fruit in two, holding one out for his companion to swallow whole while taking a bite of the other. He gave her a smile, one that was both fake and true, for even though he liked the old healer, he still revolted at the idea of befriending the Aesir, the people who killed his mother’s loved ones and tried too many times to do the same to him.

“Oh, sweet child, it’s perfectly fine, you’ve done nothing wrong. But… what’re you doing here?”

“Eating. I do need food, after all. Him too,” the boy stated, scratching the base of Ymaru’s chin.

“Well, yes, but… now of all times? Why alone?”

Atreus’s false smile quivered a little, but he tried to hide it as best he could by taking another bite of the bitter apple.

“Well, normally Sif likes to eat with me, but… Thor won’t let her be near me right now. Not with the dark elves trying to break in.”

“That’s understandable. You wouldn’t want your pet in harm's way if it was preventable, wouldn’t you?”

“He’s not a pet! Why does everyone think that?!” the smile fell away to annoyance as the boy placed a hand on the serpent’s head, the other gripping the remains of the fruit so hard that his nails pierced the bright green skin.

“I’m so terribly sorry, I didn’t mean to insult your companion. If you don’t mind me asking, then what is he, if not a pet?”

That was a question that the demigod has asked himself numerous times before between the demigod and his creation. The creature itself was not afraid to call the boy its father, a name that left the boy with an uneasy feeling. Numerous times he told the serpent to simply call him Atreus only, and numerous times Ymaru would eventually return to calling him the patriarchal label, to the point where the child simply gave up and hope the snake would grow out of the habit.

“Just a friend.”

Skavir nodded in understanding.

“And… what of your other friend over there? Surely his legs must be sore from standing for so long?” The healer asked, pointing a withered hand at the only other Aesir presence in the room, continuing to stand and watch the boy with that unnerving glare.

Atreus chuckled.

“I can tell you this as fact. He’s not my friend, just the guard who keeps an eye on me at all times. And I will say, he is surprisingly good at his job. If Heimdall ever failed his duty, he wouldn’t be a bad replacement.”

It made the old lady cackle, and he smiled.

“Well I’ll be sure to tell the allfather of this discovery when I see him. That is in fact the reason why I’m here, old fool won’t let me eat, wanting to get well as soon as possible. But I managed to convince him that I need to take care of myself, so I can help him heal, after all. Magic does not come cheaply, how do you think I became this old this fast?”

And with her surprising statement still ringing in the boy’s ears, the elderly healer then returned to her task of gathering food and mead, a determination that Atreus had to commend her for. He decided to help her, handing her various foods that she accepted with thanks. It was as she was about to leave that she paused and turned to face the two once again, hesitation evident in her wrinkled features.

“...Child, you do know that you’ve been summoned, correct? Thor’s been asking for your presence since the morning.”

“I know, he continues to badger me about it to this very minute,” he stated, jamming a thumb at the guard.

“Well, I am on my way to the throne room, you can come with me. I would heed the summon, if I were you. Thor is impatient.”

Atreus certainly knew that, his mind briefly flashing back to electric metal breaking open skulls, disintegrating flesh and boiling muscle. But he simply smiled, nodded and stood up from the elongated table, accompanying her out of the room. He could hear the metal clang of the guard’s boots behind them.

It wasn’t long until the two (or three, if Atreus wanted to count the guard) reached the grand door of the throne room, a place that he had not been to since his first day in the realm of the gods.

He wondered then, why did the elves meet with Thor in the dining hall instead? Was it because they were accommodating the guests? And if so, then how long had the dark elves truly been in the palace without him knowing?

The boy was broken from his thoughts when Skavir pushed the door open with her back, hands still full with now partially-eaten foods and half-drunk brew. The guard did not enter with them, a behavior that sent warnings through the child's mind.

And what Atreus saw inside made him freeze.

Instead of Thor sitting on the throne, spinning the handle of his deadly hammer between his fingers at an attempt to ease the boredom, Odin sat in the familiar seat of gold, wood and ivory. His skin was unnaturally pale, as if his wrinkled body was drowned in snow. It made the allfather’s one red eye stand out much more looking down at the boy with a stare that could either be irked or appeased.

“You are far more trouble than I believed, Loki.” Odin chuckled, before falling into an unexpected series of coughs. Dark drool fell out of his mouth, and the boy could hear a faint hissing sound as the unnatural solution made contact with the old god’s skin. Skavir rushed to his side instantly, catching the black phlegm that expelled from the allfather’s mouth in a cloth. She began to whisper spells of healing, spells that Atreus knew were too weak to have any effect.

“At first I thought that my only problem would be that pet of yours, what with its black poison that it murderously spits at everyone, but in only a few days did I find out that your mere presence caused us to lose an ally.”

“Where’s Thor?” was all the child asked the elder god.

“Off in the realm of the dwarves, making sure they know their place.”

“I see…” He mumbled. As much as he hated to admit it, the child did have the beginnings an ally in the thunder god, be it because of Sif, time, situation or a breaking will. Although he still did not trust the Aesir prince, he could at least find a reliable approach to defend himself against anyone that wishes harm to him, for who would want to make Thor angry?

Atreus was broken from his disquieted thoughts when he heard a thick buzzing, like the wings of a bug, right above his head. The light seeping through the glass windows flickered briefly, like an insect had skittered across.

He looked up, and stared straight into the bright yellow eyes of a dark elf.

No… four of them.

They all released a large war cry as they jumped from the ceiling, landing in front of the child with their spears aimed straight at his chest. The boy fell to the ground in surprise, scrambling back to create some sort of distance between him and the enemies. Only one took a step forward, spear by his side as he towered over both the demigod and his own kin. His figure was distinct from the others with its darker skin and thick silver markings trailing across, bright and shining in the light. It wore dulled bronze armor, vastly different from the bone-and-vine plating. On his head he sported a bronze helmet, sharpened horns spiking up towards the ceiling.

Atreus recognized that piece of battleware, for it used to be sported on a different head, one who warned him of the mistake he and his father had made with his last dying breath.

“Child of the Farbauti. As new king of the elven race, I, Reginháldurr, sentence you to death.”

The boy could feel his body tense in fear as they suddenly ran at him. His attempt to run away was meager and pointless as they wrapped clawed and oily hands around his arms, legs and stomach.

Ymaru tried to attack, attempting to bite or spew its venom, but one of the elves simply grabbed it from its perch on the child’s shoulder and held its head between the index and thumb, laughing at the serpent’s attempt to squirm away.

Atreus was forced to lie on his stomach as he was held down, the weight against his back forcing most of his air out of his lungs. He could hear a clicking sound right next to his head, and he could see in the corner of his eye the metal spear of Reginháldurr lie on the ground, right next to his head, before being placed on the back of his head, cold and rough.

“What’re you doing?” Atreus fearfully inquired, his eyes following the sharp edge of the spear that was far too close to his neck.

But it was not the elves who answered his question.

“Don’t worry, child. They’re just measuring your head out.” Skavir mumbled, before taking another swig of the brew she still carried.

“What?!”

“You left me no choice,” Odin mumbled, another cough escaping his dry lips. “I tried to protect you, but I needed to reach a compromise that would let us keep an ally in a world of nine realms.”

“By killing me?!”

“Think of it more as a temporary leave, child.”

“No, I won’t! Death isn’t temporary!”

That made Odin laugh.

“That’s why I asked them to measure your head. If Freya could bring one back to life, what is to say that I can’t do the same? She did teach me a lot of what she knew, after all. Hopefully you’ll do the same, for the sake of your pet.”

And at that, the elven prince raised his spear, prepared to cut off the boy’s head.

“Wait wait wait!” Atreus shouted, squirming once again in the grip of the dark elves.

They barely hesitated.

“Do you- um… really want to do it this way?” He asked.

That managed to get their attention.

“What do you mean? ” the elf asked. He placed the spear beside the boy’s head, right next to his ear. He could hear it dig into the floor, hear the squeal as the prince twisted the spear around and around, drilling a hole into the ground.

He tried to think back to those lessons that Mimir had forced onto him during the first year of Fimbulvetr, how he wanted the boy to learn how to use wit instead of weapons, should the need arise.

“Why do I need to know how to talk to an enemy? I mean, if they’re my enemy, aren’t I supposed to fight them?” Atreus asked the disembodied head, holding it far from the cabin’s fire to prevent it from warming up and decomposing faster.

“Well, not everything is solved that way. I learned first-hand that the tongue is most definitely mightier than the sword. Or axe. Or bow and arrow. Pretty much any weapon, really. It all just depends on how you use it, whether it be to kiss their bitter arse-pride, or kick it into the very ground they stand on.”

That made the boy laugh.

“So… how do I use it?”

“Well, generally you look for an opening, something to bring up that will do one or the other. If not, you try an’ make one. Eventually, you’ll be able to find their weak spot with just a wee glance at their person. Why, soon you’ll be just like me- well, hopefully not as a disembodied head on the hip of a short-tempered god.” He said with a wink and a chuckle.

If only Mimir knew the situation the demigod was in now.

Atreus tried to think in the limited time frame he had created himself, anything to say that could give him a way out or at least more time to think of an escape. But it seems that the elf king was far more impatient than Thor, a feat the demigod thought to be impossible.

“This child is trying to save his skin! A foolish ploy by a cowardly creature!”

There was his chance, he hoped.

“You’re calling me a coward? After you and your what, three friends attack me from behind? And you originally had four, one having to hold down my small… pet! From what I have seen, a slickback rat has more honor than all of you combined.”

The elf guard holding him down by his chest pressed harder, forcing what little air out of the boy’s body with a cough and a wheeze.

“You dare to call us coward?!”

“Yes, I do. At least your former king faced my father and I head on, unafraid.”

The claws were now beginning to cut through his clothing and into his flesh. He wonders if Mimir’s lessons were really all that helpful.

“I… I challenge you!”

The elf king tilted his head.

“You? Challenge me?”

“Yeah. I took on your father, didn’t I? And-and I defeated him! What’s to say that I can’t do the same with you?”

Reginháldurr didn’t say anything. The grip on his spear tightened.

“I-I-If I win, you let me go and never attack me or the Aesir again. But if you win, you get to cut off my head. And you’ll be known as the one who defeated… the Silvertongue.” Atreus stated.

There was silence.

“Not even your father was able to defeat me, and that was before I unlocked my… my godly power. If you can defeat me now, you will go down in both elven and Aesir history.”

Slowly, the elf king nodded in agreement.

“Fine. I accept. ”

Atreus sighed in relief. He will thank Mimir for the lessons if he ever sees him again.

Chapter Text

“And who are you?” Kratos demanded, raising a finger and pointing at the sickly woman. Despite the freezing temperature and the war god’s sapped strength, he did not tremble or shiver.

“Do you not listen? I am Hela, the queen of this realm and ruler of the unworthy.”

The woman, Hela, beckoned towards the odd group in front of her, but only Baldur heeded the call, rushing to her side so fast that a hiss could be heard as he passed Kratos, the god’s inner fire melting the Aesir’s coat of ice.

Sigrun quickly stepped in front of the Spartan, falling onto one knee as he watched with surprise. Such a humbled approach to the corpse-like woman, one who seemed to be able to break at the slightest breeze. But Kratos knew of the deception of appearances, the image of the “compassionate” Athena appearing in the corners of his mind.

“Mistress Hela, it is good to see you once again. I am grieving at the number of warriors that you are now burdened with. My sisters and I-”

“I know of what happened, Madame Sigrun. But it is not you that I blame for the chaos.” The withered queen interrupted. She leaned towards her tattooed companion, who silently slithered one hand on her lower back and another beneath her thighs, just below the crook of her knees. He lifted her from the frozen throne, and she winced in pain, an action the war god did not expect. But she forced the grimace away as quickly as it appeared, clutching tightly to Baldur’s neck.

“What in the nine bleedin’ realms is going on?” Mimir asked, confused by the unusual behavior between the two residents of the realm. But the disembodied head was ignored as the two interwoven hosts stepped forward. And yet, only after a few did she stop Baldur in his tracks, her brow furrowed in concern and confusion.

“How? I have drained you of energy until I couldn’t eat anymore, yet you still burn so harshly that I can’t take another step towards you.”

Did that explain the sudden feeling of debility that had infested the war god, the need to close his eyes and rest, something he needed very little of? Kratos did not like the forced sensation, it reminded him too much of the Furies’ embrace, his mind vulnerable to their entertainment.

“Not surprised, really. It would be disappointing if someone so weak managed to defeat my gatekeeper and allow entrance to every soul of Midgard. Because of that, I had no choice but to dig up the filthy souls of the Thorsons and have them fight off the- ”

“I grow impatient of your complaints, woman! I came here only for you or your slaves to give me passage to Asgard, not to hear your petty whining and accusing.”

Immediately the queen’s eyes thinned in anger. Her grip around Baldur’s neck tightened, as did his on her frail figure, ice cracking from his movement.

“Uh… brother. If you want to make a friend out of someone, it’s probably best to not insult them and call their people bootlickers.”

“Your souvenir speaks wisely.”

“Souven-! Why, I’d never!” Mimir retorted, his breath steaming in the air as he huffed in anger. Hela herself chuckled in response, a noise that sounded all to much like a dying man’s scream.

Sigrun quickly stood up, prepared to apologize for her guest’s lack of behavior, but was waved away with the flick of a bony hand.

“It is true that I know the land of Asgard well, it was my home for a short time. And I do have three former natives at my disposal as well who, unlike mortals, can physically cross between the land of the dead and the living. I’m assuming that you want… assistance to cross between the realm that has forbidden you?”

The Spartan gave a grunt in response, nodding his head once. Hela gave him a sinister smile in return.

“But, why should I help you? You’ve insulted my name, my companions, and what you ask is a favor that will not only end with your death, but shall have my own head on an Aesir platter.”

Kratos… was at a loss at what to say.

Mimir, however, was not.

With as much force as a disembodied head could muster, he swayed back and forth until the War God took notice and unhooked him from his belt.

“Finally. Now, before you royally fuck this up, let me try and help out some.”

Kratos merely sighed, and held the head out towards Hela, spinning him around to face the queen of the dead.

“Well, hello there, glad to be able to talk to you frontly, madame. My name is Mimir, smartest man alive… or reanimated… definitely not a souvenir, as you can see.”

Hela just smiled at his rambling.

“Well, anyway, since I am the smartest man… somewhat alive, I know a few things about everything and everyone. Including you, my dear. Hela, goddess of the dead, lady of beauty and horror, though I don’t understand the latter, you’re as beautiful as a bloomin’ rose, and defender and manipulator of souls. And from what I’ve learned, the Aesir aren’t really fond of you, about as much as you are of them. You helped souls who didn’t die in battle, something they thought to be a load of trollshit. In response, you left them and took over Hel, something the Aesir have been afraid of doin’ for centuries. Of course, they grew bitter about you rising in power, and cut you off. Am I correct, or am I a bit tweaky with my knowledge?”

Hela shook her head. Kratos could hear the frigid skin of the head creak as he smiled.

“Well, how about you get some revenge on the bastards? As you probably already know, this bugger holdin’ me by the horns was able to take down two of the Aesir that reside in your halls-um, in battle of course, it was before the Valkyries returned. So with him as an ally, there’s nothing you have to worry about anymore! So what’ya say?” Mimir asked with a much too chipper tone. The Spartan wagered that he winked at the goddess as well.

“...Let me show you something.” Hela said. She looked at her carrier, who nodded and gently placed her on the frozen ground. She winced in pain once again. Leaning over her, Baldur slowly grabbed the torn hem of her long dress, and slowly pulled it up to her hip, revealing her feet and legs.

Or what was left of them.

The flesh of the limbs was nonexistent, only pure, bleeding red muscle as a cover. Crimson, violet and sapphire veins were apparent and pulsating, intertwining and frozen and chunks of the delicate fibers were missing, revealing bones that were slowly deteriorating and turning gray. Her feet themselves were distorted and deformed, the arches and soles grotesquely twisted inward, with the muscled toes fused together or simply sharpened pieces of skeleton.

“I think this is what mortals mean when they say both beauty and horror, Mimir. You want to know how my legs, how half of my body has become this? These mutilated and useless limbs of a corpse?” The goddess asked, her bright green eyes cold and unyielding. “It was a punishment, a consequence of me acting ‘out of turn,’ as they would like to say. You say that I would have nothing to fear, but if they do this when they’re upset, I can only imagine what they will do if they’re betrayed.”

Mimir’s smile creaked away, unknowing of what to say. The queen waited for an answer as she pulled the dress back down to hide the deformities of her body, once again grimacing. She looked the war god straight in the eye, who fearlessly stood his ground, amber eyes blazing with a fury and impatience that could easily melt the ice surrounding him.

“What is it that you want? Why do you want to attack the gods? I have had many souls come to my door and ask for revenge against the gods, be it for a murdered loved one or their own life ruined by the deities. What is your revenge?”

There was silence, except for the distorted screams of the wind and the damned.

“My entire life had been one of revenge. I had known nothing more, not even of the consequences that followed me or others. It was only until there was nothing left, no person to hate or cherish, no land to cultivate, no sign of life to care for or fight against. So I will say no, I don’t have a revenge, not anymore. All I have is a… need, a need to protect what little I have left.”

Once Kratos had finished his unexpected speech, his body tensed in shock. He could feel the fire in his body begin to burn brighter and brighter in anger as he realized the hidden sorcery performed on him by the skeletal woman. It was much more obvious now, the rhythmic curling of her fingers, the indecipherable mumbling under her breath. Even her eyes had a new glow to them, a shine of mischief and magic that was almost hidden by the forever gleaming hate.

She smiled, knowing that her secret has been revealed.

“You do not have to tell me what your need is, I shall help you.”

Sigrun and Mimir both sighed in relief.

“Truth be told, I was going to help you whether you gave me a reason or not.”

“Then what the bloody hell was all that questionin’ for?! My tongue nearly froze to my teeth from all that blabberin’!” Mimir snapped. But that was not what Kratos was focused on.

“Why will you help us?” He asked, his voice rumbling with caution. Mimir immediately began to try and shush him, mumbling about how he shouldn’t ‘look a gift horse in the mouth,’ whatever the head means by that. The woman placed a bony finger on her chin, contemplating on what to say.

“Let me say that a certain… prophecy has told me of your coming, and of my aid in your quest. And you cannot say that you don’t believe in them, not after what you saw in Jotunheim.”

What happened next was almost too quick for the mortal eye to see.

Hela was suddenly eye to eye with the Leviathan axe, ice already forming around the sharp edge and around Baldur’s hand that held it away from his mistress’s face. Both residents were unflinching as the Spartan glared at both of them with anger that made Sigrun tremble in her place and the wooden handle of his weapon begin to hiss from the sudden heat.

“How do you know this?” He demanded. The flame inside him began to grow stronger and stronger, despite Hela’s muttered attempts to keep it a small blaze.

“I cannot say. I have been sworn to silence by the one who told me. But all I can say is that if you kill me, you will no longer have an ally, and you will be stuck in Midgard or Hel, depending on if you can convince the Valkyries to help you one last time.”

She began to try and move away from him, trying to slide across the frozen floor without moving her legs. Baldur tried to push him away as well, placing both hands on the axe to keep it away from Hela. He was ignorant of the ice that began to move beyond his hands and up to his tattooed wrists and arms.

“I told you my mistress doesn’t take kindly to heat. Step. Away.” The Aesir prince whispered.

Kratos did not hear the warning, did not hear the pleas of the head at his hip. But he did feel the slender and stinging gauntlets of the Valkyrie queen swiftly pull him away, breaking him from his fury filled stupor. The sudden heat from his core died back down, and he found that same sickening feeling returning at the base of his chest.

Hela, acting like nothing unusual had happened, waved Baldur to help her with a boned finger. The formerly-invulnerable deity, his hands still frozen to the Spartan’s axe, quickly broke them away from the edge of the weapon, and heeded her call, picking her up as gently as he could.

“Alright, now that we have our… disagreements out of the way, let’s get goin’!” Mimir replied, that annoyingly cheerful tone back in his voice for a meager attempt to create a lighter mood. Sigrun quickly agreed with her once-lover, and began to mutter about how to get them all out into the realm of the living. But Kratos could hear the mumblings of Hela and her companion, their eagerness to see the outside world evident as they spoke in a tongue he didn’t speak.

“Jeg lurer på hvordan livets verden er som ?” She asked her carrier.

“Jeg forsikrer deg om at det er et sted for villmark, der brutalens skapninger strever seg fri. Det vil bli forbløffende .” He replied, giving her a small frozen smile to copy her own.

Yet, even though Kratos could not speak it, he understood what they were saying to each other,evident through their body and gesture.

“Only you come with us.” The War god demanded, pointing at the withered woman. The hopeful glow in her eyes vanished, along with the innocent grin.

“That’s impossible. Baldur comes with us.”
“No,” Kratos immediately responded, the anger evident in his tone. Already the situation was beginning to grow once again. Mimir, in an attempt to prevent from escalating an further, decided to ask the question that the Spartan wasn’t willing to ask.

“Why exactly do we need to bring eh… Baldur? I’m pretty sure that with his stay here and what with time bein’ a bit wonky in certain places, he’s probably already told about his um… history with us.”

“It is because he is my carrier. Much like how he carries you on his hip, Baldur carries me, as I can not walk with these infernal legs.”

“But, umm… to put this delicately, why Baldur?”

“Because, it can only be Baldur.” She hissed, tightening her hold on him.

“Well, I didn’t think this situation could get any more troublesome.” He mumbled to himself. But, unexpectedly, the flame inside the Spartan did not grow, but fluctuate up and down as Kratos fought to keep it under control, to not let it grow out of proportion as it had so many times already. Mimir wouldn’t deny that he was surprised.

“...Fine, so long as you get me to Asgard. I do not care.”

Hela nodded in agreement.

“It will be difficult, I will tell you. The travel room has been damaged, meaning that we can’t use it. But there is another… means of transportation. Let us go… friend. I know of one who can give us the vessel we need.”

“And who is that?”

There was silence as Hela placed her thinly pointed chin on Baldur’s frozen shoulder, looking straight into Kratos’s burning amber eyes with her forest green.

“I assume you already know the Vanir queen Freya, correct?”

Chapter Text

The duel would soon be at hand.

And already Atreus was worried. No, terrified, certainly terrified.

He didn’t really know what to do. Yes he had somehow managed to escape a gruesome fate, give himself extra time, but he did not know what to do next to make sure he lived for more than the hour that has already passed.

For an hour was all they gave him.

As soon as he and Ymaru were released from the dark elves’ grip, they were both ushered out of the throne room by the healer Skavir. Not that he wanted to spend another moment in that room with Odin and that lying hag. He didn’t try and stop his companion from trying to nip the woman’s hand with his sharp fangs.

Once alone, at first he felt somewhat proud of his accomplishment. A story to tell Mimir for sure , he thought as he smirked to himself.

But his giddy mood would not last for long.

He suddenly felt a gauntleted hand on his shoulder, an action that made him jump in surprise and made Ymaru try and bite the owner of the limb. Atreus’s guard reeled back as quickly as he could, avoiding a painful death by a mere inch, his drawn back hand pulled back into a makeshift claw as the other tightened around his spear.

“Don’t do that!” The boy warned, calming his pet with a stroke on its head.

“I won’t, clearly.” He mumbled.

There was silence between the two before the guard leaned towards the boy and whispered to him, tilting his spear from side to side, hand to hand.

“You made a foolish mistake, kid. You insult the high family, then you suddenly challenge their most powerful warrior to a battle. Your head will end up being cut off either way.”

“Yeah, but at least now I have a chance. And I did defeat his father before!” he retorted, letting the smirk return. The demigod decided not to mention that his father did most of the work in that fight. “Besides, I know a lot more magic than I did before, so I have that trick up my sleeve.”

To make his point, he clicked his fingers to create a small spark of lightning, something the guard himself should be familiar with what with all of the antics that the demigod has played on him in the many days spent living in the celestial realm.

“Just listen to me, okay. You don’t know what you’re doing.” The asgardian hissed, unwavered.

Atreus let the spark grow bigger in his palm along with the anger in his chest. But he quickly had to dissipate it as Ymaru drew its triangular head too close to the electrical flicker. Even after the small feat of magic disappeared, the serpent continued to search for it, nuzzling its face in the boy’s hand and licking it with its forked tongue until the demigod gently pushed its head away in slight embarrassment.

“And why should I trust you?” He asked.

Especially after what the witch did to me.

The guard straightened his back and looked side to side, almost as if he was looking for any possible eavesdroppers.
“Because someone around here is very interested in keeping you alive and fully intact.”

“Who?”

“I can’t tell you. Only what I can to make sure you survive.”

Atreus didn’t know what to think of this. For too long this guard has followed and pursued him on what he knew to be the allfather’s orders. For all he knew this could be a trick, this could all be a cruel joke by the elder god that plagued the boy’s every other thought.

And yet, he had nothing to lose at this moment, his head was literally already on the line. And the allfather had nothing to gain from this, at least as far as Atreus knew.

“What is it?”

The guard motioned for Atreus to follow, away from the room they still stood before. The boy followed, and the guard looked around once again for any spies before leaning back down again.

“The royal line is different from the other dark elves.” he whispered.

“...How’s that?”

“Well, light elves are known for their ability to see and sometimes use magic. It’s a skill the dark elves have lacked for generations, but they still desired it. Especially the royal line, and so… they take an elf of the other tribe and force them to assist to… produce an heir of both bloodlines.”

Atreus may be young, but he was not foolish, despite Mimir’s attempts to shield the child. His eyes widened and his mouth gaped in shock.

“That’s horrible!”

“Granted, the light elves are not so innocent either. They take the dark elves’ women to inherit strength and agility, something that has always been absent in the light elves.”

But the boy was barely listening, his mind still reeling from the information. Even Ymaru hissed in antipathy, sensing its master’s discomfort.

“So I can’t use magic on him at all?”

“Oh you can, but he’ll see it coming. He won’t be surprised by it, not as much as you think he will be.”

The boy was abruptly broken from his thoughts when the very guard that warned him opened the throne room once again, forcing the boy in on his own. The demigod quickly placed into his pouch (one that now had a hastily sewn patch on the side), and stepped in.

Atreus noticed a few changes since he had been gone. For one, Odin was off of his throne, conversing with the dark elf king over something the child could not hear. They turned to face the demigod, one with a lying smile and the other with an honest frown, before the allfather stepped forwards to greet him.

“Greetings, Loki. I hope you are ready.”

“What were you talking about?” was all Atreus asked.

The allfather just chuckled, placing a hand on the boy’s shoulder. Ymaru hissed from its perch and tried to bite at the hand, to which the limb quickly drew back.

“I was just trying to convince our guest to allow you an asset in the duel. He’ll let you have a weapon.”

Atreus looked at the elf, unbelieving.

“I use my spear to fight. It is only fair you use one of your choosing as well.”

The boy tried to hide the smile that tugged on the corners of his lips. Oh how much easier this became. All he needs is a bow, and he’ll practically be unstoppable. He managed to take down so many elves before alone, who’s to say that he can’t take down one more with a freshly tight string and a quiver full of arrows?

The boy was lead to a table, one that was adorne with numerous armaments. Spears, swords, maces, and even a few that he couldn't name. But they were all inconsequential, insignificant as he found a familiar favorite.

“He said that you can have a singular weapon. Choose carefully,” Odin said, holding out his hand towards the table.

There was no question to it.

“I want the bow.” he quickly responded, pointing at the weapon. It was made of a delicate cherry red wood, with a handle of interwoven gold and silver expertly shaped to fit any hand that wields it.

The elder god handed the carved wood to the child, and he smiled as he tested the weight and the power of the string. Eagerly he reached for the arrows, finely shaped shafts of iron with a sharp tip and red feathered fletchings, but was stopped by the wrinkled hand of the allfather.

“Umm… I need the arrows.”

“No.”

The statement made the demigod’s mind reel back in surprise.

“But-but-but what about arrows?!”

Odin grinned.

“You asked for a bow, and that’s what you get. They said a single weapon, boy. And I know they’re very specific when it comes to their rules,” the elder god warned the boy with an all too cheerful smile. But all Atreus had to do was look him in his one blood red eye to see that he was just toying with the child, making it want to be as difficult as possible him in order for the demigod to pay for the “inconvenience” of the fight.

After all, it didn’t matter which one came out victorious, Odin would be the winner either way.

“What is going on over there? Is he surrendering before we’ve even started?” Reginháldurr demanded, growing ever more impatient.

Odin looked up at the dark elf king and smiled, his withered and aged face making it appear all too kindly.

“Simply not, just a dispute between us. I want him to take arrows, but he just says that he can defeat you with just the bow itself.”

Atreus glared at the god, his hate for the Aesir leader evident in his silver gaze.

“If he thinks himself so high, then let him fight me with only the bow!”

“Very well.” Odin agreed before Atreus could say anything to either. The allfather pushed the boy in front of them, blatantly hinting that it was time for the fight.

The other elves quickly buzzed away, sitting on the steps in front of the throne with their spears on their laps. Odin himself was somehow on the golden seat once again, the demigod unable to see how he got there without his notice.

But his confusion was short lived, as he heard Reginháldurr give out a shrill war cry, his spear held over his head in preparation to attack.

“...Fuck.” he muttered under his breath.

Brok would have laughed if he heard him just then.

Immediately the elf leaped into the air, his spear aimed at the ground as he muttered words of elven magic. Atreus reacted by falling back, away from the ethereal mines as he called upon the flames resting in the braziers.

“Verja mir,” he murmured. He could see the flames crawl from their metal beds and leap across the stone, eager to help once again and assist the descendant of the giants. Already it began to take the shape of a humanoid figure, arms and legs forming from the mass of flames. But the elf king, his dark sight witnessing the movement of the inanimate object, quickly spread his wings and fly over to the iron pedestals and tip them over, the coals and wood spilling onto the ground. The little creatures of fire mewled in fear, looking at the demigod in despair before their source of life was cut off and they smoked away just as quickly as they were born.

“Nice try, child. But I can see magic, I know what shall happen as soon as you utter it.”

“So I’ve heard,” Atreus muttered in annoyance. Releasing another cry, Reginháldurr lunged straight at the child, the tip of his spear whistling through the air. The demigod tensed his body and, holding the very end of the bow, swung it as hard as he could at the face of the elf king like it was a club. It hit the adversary right against the cheek, throwing him off his course and preventing the spear from skewering straight through the boy's stomach and instead cutting at his side, slicing through the thin fabric of his tunic and creating a thin stinging gash. The boy hissed, but ignored the burn that clawed at his ribs as he ran at the stunned elf, prepared to attack once again. But Reginháldurr did not stay down long enough, swinging his weapon wildly at the advancing child. Atreus felt the staff of the spear connect with his stomach, and it knocked all air out of him as it sent him flying, the unnatural strength of the king forcing him to hit the wall on the other side of the room.

He swore he could hear the allfather, or at least one of the elves laugh.

The demigod stayed on the ground, trying to catch his breath as best he could with the wound at his side, warm blood soaking into his clothes. He could feel a strange combination of warm blood and cold wood on his stomach as he lay down, hear the padding sound of the king’s bare feet as he stepped closer. The spear clacked against the ground, creaked as the elf tightened his grip, but nevertheless the child waited, lying on the ground. He moved his head ever so slowly to get a better view, along with his hand gripping onto the bow, placing it between him and the king’s path.

“Now this is a pathetic display.”

Closer.

“My father fell to you of all people.”

A little closer.

“It makes me wonder if he was truly worthy of the title.”

Just a little more.

“Although he did manage to sire me from a filthy Ljósálfar , a task thought impossible.”

Almost.

The dark elf king was now on top of him, holding his spear over the child’s back. His foot was between the bow’s string and limb.

Now!

Atreus quickly pulled his weapon to his chest, forcing Reginháldurr to fall of balance. Even though he used his wings to catch himself, it was enough time and distraction for the boy to pull even further and leap onto his adversary, climbing over his body like a spider. The king clawed at the child, grabbing at his limbs and digging his sharp nails into the demigod’s flesh. But Atreus ignored the newly formed wounds and wrapped his legs around the elf’s chest, now on the enemy’s back as the demigod quickly threw the grip of the bow over the king's head and around his neck, pulling tight.

The dark elf immediately began to choke, now struggling desperately to get the child off of his back. His wings buzzed in the prison made by the child’s body, his claws scratched more fervently at the boy’s arms, but Atreus did not let go, holding just as tightly as he did when he fought with his father, holding the enemy still as Kratos would plunge the axe into their chest or slice it across their stomach.

But Atreus knew that his father wasn’t here to help, not this time.

Unlocking his legs, he lifted one foot and firmly planted it on the back of the dark elf’s head, right at the hollowed nape. He leaned back as as far as he could, and could practically hear the enemy’s muscles and bones creak from the strain and pressure as he tried to suffocate Reginháldurr.

The struggling became more frantic, the buzzing became louder, and the king stumbled side to side, making Atreus lean to and fro in order to keep his stance on the elf’s back, hoping that this would eventually work.

But luck was not on his side, as the elf king suddenly grabbed at the leg holding his neck against the bow, and pulled, forcing the child to fall back down onto the ground. He didn’t have time to get up as he felt the sharp end of the spear point against his chest, watching in despair as the dark elf took the bow around his neck and crushed it.

“Quicker than I expected. I wonder which horrid whore carried you in her frayed womb? Surely one who was desperate, for she had to bed the biggest fool to earn something.” The king muttered under his breath, lifting the spear to end the fight.

Upon hearing those words, Atreus felt something burn inside him, so sudden that it was like lightning had struck him. A fierce and uncontrollable grabbed at his heart and mind, filling them with what Atreus could only call rage.

Pure, unalloyed rage, burning far too fiercely for his body to hold.

He needed to release it.

With a speed that even a god could not achieve, he grabbed the shaft of the spear, and it broke in his grip like a mere twig. Thick splinters of wood lodged deep in his hand, but it didn’t matter as he grabbed the broken end the shocked elf was still gripping tightly, and pulled down. Reginháldurr fell forward, and Atreus lifted his leg, kicking his enemy’s shoulder as hard as he could. He could feel the force, the burning rage collide with flesh and muscle and bone with a loud, resounding snap and crunch. The elf lurched back in pain from the newly broken shoulder as the enraged child leapt and pounced, the king unable to stop the attacks coming from the literal being of rage.

There was only red. Red was all the boy could see as he punched and clawed, as he mercilessly tore the skin open with his slender fingers, digging straight into the muscle instead when there was no more flesh to destroy. Only then did he notice that there was fire encasing his hands, foreign and energizing when it reached bone and scratched deep. It burned away the shards of wood lodged in his palm, healed away all the cuts and gashes across his body, until all disappeared and the only thing the flame could do was burn him from the inside out. But it did not hurt, it gave him this strong and unusual feeling of euphoria as he let the red consume his vision, he let the fire burn into his very soul, he let it burn away at his screaming enemy.

Then it stopped.

It was unexpected, alarming, terrifying as the burning fire left him, leaving him only with a draining emptiness that made him fall off the battered and broken elf and onto the floor, still like a corpse. The boy’s vision was blurred, unfocused and unable to fully see the king crawl forward and fall to his knees, right next to the weakened child. The boy's body was cold, stinging and he almost didn't notice the hand of the king wrap around his neck, blocking his air and choking him.

He couldn’t fight back, his body too weak from the strange burst of energy from before. But he still struggled. He tried to lift his hand as he coughed and gasped for air that wasn’t given to him.

“I shall not be… defeated by you… I am not… my father… I will not become him… no, I won’t… I will not continue the cycle… I won't...” the elf muttered between gasps for air and deranged giggles, smiling down with sharp, bloody teeth. But it disappeared as an audible rip of cloth could be heard by the child’s side, and the king was suddenly face to face with a small and enraged serpent.

The creature gave a long, drawn out hiss before it lunged, sinking its fangs into the king’s neck with a thin squish. Reginháldurr grabbed at the snake’s body, prepared to crush its fragile skeleton in his hand. But by the time his clawed fingers wrapped around, the venom had already done it’s work, evident by the thick black veins that bulged out of his body that wanted to burst with poisoned blood. With one step backward and an unfinished curse on his lips, he fell back, limp like a woolen doll. The broken half of his spear fell out of his hands with a clang that gently intertwined with the thud of his body and the tired breaths of the boy.

Slowly, Atreus sat up, crawling to the now-dead body of his enemy. He gently pulled the serpent from the king’s neck, stroking its back as it purred and told its master of its achievement. But the victory was short-lived, as both were soon surrounded by the other dark elves, all looking down with a twisted expression of both anger and glee.

“Chinjretulfur, hand me a weapon to cut off his head.” one of them asked.

The boy’s body tensed in fear, he tried to crawl back with what little energy he had managed to generate, but he was grabbed by two while another pulled the snake out of his grip, holding it just out of the child’s reach.

“Your serpent intervened, child. You did not beat our king. You lost.”

Atreus again tried to get away from them, but to no avail, he was forced to be still as he felt the point of a blade rest underneath his chin.

“We don’t have the necessary tools, so we’ll have to slowly slice it off, starting from... here.” The elf muttered, tapping at the child’s jugular. He shook his head, ignoring the point cutting into his flesh as he tried to find a way out of this. Another delay, anything.

“You can’t cut off my head! You really can’t!”

The elf holding the blade tilted his head.

“Now why is that? Is that not what we agreed on?”

“Ok, yeah you can cut off my head… but-”

He began to look around, trying to find or think anything he could use to stall for more time, before his eyes rested on the allfather, still resting in his throne with a look of intrigue.

They’re very specific when it comes to their rules.

Atreus tried to hide the smirk as the idea bloomed and grew in his head.

“But why, Loki Silvertongue? Oh why can we not reap our reward?”

“You… you can cut off my head, but only my head.”

All of the elves raised an eyebrow, intrigued and confused. They slowly let him go, allowing the child to stand up with legs shaking slightly from the weakness.

“What do you mean, trickster? What else could we-”

“You can only cut off my head. But… but just that, just my head. If you cut anything else, like… like my neck, then, then you break the deal. I, I appeal to Odin here, is that not true?”

All looked at the allfather, who gave a toothy grin. Atreus couldn't tell what it was for.

“Loki is right. You have no right to cut his neck, or you violate the terms of your agreement.”

A look of despair travelled across all of the elves faces, while one of hope slowly grew on the boy's.

“But we can’t cut his head off without cutting off his neck, dear allfather.”

“Then... I guess you can’t have my head cut off.”

They all cried out in rage, a hive-like noise that made Atreus cover his ears and Ymaru writhe in its captor’s grip as pain lanced through both of their heads. 

“The boy is disgustingly clever, using his… silver-tongue to save his skin. ”

The demigod smirked.

“Well, how do you think I got the name?”

The elf hissed in disdain.

“You are more of a slægimuðr, if anything.”

Atreus thought of that name. That wasn’t such a bad one either.

“Take this as a lesson, elves. Maybe then, next time we meet, you won’t dare to try and win a game of words with Loki the storyteller, Loki the wordsmith, Loki the-”

The boy was cut short when one of the elves stretched its membrane wings and flew over to the allfather’s throne, whispering a suggestion into the elder god’s ear. Odin thought about it for awhile, and slowly nodded as he sported another wide grin.

“Seems fair. I don’t see why that can’t happen, you can do it.”

What happened next was too fast for the weakened boy to comprehend.

The elves grabbed the child, pulling him down to the floor and forcing him to lie down on his back.

“What are you doing?!” Atreus cried out, trying and failing to escape their sharp grip.

The dark elves just smiled as they held him down once again. the one by Odin’s side eagerly flew back, reaching into his satchel and pulling out two items that left the boy both confused and afraid.

He held a needle, thin and sharp, along with a spool of red thread.

The two elves held the boy down on his back, watching with glee as he squirmed and writhed.

“That tongue of yours has caused us nothing but trouble. First, you call upon the thunder god to kill one of us, then you delay your death, only to prevent it entirely with but a whisper of your servant and a trickery of words.”  The elf holding the string muttered, tying it to the needle. He knelt down, placing the cold strip of metal against the trapped boy’s lips.

“Let us silence that tongue once and for all.”

As soon as the needle punctured Atreus’s skin and muscle, a stinging pain surrounded his mouth, along with a warm and wet sensation from the small beads of blood that surrounded the hole. As they drew the thin piece of metal from the top lip to the lower, the thin string following. The thread itself continued to cut into the open wound, digging further in and scraping more blood from the raw skin to the surface, staining the child’s face even further.

He screamed, and the blood fell into his mouth, choking him. He spat it back out and screamed again.

Atreus struggled as much as he could, arching his back to try and buck the elf off of his stomach, squirming his arms and legs out of the grip of the others, but it was no use. The claws cut into his skin once again as they held him down, tightening with every movement he made. They pulled the string tight, shutting off a corner of his mouth, before looping it back to the top and digging the needle through his lip once again.

The blood began to trickle down from the wounds, seeping down to the boy’s mouth and slickening his lips, causing them to involuntarily slide back and forth. The movement made the strings pull further on the open sores, causing the burning pain to flare even more and travel all the way up to his skull.

It was only until they were halfway across his lips, the ninth stitch that Atreus counted, that he kept his mouth as still as possible, trying to ease what little of the pain he could. Painful and torturous minutes moved along with the slow and precise movement of the needle, and the boy swore he could hear them laugh at his pain and submission. When they reached the other corner of his mouth, they began to sew back, forcing the boy’s lips to shut even tighter. It forced some of the trickling blood to remain trapped in his mouth, and he swallowed it so as to not choke.

Finally, the elf tied a knot with the two ends, testing it by violently tugging on the string before cutting the needle away with his fanged teeth. They all at once released the boy from their grip, and Atreus scrambled away as fast as he could, away from the enemy.

Slowly, he placed a hand on his mouth, his finger brushing the thin strings that still cut into the wounds around. His tongue did the same, saliva wiping away the drops of blood that clung to the thread.

The elf holding Ymaru slowly stepped towards the child, holding the writhing and hissing serpent out towards the child, making sure the head faced its master so it wouldn’t spew out its poisonous venom.

Atreus took the serpent from the elf’s grip, holding it up to his cheek and clinging to it a little too tightly. Nevertheless, the creature tried to comfort the boy, slowly slithering its smooth body over its master’s head and mouth in hopes that it’s cold body would soothe the burning pain. It whispered apologies in the giant’s tongue, apologies that the demigod could not respond to, and it hissed meaningless warnings at the elf as he crouched in front of the two.

“Maybe now you will remain silent, Loki Slægimuðr.” The elf muttered, running and catching his claw on the string to cause the boy pain, laughing with pure joy and malice.

Atreus wanted to cry, but knew that no sound could escape.

Chapter Text

Freya was cooking.

It was not anything special, just a basic herbal concoction that she would eat a few spoonfuls of before giving the rest to the golden horned deer or her swine companion that had made over half of her home his own for the past three years. It was actually the reason why she had become thinner, her weakened will to eat. Her earthly dress now hung a little looser around her hips and stomach, her arms seemed just a little more fragile and her cheeks were a bit more gaunt.

But that did not weaken her in any way. Her magic did not waver whenever she needed to use it, her determination remained as strong as ever. It was her determination after all that made her search through every spell she knew, trying to see if she could bring her son back to the world of the living. She wouldn’t dare reanimate him, not what she did with Mimir. Reanimation still ended in decay, the mind was alive while the body was not, an even worse fate than death itself. It was by no means a way to bring back a god, one who is supposed to be immortal and invulnerable. One who is her son, who deserves only life and nothing more. It was because of this thought that she never found an answer, never found a spell or a charm or a brew that could help put real breath in his lungs, a real beat in his heart. Because of this thought, she had no choice but to let her determination slip, and to let her son remain in his peaceful rest.

It has been two years since she had burned Baldur’s body, since she had finally put him to rest, and she could remember it like it had just happened just a few minutes ago. Taking the trunks of dead trees, using the fallen red leaves to create a bed atop the pyre, decorating with flowers and herbs. The smoke had been thick, variations of purple and gray wafting and dissipating into the sky as her noses were overcome with the smell of burning flesh, a scent she was unfortunately familiar with.

Freya was brought back to reality by an oily snout nuzzling her hand, and she looked down to see the boar by her side, his golden straks glistening in the fire as he snorted in concern. The Vanir queen smiled and rubbed the hogs head, to which it let out a sort of purr. Even though he had already healed, she could not bring herself to force him back outside into the forest. He remained a steadfast partner that was there when she needed him, in return for a few bowls of stew and a scratch behind the ear every now and then.

Suddenly her entire home began to shift, dirt crumbling from the ceiling and dishes falling to the floor with a chip and clatter. She could feel Chaurli begin to lie back down, legs sinking into the ground as it blocked one entrance and opened another.

Freya was confused. Normally he never moves, not without her say in the matter. But the knock at her door implied otherwise.

Her body tensed in preparation for whoever would try to enter. Their attempts would be futile, but that doesn’t mean that they wouldn’t continue to try, going so far as to harming Chaurli, and in turn emotionally harm her.

Damn Odin. Damn him and his curse.

“Freya.”

Kratos. He was at her door.

Immediately she could feel anger begin to burn inside her inner chest, a fury that she had not let go during the long years of Fimbulvetr, as she let it melt the snow instead of letting it freeze her anger. But she did let it be soaked with sorrow as she realized that her search for her wings would be futile. It didn’t matter if she knew the layout of the prison, the solution of every puzzle, all she needed was for them to be trapped in another realm, and her quest would already stop there.

She was brought back by a knock at the door, one that was loud and booming.

Impossible. She placed a curse on the door, Kratos couldn’t even touch-

Suddenly, it burst open, the rusted hinges preventing it from breaking apart entirely. Freya leapt, prepared to summon the roots of the earth to protect her, to hold them back, because that was all she could do to defend herself. The boar prepared to charge, its tusks and thick skull enough to snap any bone.

But what she saw walk through her open door made her very being tremble, made her anger and determination shatter like glass.

Standing in front of her was Baldur, her son, his body blue and pale like a corpse. Kratos stood behind him, arms folded and leaning against the frame. He did not watch as the supposed-to-be dead prince step closer to the Vanir queen, frozen blue eyes staring at her with an emptiness not of this realm.

“Come along, now. I haven’t got much time to waste,” he whispered, his very breath frosting in the warm air.

Freya responded by throwing items at the intruder, at the one who dared to look like her deceased son. Ceramics, herbs, anything at immediate hand. But they did nothing but shatter upon impact as the man disguised as Baldur stepped closer and closer, grabbing her wrist and throat. Her swine friend at her side squealed and tried to tackle at the man, but was swiftly defeated by a mere sidestep, knocking his head into the wall dazed.

Despite Freya's attempts to escape the impersonator’s grip, despite her choked cries and shrieks for help, she was forced out of her home and into the cave underneath her home, pulled down to the lowered river. He pulled her into the boat holding her down as the war god following them stepped in himself, picking up the two chipped oars and rowing to the lake of nine.

The boat ride was surprisingly silent, once the witch realized that her struggles were futile and gave up. She glared at the foreign man who would still not meet her gaze, but would not dare to look at the man impersonating her son. She did not want to see the imposter’s unearthly gaze again, especially when it used the image of her son. She kept her gaze at her feet as they docked, as she was dragged to a place she knew all too well, for she had seen it during her centuries trapped in Midgard.

It was the council of the Valkyries, ancient and withered as always from the seasalt.

But there were two other people there, two women conversing with one another. One was a thin skeletal woman, far skinnier than one should be, and the other…

The other…

“Sigrun?” Freya muttered, her chest tightening in both fear and joy.

The Valkyrie turned around to face the newcomers. Her ethereal body stiffened at the sight, before flying to the Vanir queen and trapping her in a tight ghostly embrace.

“Your highness, my friend, it has been too long.” Sigrun beamed, still holding onto the confused Freya’s shoulders.

“I welcome you, Vanirdróttning , it is an honor to finally meet you.” the other woman said. Freya could feel a shiver run down her spine at hearing the cold, dead voice that came from the bony woman. But it was what she said that scared the goddess.

“What did you just call me?”

She quirked her thin head. The imposter stood by her side, placing a gray hand on her pointed shoulder. Freya followed him, standing in front of the woman who dared to sit on the queen’s throne.

“I called you Vanirdróttning . That is one of your names, is it not?”

“Only the giants ever called me that. It was in their language.”

“Well, it is what I call you too. We can learn other forms of speak, how else do you think magic was made?”

“But the-”

“I grow impatient of your idle chatter. Tell her why we brought her.” She heard behind her, turning to see Kratos standing at the edge of the council grounds, arms crossed against this chest.

“He speaks the truth. Why am I here? Why did you bring me here? Have you come to begin what you have already started those years ago? Have you decided to start your tyranny over and kill every being that does not host mortal blood?” Freya spat, feeling a smile of malice curl at her lips as hatred clawed at her stomach and head.

“Trust me when I say we mean you no harm.” The woman tried to soothe the Vanir queen, but it was useless.

“You break into my home! Your… dogs hurt one of my friends and kidnap me! And worse, you bring this… creature too! This man that stole everything from me!”

She turned to face Kratos, marching until she stood right in front of him. He did not flinch at her glare, nor at the fist that hit him square in the chest as her fury took control of her mind.

“I’m surprised that you do not defend yourself. Or your child. Where is he now to try and defend the honor you don’t have?”

The Spartan said nothing. He still would not look at her, amber eyes at the ground.

“He was taken. Held by the Aesir, madame Freya.” Sigrun answered.

Immediately the hatred was replaced with shock that fluttered throughout her body, buzzing inside her skull.

“He holds knowledge of the future, Vanirdróttning, of events and people both near and far. You must know how it goes by now. You were married to the Fróðleiksøkere, after all.”

Freya grew more and more fearful by the second, her experience with the allfather fueling her imagination, energizing it with horrid images of the child’s inevitable torture by the hands of Odin. She did not wish harm to the boy, never have, not even when she was engulfed in grief and rage over her own son’s demise. The little god had done nothing wrong, merely doing what he could to survive and, with as much desperation as she had in that battle, protect what little family he had left. Even though she denied it time and time again, there was still a remnant of affection in her heart for Atreus, one that stilled her hand at the thought of hurting him and made her smile as she thought of his youthful innocence.

“We need you to give us a map to the realm of the Vanir. You were a Valkyrie queen, you must know the way between realms at least.” The thin woman demanded, breaking the witch from her thoughts.

“Why would you need that? And why would you need me? You already have a Valkyrie with you, why not ask her?”

“Odin’s spell of madness has wiped away my memories of my home in his attempt to create the perfect warriors for himself. All I remember of my past is my duty to Valhalla, and the betrayal of the Allfather to you.” The Valkyrie muttered in hatred and despair, the transparent feathers on her wings ruffling.

“So, you are our only option. Will you help us?” The skeletal woman held a hand out in hopes of agreement, offering a terrifying smile as a showing of kindness.

“No.”

And just like that, the kindness disappeared, the good gestures shut away to be replaced with a glare and a hiss.

“Why not?”

“You’re asking me why?! I will not let that… animal near my people!” Freya laughed, once again letting her anger speak for her as she pointed at the murderer of her son. “I fear of their fate if he steps one foot into my home!”

“These are all needless worries. He no longer kills without reason.”

“He snapped my son’s neck! I saw it with my own eyes!”

There was silence, thick with snow and sharp with chill.

“I’ll make you a deal, Freya.” the skeletal woman muttered, niceties no longer a concern for her. “If you help us in our quest, I’ll give your son life again.”

Immediately the imposter at her side began muttering objections, to which the skeletal woman retorted as a necessity, but Freya did not hear them as she felt something inside her finally snap.

“Impossible, my son is dead!” Freya cried out, tears streaming down her cheeks as she pointed accusingly at the man who looked like Baldur. “That is an imposter! I burned his body years ago, in my grove of red trees! There’s no possible way he could return!”

The woman had the audacity to smile again with her sharp teeth and chuckle at the witch’s outburst.

“Unlike your slippery vanir magic, I can actually give him back for you. He shall return to the land of the living warm blooded, heart beating, mind aware of all around him. Not a reanimation, a resurrection. And he shall live until whenever fate deems him worthy of returning back to me or stepping into the golden halls of Asgard.”

“Just who are you?! Return to you when he dies?! What trickery are you trying to play on me!

The smile grew wider, but there was a much more sinister tone to it.

“I am Hela, the Andlátásynja . I have suffered torments that would cause gods to fall mad in grief, I have lived in realms that devour at what little power we have above humans. I have defied reality and time itself, what is to say that the ruler of Hel cannot bring one back from the dead? He already stands before you.”

Freya knew what, or whom she meant, and her whole body froze as she looked at the man beside Hela. She didn’t care of the other woman she knew very well, whom she’s heard of in tales to scare both Vanir and Aesir children. Her attention was solely on the man whose gaze was at the ground and chest rose much quicker than before, whose hand was still on the skeletal woman’s shoulder, now tense as it curved into the jutting bones.

“Baldur?”
He visibly flinched at the sound of his name, but he did not raise his fists in anger like so many times before. He stayed perfectly still as Freya stepped closer warm, living hands rested against his cold, dead cheeks, an audible hiss in the air. Her skin stung upon the contact, but she did not care.

“Hello, mother.”

She began to cry as she heard those words leave from her son’s… yes her son’s lips. Tears of happiness and fear clutched at her chapped skin and froze as the winds of Fimbulvetr blew by once again. For once she didn’t hear malice in his voice, in fact, she didn’t hear anything at all. No emotion rested in his tone, and she couldn’t tell if that was better than the hate he held for her.

But, she wondered, if he was… brought back as Hela said, would she hear any other feeling from him once he had a heart, a soul once again?

“If I help you, he will be brought back from the dead?”

“Technically he already his, but all that keeps him tied to the dead is me. If you help us, once we complete our quest, I will sever our bond and he will be free.” The ruler of Hel informed, once again holding out her hand for Freya to take. The witch eagerly reached for the skeletal limb, but was pushed away by the very man that they were bargaining over. Baldur grabbed Hela’s outstretched hand himself and placed it against her chest, on her protruding collar and held it there, his bluish hands curling gently around her sharp fingers.

“Hela, no. Please,” he begged, to which she shook her head.

“I must.”

The Aesir prince lowered his head and nodded, before standing up and stepping away. Hela held out her hand again, and Freya again took it with eager. They shook once, before the queen of the dead suddenly pulled her close and whispered into the Vanir queen’s ear.

“One thing, though. You cannot place any spell or curse or any form of magic upon him. You will not make the same mistake again.”

Freya nodded and Hela let her go. The former Valkyrie picked up a stick, one that was still damp from the seawater tides, and used it to draw a map into the sand. Sigrun watched in fixation, nodding as she traced it across her own palm to memorize it.

“I wonder what our home is like now?”

“Before you go, I need to give you a rune. It will protect you from the magic seal around our realm. Every Valkyrie has it engraved into their very bone, I can at least draw it onto your skin.”

“Fine.” Kratos said, the first thing he has said in front of Freya, yet she could hear every tone of impatience and anger in that one word that he so desperately held back fro reasons she both did and did not know. He walked up to her and held out his arm, to which she took and hesitantly drew that one simple rune onto his wrist. But before he could pull away, she tightened her grip.

“If… if you find a man by the name of Freyr, tell him that I… I love him and I… I miss him.”

“Why? Who is this man?” He asked, uncaring. She understood why.

“Just please… and who knows? He may let you live a little longer if you let him know that you know me.”

The war god was silent before nodding, and pulled his hand away from hers. She drew the same rune on Hela, and even on Mimir’s cheek. She didn’t need to give it Baldur, it was already engraved into his skin, much like so many other curses she had placed on him.

Sigrun held out her hands towards the group of deities. The Aesir prince picked up the skeletal woman as she held onto the Valkyrie’s hand, and Kratos took the other, his hand dwarfing the woman’s slender fingers.

“We’re going to Vanaheim?” Mimir asked. They had an ethereal glow surrounding them, one that almost burned at Freya’s eyes.

“Yes,” the Spartan grunted.

“Well… seems like we’re visiting all the places that want to put our head on a pike. Good thing I’m already one step ahead!”

Kratos sighed in resignation as they all disappeared.

And Freya was left alone, standing in the council she once ruled.

Chapter Text

Atreus was in absolute pain.

Never before had he felt something like this. Not from his sickness, or from his hunting wounds, all a pain that would eventually wither away and heal.

Not with the string, an agony that would burst anew whenever he moved his lips, shift the corners of his jaw, drink or even breathe. A searing pain would encase his entire mouth, blood would leak from the miniscule wounds and soak into the already crimson sutures, sometimes streaking down his chin and dripping to the floor to create strange dark etchings.

He couldn’t sleep either. Every time he would fall into an uneasy slumber, he would make some sort of movement that would kostle his mouth and force him to wake in agony.

It made him want to cry, but he knew that it would only cause him more pain, a never ending chain of injury.

And Ymaru. It hurt him to see his serpentine companion feel immense guilt over something it could not control. And what was worse, he couldn’t speak to tell it that it was alright, that it wasn’t its fault.

The snake would try to cut the strings with its fangs, at night once the boy had fallen still. But it was pointless, the threads were imbued with a strange magic that rendered them secure and strong, unable to be cut. He had learned that only a few moments after his lips were sewn, when he tried to use his guard’s spear to cut them free.

He wondered what happened to his guard. After the duel, he seemed to have just disappeared, vanished into thin air.

The boy wondered if he was relieved of his task, or if something far worse had happened to the Aesir man.

And the Aesir themselves. After word had spread of the duel’s results and the child’s punishment, they had gone back to their jeering and mewling, spouting their insults at him relentlessly without the fear of his magic.

“Call upon the fire now, Slægimuðr !”

“Tell me, Slægimuðr , how do you eat?”

“Slægimuðr , just try and set your pet upon us now!”

He was beginning to hate that name.

When Sif had seen the damage, finally released from her husband’s custody, she was both shocked, angry and upset. She muttered apologies in every conversation, something that Atreus found both endearing and heartbreaking. She had not left him, not since they had been reunited. She stayed even when the young demigod had snapped at her, slapping her hands away from him or running entirely. She would slowly follow behind, and would be by his side whenever he finally broke away from his shield of rage and sobbed, holding him close and letting the tears fall. And she was holding onto him now, rubbing at the blood that poured down his mouth with the sleeve of her robe as he tried so hard not to cry and open the wounds further. A book rested in his lap, along with his serpent that had wound its body around the child’s leg, finally retrieving the sleep it had lost in its guilt-ridden nights. A few drops of blood had spattered and dried onto the wrinkled page, something that Atreus tried to prevent. He spent so much time in the library, he only just realized now. He discovered that he could lose the pain in ancient tomes and scriptures, both the figurative and literal anguish he felt every day. He didn’t bother trying to translate them in his journal anymore, he now needed the pages to communicate with anyone who dared to talk with him. Mostly he would write singular words, trying to conserve what little of the book he had left. After all, he didn’t know if he’d get a new one since he was no longer using it to document the giant’s texts.

He was broken from his thoughts by Sif gently tapping on his shoulder, a few drops of crusted maroon stuck to her smooth palm. She gave him a gentle smile as he looked up. Her delicate blue eyes gleamed with a fondness that he returned greatly, but soon it faded away into a melancholic glint that Atreus has unfortunately grown familiar with.

“Child, it’s late. We should try and grab you something to eat. Plus it will be easier to do it now, while the wounds are open.”
Atreus could feel his heart sink at the thought. It has been such a pain for the little boy, to cut the food into the smallest pieces and try to slide them past the strings, ignoring the blood that would inevitably flow. At least drinking was easier, a few drops were able to slip through to keep him quenched.

The demigod nodded sullenly, understanding her reason. He placed the book on the floor and gently nudged Ymaru awake, mentally smiling as it yawned with its sharp and wide mouth. More fangs had grown along the snake’s jaw, thick and sharp ivories that dripped with even more black venom then before. And its size, it had grown so much in such a short amount of time. Atreus once had the serpent rest across his neck, but now his companion has to rest across both of his shoulders and even wrapped around his waist, lest it crush the boy’s bones with its iron weight. It made walking more difficult, as just one shift would sed the boy stumbling off balance.

And it was as the demigod was walking alongside Sif that Ymaru suddenly crawled across the his body, standing as high as it could before Atreus lost his balance and ungracefully fell to the floor. Immediately Sif turned to help the child, but froze as she saw just who Ymaru was threatening.

“I’m sorry child, Sif, I did not expect to run into you two.” An old, familiar voice whispered behind the boy, making his muscles tense in fear. He could feel a thin hand grip his arm in an attempt to help him before Ymaru hissed and snapped at the unwelcome hand of Odin. The allfather quickly drew his hand back from the boy, unfazed from the attack as he continued to give a smile.

“Father, Odin, It’s been so long. I see you are finally well once again.” Sif greeted, holding her hand out to the child and pulling him back to his feet.

“Indeed I am well enough to govern. I have recently just came from a consultation with the residents of Svartelfheim.”

“Again? Why do they want to speak with you so often?”

“The leader of the dwarves asks for help against the uprising. Many are still angered over Ivaldi’s actions, and do not think the descendant worthy of the throne. I had no choice but to send Thor once again to fight the rebellion and keep the throne in line.”

You can’t blame them. They were sacrificed by the one they trusted to protect them, Atreus wanted to say.

“Well, I hope that everything will be figured out eventually. And as much as I would like to continue our conversation, but I’m afraid that we need to go. Loki needs food, as well as his friend.”

“Don’t talk about me like I’m not here! The boy thought, glaring at both. But they ignored him, an act that reminded Atreus of when he was ill and forced to merely listen to his parents chatter about their weak son.

“Actually, do you mind if Loki comes with me for a walk? I want to ask some questions, important ones.” Odin asked, looking down at the child with his blood red eye. Sif looked down at him as well, concerned and afraid. But he returned her look with a nod and strained smile of confidence, letting her know that he would be alright, that Odin could not do anything to harm him.

At least, nothing more.

He stepped towards the allfather, but was stopped by the staff poking at his chest to keep him back.

“I do not want your serpent to join us. I fear that it might put me ill again with its impulsive teeth.”

Suddenly the boy’s confidence cracked. He could feel his serpent tighten in worry too, knowing of its creator’s discomfort. And it tightened more when Atreus tried to pry him off, the demigod accepting Odin’s demand. It hissed in despair as it was staggeringly placed on the ground, beside the golden goddess who stiffened in unease at the venomous reptile. He could only give a small smile and wave as he walked away from his serpentine friend and followed the elder god.

In truth, Atreus did not know why he was willingly following Odin, especially after everything the allfather has done to him. Was it because of curiosity? Because of a need to know all he could in this gold-coated prison? Or maybe he just loves to find mischief and trouble, no matter what it may be to him or others. After all, he feels like there’s nothing Odin could do that would undermine his silenced tongue.

“I wanted to talk with you about your ailment,” Odin said, tapping his own cracked lips. Atreus instinctively hid them from view, pulling up the neck of his tunic over his chin and nose. This made the allfather chuckle at the childish reaction.

“I assume that it must be painful, not being able to speak.”

The boy nodded reluctantly. His thumb brushed across the fabric, feeling the sharp shape of the strings.

“Have you tried to remove them?”
The boy nodded again. He remembered how he tried to cut them with the Persian eating-knife, only for him to cut his fingers instead.

“You see, it’s cut out of a special string called gleipnir . It is designed to hold any creature, to never break.”
Atreus’s eyes widened in realization. He has heard of this artifact before, from Mimir. But did it not belong to the dwarves, weren’t they the ones who made it? How did the dark elves get it then?

Odin saw the child’s surprised expression and smiled. “I know it doesn’t look like it could, but what holds your mouth shut is only a strand of the true gleipnir , the rope that will hold the horrid Nidhogg for an eternity and more.”

The boy said nothing, of course. And it was his silence that infested the air, causing the two to walk together speechless, the boy still hiding his punishment and the allfather watching with interest.

Where were they going? The boy could feel a rotting sensation begin in the pit of his stomach, making him want to run back to Ymaru, back to his serpentine companion that had stayed by his side far more than any other friend he has made.

Even more than his own father, if he thought about it.

“I shall make you a bargain, Loki.”

The boy snapped his head to look up at the elder god, about to ask what he meant. But the slightest movement of his lips made the sores burst again, and he felt the crimson liquid soak into his tunic. Odin acted like nothing had happened, and continued his offer.

“I shall remove these strings on your lips, I shall let you talk freely, but only if you agree to my one condition.”

Atreus nodded fervently, desperate for any relief from the constant pain. He did not care about the condition, willing to do anything to break him free from this torture.

“I want you to create a pact with me. A blood pact.”

The demigod tilted his head, confused and worried.

“It is for your protection, child. Dark elves are not the only ones that want to cause you harm. I can name many others that are waiting to tear your throat out while you sleep. After all, you are the last of our enemy, they want to remove the threat.”

They see ME as the enemy? The giants did nothing to them, Atreus thought.

“But, we do have laws. Laws that date as far back as the creation of Midgard. And a blood pact is one of them, unbreakable and permanent. Everyone must obey the blood pact, or they shall suffer the ultimate consequence.”

The boy could easily guess what that would be.

“So, will you take my offer?”

The child was unsure. He knows that nothing good can come out of something that was called a ‘blood pact,’ especially when it is offered by the man that is not exactly caring about your health.

But he felt the blood pool in his mouth again, and he forced himself to swallow the warm coppery liquid like he has so many times before. He still gagged at the taste.

He nodded.

“Perfect. Let’s begin.” Odin said, stopping in his tracks. Atreus watched in confusion as he continued to walk forward, only to suddenly collide with a giant door, faded gray and white.

The boy cursed inside his head. He swore that one day, he would learn the secrets of this palace, learn how to warp the path in his favor. If that’s possible.

The allfather ignored the boy’s blunder and open the door, the wood creaking from the unexpected movement.

The room was dark, unbelievably so compared to the bright gilded light of the hall the two deities had just left behind. The very few objects the boy could see were covered in a strange hue of red, a deeper crimson hue than the eyes of the Aesir. In the center of the room was a bowl, shaped like the sand bowls he had come across in his travels with his father. But there was no sand in the giant basin, only the etches of runes that Atreus could not fully read, and it was a strange grayish-black that smelled faintly of brimstone.

“Close the door, now!” A voice shouted, dry and wispy in its disembodied state. There was a sharp and rigid movement in the corner, one that didn’t go unnoticed by the boy. He turned to face the foreign presence, only for his body to tense in unease and fear as Heimdall came into view, bright jester clothes dancing with his movement and burgundy eyes staring down at the floor. He was not wearing any of his horns, the one on his back gone completely while the two on the sides of his head hung around his neck instead.

Atreus stepped back, stepped away from the unwelcome man. He wanted nothing to do with this now, not if Heimdall was here. He remembered the feeling all too well, of his eyes being sealed in darkness, the burning that stung every cell on his face.

“I know that you two do not have the best opinions of each other, but he is crucial for this to work. He shall be a witness to the pact, the one that ensures its authenticity.” Odin informed the boy, putting his hand on the child’s back and gently pushing him forward. Atreus resisted, of course.

He doesn’t have a good opinion about me?! What exactly have I done to him?!

“How about nearly causing a war between Aesir and elf?” Heimdall replied, the mutter bounding into an accusation.

The boy stiffened, muscles and mind tensing with a shock that he had grown familiar to in the past few weeks. His eyes widened as the watchman of the gods let a small and weak smile grow, chapped grin confirming the child's fear.

“I can hear the very grass grow, I can hear everything. What’s to say that I can’t hear thoughts?” He said, tapping his mauled ears that were no longer covered by the horns.

Atreus did not say, or rather think, anything else, lest he be heard again.

“Enough fooling around, despite what your clothes say about you. If you delay any further, I will push you out that door whilst your head is bare and your mind is open to all noise.”

This made Heimdall’s smile disappear, back to the faceless mask that the boy was familiar with.

“Of course, allfather.”

The colorful god drew forth a knife, one with an edge that curved up. But it was far stranger than that. Atreus could see that the blade was glowing, a thin dull orange coating it. It was like fire was trapped inside, trying to break out. The flame pulsed quicker and quicker, beckoning towards the child as he reached for the foreign metal, hearing the faintest whisper.

Suddenly his hand was slapped away, and he was brought back by the sharp sting in his hand and the cutting glare of Odin.

“Don’t be a fool, child! That is a shard of Surtr! One touch and you shall feel a permanent burn among your flesh,” the allfather hissed.

Why’re is it here, then? Atreus thought, purposefully aiming the question for Heimdall to hear.

“Surtr was the one who created the blood pact. He had made with every descendent of the Nidhogg line. His blades are the only ones that can be used in the ritual, along with this small piece found at the edge of Midgard.”

Ritual?!

But no one answered as the watchman grabbed Atreus’s hand and pulled him further into the dark room, holding tightly as the boy squirmed and struggled to escape. He whimpered as the guardian forced his hand over the altar, and screamed in his stitchings as the blade sliced across his palm. An intense burning pain crawled across his hand, akin to the sting he felt when he grabbed his mother’s hand from the flame.

He won’t deny that a few tears sprang forth from his eyes as he tried to soothe the burn in any way he could, ignorant of the allfather as his own palm was sliced open by the same blade. Odin grabbed the child’s hand and held it in his own, both bloods mingling. Again Atreus struggled to escape, but the elder god’s grip was stronger than Heimdall’s, who’s own dry and cracked hands were encasing both of theirs.

“Kan de være brødre til Ragnarok-dagen, kan du være forbundet i både sjel og smerte, kan de aldri skade den andre, slik at de ikke føler andres smerte. Kan de være brødre av blod.”  Heimdall muttered. His eyes rolled into the back of his head, yet they still had tears seep from them as the smell of burning flesh began to permeate the air. Atreus watched as the skin among the all-seeing god’s hands began to sizzle and crack, literally burn into the air with each word he uttered. They even gave off heat, something that was undermined by the burn of the blade’s cut.

Atreus was broken away from this discovery as a thick foreign magic slowly began to seep into the air, all of them could feel it. Atreus could feel it rest and gently tingle across his skin, feel its unique taste on his tongue, breathe in its earthy scent. It began to squirm in his body, a sensation that he wanted to rip out of his body with the fervor of a wolf's first hunt.

He’s only ever felt magic like this once before. At Freya’s house, this same type of magic flowed everywhere, unafraid. It fought in his body as he lay near death, destroying every matter of sickness inside him.

How could there be Vanir magic here? Neither of them were-

Atreus was in the cosmos, the Ginnungagap , he knew this. Dark voids created from the frozen mists of Niflheim and burning rock of Muspelheim. He watched as these far and complete opposite realms combined and intertwined in their ethereal dance to make a new world, one where both gods and Jotunn lived and built more of the world together.

He watched as three of the gods, all dressed in golden attire, fought their father, their creator. One even lost their eye in this enormous battle, as they cut open the Father of Giants and let his silver-red blood flood the lands, murderous and quenching at the same time. The three gods took the bruised, battered and shopped pieces of their father and used it to build themselves, everything in their own image and no one else. His flesh as the soil, his bones as the tall mountains and cliffs, his teeth ground away to make sand and gravel, his raging blood calmed to make the sea, his brains as the clouds that floated overhead, thinking lost thoughts. Even the people they created, creatures that would worship and entertain them to their hearts desire, were made out of the remains of trees, born from their father’s hair. The one eyed god jested with his brothers about the new toys that they had made, but the other two did not want to call them that, they wanted to see instead how they would live, thrive, die, love, hate, everything they have experienced in only a matter of days.

They called them Humans, Menskr, Firar, Menneskelig, and so much more.

And the one eyed god, in a fit of cunning rage, crept upon his brothers as they slept, slitting their throats whilst they dreamed of the world they had created.

Many more images flashed through the boy’s head, all too many for him to discern. Bright flashes of gold and blood appeared all too many before they were encased in darkness, and the boy was brought back to reality.

He fell to the floor, holding his bleeding hand close to his chest as he curled his knees close to him. The magic was still inside him, a magic he now knew to be far too dark for the Vanir. It writhed in his chest as the spell came to an end, clinging to his innards and trying to escape before it dissipated into his very being, the curse now complete.

He wanted to hurl, and tried to prevent it from happening, knowing full well that it would only end badly for his sewn prison.

“You’re… you’re the grandson of Zeus the grand, the king of Olympus. I should have known!”

The boy looked up to see the allfather standing over him, crimson-stained hand pointing with accusation.

A hand that had both his blood and the elder god’s blood.

Atreus did not know what Odin was talking about, further confused and terrified of what his enemy’s plan was for him. He slowly stood up and backed away, but Odin just took another step forward, a new gleam found in his eye that was never there before.

What are you talking about? I don’t understand, or if I want to, Atreus thought.

“Of course you do not understand, child! You have no idea how much of an invaluable asset you are. Not only do you hold all the secrets to my former enemies, but the blood of my lost companions flows through you, hidden away. I knew that that magic you used in your battle was not of your home!”

The boy tensed in fear.

Odin could hear his thoughts. But how?! He couldn’t just only a few minutes ago!

Then he felt the sting in his palm once again, and he looked down to wonder if this pact really did protect him from harm at all.

“Now you know. We are now blood brothers, you and I. There is nothing you can hide from me.” Odin muttered to the child, a dark grin spreading across his elderly face.

Atreus was truly scared, more and more by the second. He wanted to get out, to get away from this man that was spouting nonsense, but the allfather grabbed the child’s bleeding hand and held it in his own. His grip tightened around Atreus’s fingers, squeezing more blood into each other’s cut palm. The crimson liquid stung as it seeped into his wound and mingled with his own, ichor among both Jotunn and human. He winced in pain, and could tell that the allfather was enjoying it.

“What do you know about Zeus? Tell me.”

Atreus never felt so afraid.

Chapter Text

It was Heimdall that had saved Atreus, rescuing the boy from the mad gleam in the allfather’s eye.

“Allfather, I believe you made a promise to the boy. And if you want him to tell you, you need to fulfill that promise first.” He muttered in his dry voice, not daring to interrupt the elder god’s fixation.

The grip around the child’s hand did not slacken, but the glare slowly dulled away, no longer burning and striking.

“Yes, of course. Cut the strings, take care of his hand as well. I shall talk with him later.” The allfather ordered and, in the blink of the child’s trembling eyes, he was gone.

Heimdall did not waste any of his given time, grabbing the child by his uncut hand and dragging him. But before they stepped out of the room, before they joined the bright world once again, Heimdall took the two horns around his neck and put them back over his ears, breathing a sigh of relief before pushing the doors open.

The sunlight outside made Atreus flinch as he covered them, blinking away the dark spots that swarmed and merged in his vision. Heimdall did not even flinch from the sudden onset of the glow, simply pulling the boy outside.

Neither said anything to each other as they traversed the halls, for once the boy’s sight not caught away from their direction and able to see the way they traveled, to create a path.

Can you see through it? Can I see through it because of you? Atreus thought to Heimdall.

But he did not answer.

Atreus tried to ask once more, but still the watchman did not respond at all. The demigod was about to try and ask ( or think, he amused) again, but was interrupted by the appearance of a door, one he recognized as the entrance to the healer’s hall.

The boy cursed inwardly. He had lost the path again.

The room was just as the boy remembered, mats flat on the floor, the strange contraption revealing its magical contents, the same aura that tried to penetrate the boy’s mind and forcefully soothe him. But he greeted it with a revolt as he saw the elder healer Skavir look up at the newcomers, bottles in hand and a branch of an unknown plant held in her teeth.

“You theem to be the onthy one to vithit me.” She said before placing the bottles down and grabbing the branch from her mouth.

“The strings must be cut now. Odin has given permission.” The guardian muttered, pushing the boy to a mat and forcing him to sit on the simplistic cloth. The blade, the shard of Surtr that he still held in his hand, he gave to the healer.

Her hand was shaking as she drew the knife closer to the boy’s face, who reeled back in response.

“Child, remain still. Otherwise I’ll burn your face.” She warned, trying once again to grab at the strings. And once again Atreus pulled away from the healer’s touch, untrusting of the woman who led him to the elves, who conspired with Odin to have his head cut off.

“I’ll do it, then.” Heimdall seethed, his patience for the child as thin as his papery skin.

The child didn’t know if that was better or worse.

But it seems like he had no choice, as Skavir gave the blade back and returned to her other task, ignorant of the tall and thin Aesir god towering over the unnerved boy.

The process of cutting the strings was agonizing and bloody. Heimdall began with the knotted end, pulling it as taut as possible before taking the burning blade and slicing it through. Atreus couldn’t stop the whimper that escaped, and received a tsk of disappointment as the string was pulled loop by loop out of the boy’s lips.

“ Spoiled brat. Stop whining about such menial discomfort.”

They cut into the already open sores, and blood dribbled free to make the strings slick with crimson. And with a few sections, he pulled too quickly, and the steel-like threads would instead rip straight through his entire lip, a complete tear.

Atreus wouldn’t deny that tears filled in his eyes as he felt the cold air touch the inner parts of his flesh, stinging like needles.

No, not like needles, for he knew exactly what that felt like.

And whenever he flinched, even the slightest, he would receive that same reprimanding tsk from his surgeon. Sometimes there would even be a scolding muttered by his chapped lips, each one different in minute ways.

Whether minutes or hours passed, the boy could not tell as the final string was pulled out, and his lips parted free. Immediately he ran a hand over his mouth, flinching when he traced over all the cuts and rips. He realized then that instead of string, scars will now cling to his lips. Even when they eventually healed, they would remain pale and jagged against his skin as a permanent reminder.

But Heimdall did not let Atreus ponder for very long before grabbing at the cut palm and examining it. He asked Skavir what was needed to be done for the cut, to which she replied, with the branch held once again by her teeth, “Jutht uthe tho-e thalve, bandage it up. Very thimple. Although he will need thithes.”

The boy did not understand one word of what she was saying. The Aesir man nodded and grabbed the materials from the healer. She handed him a needle and thread, and the boy couldn’t stop the tension and apprehension that spread throughout his body. He didn’t try to prevent his fear from curling his hand to his chest, away from the sharp strip of metal.

“No.” He murmured. His voice was thin from misuse, and his oozing wounds made his tone bubble with blood. More of it spattered onto his already stained tunic.

Heimdall just sighed and took the salve, placing it on the tears around his lips to stop the bleeding. He grabbed the hand and pulled it away from the boy’s chest, placing some of the strange healing substance around the edges of the cut. Atreus hissed in discomfort, and the guardian just tightened his hold.

“How is it that you-”

“Why do you hate me?” Atreus interrupted hoarsely.

There was silence. Silence that was cut by the sudden sound of rushing blood as the guardian dug his dry and cracked thumb into the cut.

“I was born from the souls of nine Giant mothers. Nine. I was created by Odin himself to see the future, to hear everything, I am purely god and Jotunn, I am what Odin desires from you. But, he wasn’t satisfied. I see and I hear too much, the jotunn culture and language is lost to me, I cannot find it through all the other noise everyone makes. I cannot tell him what he wants, because I see all too many at the same time. I am the failure.” He hissed, his amber eyes growing dark as he tapped the horns on the side of his head.

The boy was not paying attention, all of his focus aimed towards the burning and stinging that burst from his hand. He tried desperately not to cry in relief as the watchman finally let go and began to bandage the cut instead, although the burn remained like always.

“I have proven to Odin time and time again that I am superior to you, both in blood and knowledge. Even the clay of Angroða bends to my will. I made the gnomes, the creatures that hide underground and cause trouble for humans. But he was not pleased, dissatisfied that they revert to their original forms of earth when exposed to the sun. The only thing your pet has done to intrigue the allfather is that it has managed to waste more air than any of our creations combined.”

At the foul mention of his serpentine companion, he could feel an anger beginning to crystallize around his mind and heart.

“From the stories I’ve been told, all the gnomes do is take your left sock and tangle your laces.”

“And yet, all you’ve created is a little foul-mouthed snake. I wager that it is all you can create. Although, to be fair, you are only a mortal-addled child.”

“Just you watch. I’ll show-”

The boy was interrupted by the loud sound of tearing cloth, the watchman of the gods finally finishing the covering for the wound. He stood up and pointed at the door with a chapped hand, arrogantly ignorant of the icy glare that was sent his way.

“Out, the halls will lead you to your room. Boy. ”

The boy could feel the amber eyes follow him as he stood and walked away. He could feel them bore into him as he ran off, a far more different destination in mind than the one the guardian wanted. The anger still pierced inside his body, a flame that grew with each sour thought he fed it, as it enlarge until this childish fury overwhelmed the magic that influenced the floors, now bending to his will instead of the guardian’s.

It led him to the library. No, it had broken further, it had taken him to the very heart of the study, where the only thing that drew the eye was the silver altar in the center, wisps of magic still wafting and overflowing from the brim.

I’ll show you, was all that ran through his head as he pulled out massive chunks of the wet earth into his hands. He pressed, stretched and twisted the substance into shape, a very different creature in mind that was quickly overlapped by that one feeling of anger.

I’ll show you.

I’ll show you.

I’ll show you.

He had created a cub, a male wolf babe small enough for the entire belly to rest in the child’s one hand, paws dangling in the air and thin tail drooping towards the ground.

“Ek veita ér ǫnd.” he murmured, ignoring the ache in his still healing wounds.

As soon as he breathed life into the new creature, dust falling away and stone becoming flesh, it began to shiver, the chill of the air settling into the newborn skin. Atreus placed the infant to his chest in an attempt to warm it… him, the small head resting in the crook of the boy’s elbow with a single soft paw dangling out of the makeshift cradle. He stroked the cub’s back, feeling the soft and short strands card through his fingers like feathers. The silken fur was pitch black, darker than any night sky the demigod has seen; but if he looked closely, if he held the pup to the light, he could see a few gentle tinges of indigo and violet hidden away.

The pup squirmed at the movement, slowly opening his eyes for the first time. Striking and haunting amber, stared up at mystical blue, wide and innocent from the world. It was those gentle eyes that stole away all of the anger that Atreus had towards the Aesir guardian, replacing it with a gentle realization and love of the new life he had created. He let loose one yip, high and strident, before creating a series of whimpers as he began to squirm in the boy’s grip. The boy sat down, letting his legs become part of the crib for the infant, and he couldn’t help but feel a sense of tranquility as the pup’s warmth seeped into his clothes.

It reminded him of his father.

“Hello… Fenrir,” he whispered. He found the title fitting for the pup, a name he found in one of the giants’ texts that told of the father of Skoll and Hati, the stellar dogs that forever chased the sun and moon.

It yipped again, and the boy hoped it was because he liked the name.

That made him wonder. Did he speak the tongue of the giants, like Ymaru? Or did it know the words of magic, like Odin’s unfortunate creature?

The cub gently yawned as it leaned into its bed, and Atreus smiled again at the little pup as his sharp blue eyes slowly closed shut. His body slumped against the stand and his mind slowed, finally falling asleep after so many nights of conscious pain and alert suffering.

And he lay there, unaware of the amber eyes that watched him from the shadows.

Heimdall couldn’t deny that he was relieved when the child had fallen asleep, knowing full well that he would have defended the newborn in his arms with a fierceness unseen and unknown. After all, he had seen Sif do the same for Thrúd before her daughter was pried from her arms.

As carefully as he could, he took the whimpering pup from the sleeping boy’s arms. It squirmed and yelped from the unexpected transfer, and the boy shifted, slowly waking up to see what was disturbing him and his companions. He lifted his head, and opened his glazed eyes, only for them to sharpen at the sight of the Aesir before him. The guardian quickly placed a single finger to the child’s temple, muttering words of foreign magic to lull him back to an easy slumber. He watched as the shadowed and half lidded eyes dulled away before falling shut once again, a drunken giggle escaping before the even breathing of sleep travelled throughout the boy’s body.

Slowly, he stood up, trying and failing to ignore the pain that began to run through his fingers, letting tears fall as he watched his hand wither away in front of his eyes, burning all the way to his wrist before the skin slowly reformed back over the bone and muscle. The pup in his arms cried at the rotting smell that permeated the air, and he quickly tried to shush it while blocking the cry that wanted to escape his throat.

No matter how long he had used spells, no matter how frequently he felt the punishment, he still suffered every time like it was new and wild within him.

Damn the giants. Damn them and their petty forms of vengeance.

But that did not matter. What mattered was the pup that was squirming in his arms, beginning to yip in discomfort as the aroma still haunted its innocent mind.

“Þǫgn,” he commanded, his voice booming of the walls.

The pup obeyed.

“I hope you’re ready.” he told it, walking forward, away from the gently slumbering child.

Away from the library.

Away from the palace, from the realm of Asgard, to the land of Svartalfheim.

The home of both allies and enemies.

The watchman looked up from the pup, unsurprised to find an army in front of him. He had seen them before, after all, preparing to fight the bloodline of Ivaldi.

But instead they were faced with the very race they revolted, the beings they knew had a play in the massacre of their kind.

“What is the meaning of this?! An Aesir on our land?! We demand your leave immediately!” one of them ordered, voice gruff like the rocks they mined.

They prepared their spears, their shields, their will as they targeted the guardian and the whimpering pup.

Heimdall ignored their advance, and placed the infant on the ground.

“Hundr, sókn,” he whispered.

He heard a little growl emerge from its miniscule teeth, and it lunged at the army.

A massacre had ensued. Their weapons, their strategies, their armor was no match for the red flame that encased the pup and turned its black fur into the color of blood, its amber eyes becoming gold as it let the fury and rage engulf its mind.

The same red flame that had encased its creator, passed on.

Heimdall closed his eyes and listened, the horns on his head blissfully muffling the noise. He listened to the sounds of screaming, of tearing flesh and spilling blood, with the occasional growl or bark.

They weren’t anything new, he has heard these sounds a thousand times before, along with the deafening sound of the rustling winds and growing grass and so many more, always drowning him and destroying him piece by piece and-

The guardian was brought back from his internal tirade as he felt something warm and wet lean against his leg. He looked down to find the cub leaning against his legs, looking upon him expectantly. Fenrir, Loki had called it.

No, not Loki. Atreus. I’ve heard it too many times before.

He couldn't help but notice that the pup, once small enough to rest in one hand, was now big enough for its head to reach the lanky god’s knees. The fur, tail, legs and fangs much longer than before, now more closely resembling to the wolves its appearance was based off of.

“You shall do very well, pup. When the time comes, you shall do very well.” Heimdall muttered to the bloodied cub, stroking its reddened back.

It yipped in response.

Chapter Text

When Kratos could feel his body become physical once more, he was blasted with a sudden and unfamiliar feeling of warmth.

The land was strange, to say the least. A marsh as far as the eye could see, with thin trees of moist bark and thick blankets of stifling steam. Ground and soil gave way to mud and water that fully to the war god’s calves, with thin reeds tickling at his skin. He couldn’t really tell what color they were, the long and entangling canopy of leaves letting in only a few rays of sun.

He took in one breath, and the sourly humid air almost made him choke. It made his flesh tingle from the long forgotten sensation of summer heat. It was invigorating, inviting after being trapped so long in the cold.

“So this is Vanaheim?” he heard behind him, and he turned to see Hela still clinging tightly to Baldur’s body, sharp green eyes looking in curiosity and wonder. She reached as far as her bony arms could reach, just barely brushing her fingertips against the dry grass and recoiling in surprise. Just like when she first came to Midgard, marvelling at the dry ground and stone underneath her carrier’s feet.

It reminded Kratos of how Atreus looked upon the mountains for the first time, and it made him wonder how much of the world she has truly seen.

Baldur himself did not look at anything other than his feet, blue nose crinkling in disgust as he sunk further into the mud. It made a squelch, to which Sigrun couldn’t help but laugh at. She herself did not stand in the mud, ghostly form aloft in the thick air.

“Indeed, mistress, this is the land of the Vanir. And I say welcome to my old home.” She chuckled, motioning with an ethereal hand at the swampy landscape. There was a sound of forgotten longing in her voice.

“What do we need here?” Kratos demanded, growing impatient. He took one step forward, feet sloshing in the sludge. It echoed across the rippling waters and vibrated up the trunks.

The trunks that gave birth to warriors.

To the eye, it seemed like the warriors had melted from the trees. Cambium became skin, bark became armor, branches and roots became spears, bows and arrows that pointed at the group one by one. All of them were dressed in armor of gold and leather that was discolored by swamp water, the strips of hide reaching all the way to their bare feet that hovered just above the water. Cloth was used to pull their tangled and disheveled hair away from their face, and wrapped around their wrists to prevent sweat from slackening their grip.

All of them gave a deadly glare at the odd group, and Kratos returned it. He reached for a weapon, be it his blades or his axe, but was stopped by the sharp sting of Sigrun’s touch on his shoulder. She shook her head no, silently warning him to not attack as the literal woodsmen stepped closer and closer, until their weapons were almost touching the war god’s skin.

“Whatever they do, just let them. Please, you have managed to hide your rage for so long now, just keep it that way” She whispered to him, and the Spartan just looked at her as he forced the flame inside him to remain small and tame. He could feel his muscles relax, his flesh literally cooling as he replaced fury with a false yet familiar sense of calm he had mastered over decades of hiding.

“Who are you?! State your name and alliance!” One of them, a woman with broad shoulders and callused hands shouted. Her brown eyes glaring accusingly at the strange group of people they surrounded as she placed a hand over a gray band of iron across her arm, one that was unnaturally clean in the swampy light. Sigrun stepped forward in an attempt to speak with them, but she was simply pushed back with enraged shrieks and the sharp end of spears.

“Get back winged one! You have no right to talk to us!” she shouted, and the others jeered in, tapping the shaft of their weapons against their legs.

“Well, seems we’re in a bit of a pickle.” Mimir murmured. Kratos grunted in response.

“We mean you no harm! We come with-” Hela began, but was immediately silenced with another cry by the very same woman.

“You come with an Aesir, you reek of their perfume and mead! You traveled with a Valkyrie, a traitor to us and an ally of our enemy! You only paint your image in blood and anger!”

“Please, we just want to meet your ruler! Let us speak to them!” Hela tried again, her voice laced with pleading that Kratos could tell was false, that there was restrained anger hidden away. It made him chuckle inwardly, that the Valkyrie didn’t bother to restrain the queen of Hel.

“You’re in luck. We take all prisoners to our king. He chooses the punishment,” the woman stated as she lifted her hands and closed her eyes.

“ Rót,”  she shouted, and smiled as roots burst forth from the ground, wrapping around Kratos and his companions.

No matter how much he wanted to no, matter how much the flame inside him struck against the cage he had created around it, Kratos remained as calm as he could.

The soldiers cut the roots from the ground, using them as an artificial rope. However the roots would not wrap completely around Hela and Baldur, the stems warping and falling back as it tried to trap them in its rough grip. Even when the soldiers tried to lead it across their bodies, it pulled away once it reached Hela’s thin and frail body.

“It doesn’t want to touch what no longer loves the livin’.” Mimir whispered to Kratos.

“Separate them. One of you carry her,” the woman ordered.

The soldiers listened as they placed their hands on the goddess’s body, and Hela cried in response.

“You can’t! Please you can’t!” She tightened her grip around Baldur’s neck as the Vanir’s hands tightened around her waist and shoulders. The prince held as tightly as he could as well, his teeth bared in anger as he held her close to his chest.

“I do not care! Separate them, now!”

With one pull, the soldier managed to separate the two Aesir from each other.

And the scent of burning flesh burst into the air.

Hela screamed in pain, an inhuman sound that vibrated down to the bone. Her skeletal arms reaching for her mauled legs.

Her legs, burning in the very air that touched them. Steam curled from the raw red muscle, wafts of white smoke that hissed and bubbled as they emanated pure heat. Heat strong enough to burn the leaves high above them, to cause the guard to drop Hela into the swamp water as his hands and arms turned red and blistered from the contact. She fell in with a splash, but the fiery heat that arose from her mangled body forcing the boggy liquid to evaporate upon contact.

Baldur, upon seeing the immense pain inflicted upon his master, broke free from the grip of the roots, pale blue hands ripping them up from the ground. Soldiers desperately tried to stop him, but all were thrown aside as he lifted his mistress from the swampwater, ignorant of the muddy water that had soaked into her dress, that was dripping off her bony frame and froze as it came into contact with his corpse-like flesh.

And, as soon as it had begun, the steam had vanished. The rotting scent had disappeared, and the animalistic screaming was replaced by a few broken sobs and Baldur’s murmurs of comfort to the skeletal queen.

The soldiers said nothing as they watched the exchange in awe. Kratos could see them step back in fear as Baldur looked up at each and every one of them with a cold glare.

“Let me carry her. I will follow, but only if you let me carry her.”

The Vanir woman just nodded, watching as the Aesir prince let the roots wrap around his neck and wrists, unflinching as he was ordered to move along with Kratos and Sigrun.

The rest of the journey was in silence, the only sound the sloshing of swamp water and the buzzing of insects. It wasn’t long until they reached a village, one that reminded the Spartan all too much of the witch of the woods.

The homes were tortoises, giant reptilian creatures of muddy brown flesh and rocky shells. Their sharp black eyes watched the spectacle walk by, dulled beaks chewing the thick murky air as they spoke in their slow language, word passing on and on until it reached the leader, a pale white chelonian creature with withered trees of brown, gold and green trapping it to the watery ground.

“ Heimili !” The woman ordered, and the turtle struggled as it fought against its verdurian prison, to reveal the door underneath its chest.

Kratos wasn’t surprised.

“Move, now!” The woman shouted, using her spear to push the Spartan forward.

He inhaled, remembered Sigrun’s words, and stepped in.

The inside was not as he expected, nothing like the comforting and earthly design of Freya’s home. Instead it was steel, aged and rusted beyond comparison. Roots were growing through the cracks and slits, travelling across the metal walls down to the floor, winding and dancing together to create the throne that sat in the center.

The throne with a man sitting in the chair upside down, with his bare feet upon the rail and tangled hair upon the ground. His muscular body was clad entirely in a thin red cloth, faded away from being soaked in the swamp water, with a few strips of leather and vine wrapped around his stocky waist, legs and arms. Around his wrist there was a piece of silk, transparent and clean despite the rest of the man’s squalid appearance.

He smiled, and his deep brown eyes widened unnervingly.

“Lord Freyr, we found the intruders. They were-” the woman began, but was cut off by the singsong voice of the man.

“Yes, yes, of course Zirri. They were right where I divined them to be, as always.”

Not quite the tone that Kratos was expecting.

In one fluid motion the man, Freyr, twisted around so that he was now sitting somewhat upright in his seat. He motioned at Zirri for them to get closer, a little too eagerly for Kratos’s liking, before growing impatient and jumping out of his seat. He ran to them and outstretched a thin and muddy hand, ignorant of Zirri’s warnings to stay back.

“I am Freyr, King of the Vanir if you prefer titles. I’m the most skillful sorcerer of this land, second to none! What business do you have here, if I may so boldly ask?”

The Spartan refused the offered hand.

“We have come here to talk with you, if you are the so-called King of the Vanir.”

The strange gleam in the man’s eye slowly dimmed, and he closed his hind into a fist before putting it at his side.

“Well now, that’s rather rude to say of someone. Especially when you’re in the house of the one you insult. Already you don’t stand well with the Vanir, what with your choice of…  companions.”

Kratos said nothing, his body tensing in premonition. Freyr ignored it and motioned for the soldiers to leave. As soon as all but Zirri had vacated the metallic chamber, he began to circle around them, all too much like a predator circling a weakened prey. It was then that Kratos noticed the man’s eyes were not human. The black pupils were not round, but thin catlike slits like those of a chimera, a creature that the Spartan had not thought of in a long time. Those strange eyes rested gently upon Hela as she clung more tightly to Baldur, who glared at the man in return, and they thinned in resentment as he looked straight through the Valkyrie.

“I must say that this is surprising. A Valkyrie, walking into her enemies’ lands.”

“Lord Freyr, you of all people know that I am not-” Sigrun began, only to be stopped by a hush from the Vanir man.

“I don’t need to hear it. My sister’s betrayal and your following spoke plenty during the war.” He sneered, far too jovially. The Valkyrie, even though she did not wilt at the gaze, her wings drooped even lower from the accusation, which caused the man’s false smile to become more genuine. He reached out and pulled her ethereal body closer to him, his thin face right next to hers.

“I must ask as well, how is my sister? I assume she is enjoying her stay in the golden Aesir halls, along with her power-hungry husband? I still remember that oh so fateful day when she had left with-”

The king stopped his patter when he saw something twitch in the corner of his eye. He looked down to see the tattooed and horned head that swung on the war god’s belt.

With one swift swipe he took the disembodied cranium from Kratos’s belt, holding it up to his face and examining the decay. He remained ignorant of Kratos’s attempt to run at the man and grab Mimir back, but he chuckled as the vines around his wrists suddenly dug into the dirt and rooted as deeply as possible, forcing him into a kneeling position.

Kratos knew that he could escape this petty magic. He could feel the witchcraft imbued into them, far weaker than what Freya had used against him, and knew that they would just snap at the very sight of the rage inside him.

But nevertheless, he could still feel the cold wind that emanated from the Valkyrie’s spectral body, and forced the rage to remain quiet.

“And speak ill of the draugr, here is the man himself! The one who convinced my sister tu turn into a traitorous whore. Oh how the mighty fall.”

“Well, um, hello again Freyr. My how you’ve grown I must say. When I last saw you you were still learnin’ the ways of magic. It’s been awhile since-” Mimir started.

“But I’m more curious as to how you ended on that man’s belt. He has the stench of a deity, but nothing like the Aesir’s scent. A much more… foreign aroma I must say.”

Again Kratos could feel that flame inside him fight again against the barrier as the threat of his past rose. And again he pushed it back down as Freyr tossed the stuttering head to Zirri, who held the head in the crook of her arm.

“Which inevitably leads the conversation to you, my good friend. I hope who don’t mind, not that it matters, but who exactly are you?”

Kratos said nothing. The king’s left eye twitched in response.

“Fine then, you don’t have to answer that question. Rather, why are you with them? Are you a new Aesir guard with bad luck? Or maybe you’re an almighty man from another land, trying to make friends with other gods. Well let me tell you, my good sir, that it is not a good idea to become friends with these gods. The last time Odin tried, he-”

“I am friends with no god, at least not with those who blindly follow.” The Spartan interrupted. With one swift tug the roots snapped from the ground, and he stood once again at his full height.

There was a tense and surprised silence, before Freyr once again destroyed it with his ignorant and birdy voice.

“Well then, care to explain why you decided to invade my home?”
It was Hela who spoke up.

“We need to trade with you.”

The king tilted his head in confusion.

“Well, let me hear it out. Not that I will do it, but still, I may change my mind eventually.”

“We need the Skíðblaðnir, the flying ship that is tied around your wrist.”

This took both Freyr and Kratos by surprise.

“We have traveled this far for a piece of cloth?” the war god growled at the skeletal woman.

“Don’t let its design deceive you. It is the only thing that we can use to try and break the barrier around Asgard.”

At hearing this conversation Freyr laughed, clapping his hands.

“Well that tells me why you need it. And what a funny coincidence, because that’s the reason why we need it. I feel like we can reach an agreement. Leysa! ”

Suddenly the roots and vines around their wrists and bodies fell away, digging into the ground until they disappeared completely.

“But I want something in return. I can’t just give my most valuable possession away to people who just claim that they want to kill my enemy.”

“And… what is that?” Hela asked, voice contaminated with wariness.

At this the king’s smile grew more haunting.

“If you give me Sigrun, or Mimir, or even better both, then I shall discuss about a potential alliance.”

“Um, I know that I’ve been rather quiet durin’ all this, but I can’t help but have my attention drawn to the fact that you are discussing ‘bout me.” Mimr said, voice muffled by the woman’s arm.

“Why do you want them?” Kratos asked, ignoring the talking head. Not that Mimir was surprised by this.

“Oh, you know, reasons.”

“Such as?”

Freyr sighed in annoyance. “Well, you are certainly being nosy.”

Kratos decided to ignore the irony in that sentence.

“But if you must know, then fine. If I have them, then I’ll get my long overdue retribution! Execution for treachery, the whole wonderful lot of it! After all, I’ve been told that devouring a Valkyrie’s soul is the ultimate victory.”

“What?” he snarled.

“And with Mimir… eh, I’ll probably just throw him into the swamp to drown. Or maybe I could feed him to the turtles instead… no, probably just crush him under my boot.”

“What makes you think that we’ll just give them to you?” Kratos scowled. The flame and heat fought again, but this time he let it grow as old memories infested his mind. Recollections of people dying for his cause, be it against their will or not. Pandora, who burned in the blue fires of Olympus to unlock her treasure, only for it all to be in vain as it murdered her fellow Grecians. He could still hear her screams, feel the tragedy sink in his chest as he realized the uselessness of her death.

Not again. Never again.

“Well, if you want me to believe your story, then you should. Otherwise you will leave this place not with the ship, but with the name of ‘intruder,’ along with the additional tag of ‘Aesir.’ And you don’t want to leave this house with that title.”

Without a twitch of hesitation Sigrun stepped forward, only to be stopped by Hela’s thin hand grabbing at the ghostly arm, long nails digging into wispy flesh.

“If my life must be sacrificed for the end, then I shall do it willingly.”

“Wait! Let me try something first.” Hela asked, her supernatural green eyes pleading. Even though the pitch black eyes of the Valkyrie’s helmet gave no emotion, her wings relaxed in resignation as she nodded and let Baldur step forward with the queen in his arms.

“What about a trial?”

There was silence.

“And… what do you mean by 'trial,' exactly?” the Vanir asked.

“The Aesir have recently adopted a human custom. Two warriors battle by whichever means, and whoever wins is right.”

“That seems a bit… basic for a god of all beings to do.” Freyr said, a slight tone of fear in his voice.

“You say basic, I say effective,” Hela retorted. “I myself have heard that it has worked… stupendously during the decades.”

“Ears are not as reliable as eyes.”

“Not when magic is involved. You think I haven’t noticed it? I can see it crawling all over you.”

Freyr laughed. But it was not like the many other giggles that Kratos’s ears have been infected with during their visit. This was a cackle, long and high as it echoed off the metal walls.

“My my, I’ll admit that that surprised me. Normally no one has ever been able to see through my appearance. They all just think I’m this big man of all muscle. Like your pale friend there.”
His frame shimmered as he spoke. Kratos watched with fascination as the man shrank before his very eyes, both in height and in frame, until it was no longer the toned man that towered even over him. Instead it was a thin, frail man that only reached to his shoulder, gaunt features almost as haunting as Hela’s own.

And yet the eyes remained the same. Those slitted, chimera eyes.

“Okay… I say you changed my mind. I’ll take this trial by battle against you and your ragtag group of deities.” The real Freyr said, his singsong voice much more fitting for his figure. He held out his hand for Hela to shake, but as soon as her skeletal fingertips brushed his own, he pulled it back.

“But wait...” Freyr stopped him, holding up one finger as his eyes shifted in thought. He smiled.

“I get to choose the form of battle. After all, you said that it can be by whichever means.”

Hela’s hand closed into a bony fist, trembling from either malnourishment or anger no one could tell.

“Fine then. What is it that you choose?” she asked. Again Freyr took his time to think, if anything to just unease the group.

“I choose… a race. Yes, I challenge your… I’ll call him ‘brute’ for now. I challenge your brute to race against my boar Gullinbursti, the fastest animal in all the nine realms.”

Hela became paler, if possible.

“I see. You shall have Gullinbursti, and he shall have…”

“His own two feet.”

Chapter Text

When Atreus woke up, the first thing he noticed was the soreness in his back from leaning on cold hard metal for so long, the burn of his scarred palm, and the unfamiliar feeling of lightness in his arms as nothing rested against them.

At first he thought the unusual lightness to be Ymaru, the creature already awake and wandering without its creator. The thought made him chuckle, remembering how he would wake up in the bed to find his serpentine companion slithering across the frame, tongue flicking in the air.

But then, the memories of last night returned to his mind, the freeing ache of his lips no longer sewn, the invigorating rage that had coursed through his body as he molded the clay, and the gentle love he felt for the new life he held in his arms just before he fell asleep.

And now, now an unsettling fear clung to his stomach as he could not feel the pup in his arms, or see him anywhere nearby, whimpering in curiosity.

And with those newborn legs, he could not have walked far on his own.

Everything had become a blur to find the wolf cub, tomes thrown to the floor, clatter echoing off the walls in his desperate search. And when that resulted in nothing, he left the room and began to call out the pup’s name into the halls, ignorant of the odd stares that came his way.

Where could Fenrir have gone? Where could the pup have wandered off to? Horror surged through his body as he thought of what could’ve happened, of who could’ve found this little cub as it struggled to even stand on its own, much less defend itself.

“Fenrir, where are you?!”

“Fenrir, Hvert ru ér ?!”

“Fenrooo, verrrrtaaaaa-uuuu?!”

He tried using every language he knew, hearing them bounce back to his ears without the yip or scritch of claws he was hoping for.

But one thing had heard him; the magic that lived within the golden panels that surrounded him, leading him through the labyrinth and pulling him in its own twisted direction.

Pulling him to the door of Odin’s palace, the gate that was big enough for Giants to enter in their true form, and all that separated him from the rest of Asgard.

Atreus could feel his feet freeze into the ground. He remembered very clearly his first attempt to try and escape the mystical confines of the castle. He had managed to sneak past all of the guards and avoid the strangely twisting magic of this place, a feat that made him smile in remembrance. All that stood between him and the town, between him and the Bifrost, were the giant doors made of both white and red wood. Yet he only touched this strange combination of timber, and the next thing he knew he had woken up in the bedroom, head spinning like the center of a storm.

The next attempt, days after the first, ended with the same result.

It didn’t take him long to find out what kind of magic was used to lock them.

Nevertheless, the boy didn’t care, not now. He needed to find that pup.

He pushed with as much force as he could muster, hearing the doors slowly creak open. He could feel something brush against his mind, something that darkened the world in the corners of his eyes. Even though he tried to push it away, he could feel it infest inside him, forcing him to let go and just stand there, unsure of what to do.

He tried again to open the door, and again had to let go.

So instead he just sat there, trying to figure out what to do. Should he try climbing through the windows? No, they probably have a worse type of magic on them, a shock that would send him falling down to the ground. Does it only work if his skin touches it? No, it could seep through his clothing, he could see the strange viscous liquid of the magic clinging to the corners of the door.

Atreus grabbed at his hair, pulling at the bright red strands. None of this was helping! He needed to get out! He needed to find that pup!
Now!

That’s when he noticed the footsteps behind him.

He turned, body tensed and prepared to fight. He remained so even as the guard just passed him and pushed the door open, holding it and looking at the child with a look of both boredom and tension.

“The Allfather asked me to. He says that you should look in the center of town, follow the noise of the people.”

The boy could feel his heart stutter for a moment as fear suddenly jolted through his veins.

He did not want to think of Odin right now. The burning scar was a reminder enough of what he had seen inside that man’s mind.

But it seemed that the man didn’t care, sighing and motioning for the child to exit. Atreus, with his silvery-blue eyes remaining on the man, slowly stepped out.

He didn’t expect the light to blind his eyes, the sky of bluish-gold a temporary white. He shielded them with his arm, blinking the spots away before daring to step any further.

His steps didn’t echo, a noise his ears have grown accustomed to. It made him feel deaf, vulnerable as he continued into the town.

The boy would be lying if he said that the town wasn’t impressive. The walls of homes were made of solid stone, dry and gray, yet they were chiseled with designs of verdure to make up for the lack of forestry within the community. He couldn’t help but admire the detail, observe them as the carvings rooting all the way down to the peached cobblestones and blossoming all the way up to the dark maple roofs.

That’s when he noticed the snow, a gentle flurry that melted as soon as it touched his skin and clothes. It was an intoxicating sensation as memories of Midgard came to mind, making him both high-spirited and somber as he continued to gaze upwards at the sky.

Yet as he came across the first people of Asgard, he quickly turned his eyes to his feet.

And was glad he did so.

Atreus could feel the spike of surprise run through him as he almost stepped into the giant, seemingly bottomless pit before him. Jumping back as far as he could, he could feel it stare at him like the gaping maw of a beast, he could even feel its warm breath against his face.

Wait… he could feel it. He felt hot air blast against him, coming from the strange hole in the floor.

It made him wonder, what were they there for?

But that didn’t matter at the moment, none of this mattered! All he needed to do was find the pup, find Fenrir.

Although, it wasn’t that hard. All he had to do was follow the people.

The people who were… cheering? What for?

Nevertheless, he drew closer to them. As much as he hated to admit it, but this clue that Odin had given him was all he had.

With each step the occult shouting and chanting pulsating within his ears more and more. The clutter of the Aesir people were growing thicker, making it harder for him to reach his guessed destination. All of them with their flowing gold and white robes, jewelry and belts of gold jingling with each move they made. He had to weave through the crowds, squeeze through clusters and apologize whenever he bumped into one with a loud jangling of metal. Their cheering grew louder as he pushed further in, some jumping and others throwing their hands in the air as they chanted in exhilaration.

He didn’t want them to see who he was, didn’t want them to see the sharp silver eyes of the Jotunn that would contrast with the red eyes of the Aesir. And as more and more surrounded him, he closed them in an attempt to not look at any of them, hoping to the Giants that they didn’t look at him.

But as he suddenly ran into a man, falling to the stone street with a grunt and a thud, the hope snapped away like a twig.

He froze, staring up at the man with wide eyes of alarm. The man stared back, blood eyes boring anger that Atreus could feel it sting against his skin.

But it was soon replaced with a gentleness that the boy did not expect.

“Sorry, child, I did not mean to bump into you. Do you want to get closer?” The man asked, red eyes wrinkling with kindness as he smiled down. The boy said nothing, only watching as the man held out a hand for the child to take.

“I can get you closer. A boy like you needs to see up, it’s only fair. All the other children are already up there watching.”

Atreus didn’t understand, but nevertheless he accepted the man’s hand and pulled himself up. He held on as the man led him to the front of the strange crowd, where he saw that everyone had created a ring, where a small child was standing precariously next to another huge pit, the front of his feet hovering over the black void.

And in the child’s hands, squirming and yipping just over the void was the pup Fenrir.

Immediately Atreus wanted to run forward and grab the wolf cub from the strange child’s grip, but was stopped by the man’s hand on his shoulder.

“I wouldn’t get any closer, child. That cub may be small, but it is far more dangerous than it looks. It has managed to defeat and wound many of our guards, only Thor has been able to shut its sharp jaw.” he said, pointing at the edge, where the thunder god was sitting and watching the strange activity before him with half-lidded eyes. His hammer rested by his side, the ground denting inwards from the miraculous weapon’s weight.

The boy wanted to retort, wanted to argue that the small creature was unable to harm anyone, not while he was still so young, but he looked at the cub once again, and realized just then how big he was, how its fur was far longer than the babe he held just last night. The fangs were sharp and bloody, not like the tiny teeth that had nibbled gently on the boy’s fingers.

But there was no way he could mistake those fiery amber eyes, shifting side to side as the pup tried to escape his entrapment.

And as those eyes finally rested on Atreus, widening with recognition and pleading, the boy couldn’t handle it anymore. He tried to run out of the crowd to the center of the circle, to save his creation. But he could feel the man’s hand on his shoulder just tighten further and pull him back, an endeavor that the demigod resisted by squirming like a worm in the sun. He could feel some of the gathered eyes begin to turn to him, almost scornfully as they witnessed a child struggle against an adult’s hold.

The boy would’ve been embarrassed had his mind not been stuffed with the need to reach the pup. The need that grew stronger when he heard Fenrir begin to whimper at the sight of his creator, and shrinking when those whimpers were drowned out by an all too familiar clang of metal boots. Slowly turning his head, he felt the hand of the man suddenly let go of him and let him fall to his knees onto the cobblestone ground.

Not that the shift of height made any difference, Thor still towered over him by a mountain’s height.

But the Aesir-lord’s gaze held no resentment towards Atreus, instead smiling down through his fiery red beard as he spun the hammer in his hand.

“Well hello again, Slægimuðr . It has been a while, hasn’t it?”

The whispers were almost instantaneous, his name passing like a mead horn as they joined it with rumors and stories, none of them good.

The boy hated that nickname more than anything.

“Hi, Thor. Funny seeing you here.”

The god just huffed in humor, but soon his smile turned into a frown of confusion. Atreus swore that he was thinking so hard that the thunder snapped in the distance.

“Really it should be the other way around. How did you get out of our home?” he asked, holding out a hand to help the child up. But the boy ignored it and helped himself, looking the thunder god straight into his blood red eyes with a look of anger. There’s no way in all the nine realms that he would call that prison a home.

“Odin. He let me out. My uh… my pet wolf had gone missing, and the allfather wanted me to find… it before everything got out of hand.”

Again the whispers burst forth, and Atreus could catch a few of them just behind his back.

“The demon is his ?”

“Now it all makes sense, the little beasts pure  savagery .”

“This is what happens when we try to welcome a Jotunn, of all creatures.”

“Now there’s no need to be petty about it. The boy is just searching for his companion. Why, if Snarler and Grinder were to go missing, I’d do the same.” Thor bellowed, before motioning for the strange child to come closer to the two.

“Vidar! Let the wolfling run on the streets! Let it go back to its master!”

The strange child slowly turned around after hearing his name, frowning in confusion. The child was… not much of anything, really. A simple plain face of childlike features surrounded by baby fat, plain clothes that was smudged with dirt and grime, nothing that would be worth remembering in Atreus’s mind. Not even his eyes, eyes that he expected to be the same blood red as all the Aesir, were all that captivating, instead a murky and dull gray that made the boy feel oddly, yet incredibly tired. The only thing that stood out was the fact that the child was barefoot on the cobblestone ground, unflinching when the pebbles dug into his soles and cut into his toes.

The child slowly released the pup from his grip, almost reluctantly as he watched the creature run towards its creator, its feral demeanor instead replaced with one of childish delight.

Atreus couldn’t keep his own at bay, couldn’t help but laugh as the cub threw itself against his chest. He remained ignorant of the oof that escaped him, or the gasps and cries and retreading footsteps from the Aesir behind him. All he could focus on was the feeling of the thick and matted fur in his fingers, the oddly soothing scent of mud and raw meat, and the warm tongue that traced over his hands and cheek. But the small respite of comfort was interrupted by the same, plain child looking down at the two of them with an infantile frown.

“And who are you?” Atreus asked, putting as much sneer as he could in those words, as he pushed Fenrir’s sniffling snout away from his face. The child did not say anything, which only frustrated the demigod further. But Thor answered the question with the same drunken cheer that he used.

“His name is Vidar, Loki. He is another son of Odin, and my youngest brother. I guess you could call him the babe of the family, younger than even his own nephews.” Thor chuckled.

The boy slowly stood, the pup still in his arms. Fenrir squirmed from the movement, which made Atreus teeter in his balance. Yet he tried to hide the sudden stumble as best he could, not wanting to appear weak in front of everyone.

How did he get so big in one day? Not even Ymaru grew this quickly.

“There’s no way that he’s a son of Odin. All of you Odinson's talk nonstop just to hear your own voices.”

The Aesir laughed at the demigod’s comment, and Atreus couldn’t help but smirk. But Thor did not laugh along with them, not even a chuckle. Instead he leaned down towards them, ignorant of the wolfling’s snarls of caution.

“He was born silent. Can’t even shout, or at least we think he can’t.” the thunder god whispered, a surprising feat for a man so loud and boisterous.

“Well then I guess he can’t explain why he was holding my… pet over… whatever that is.”

The boy didn’t like calling Fenrir a pet. But he couldn’t call him anything else, not in front of others who could potentially exploit the pup’s name of ‘friend.’

“Well, it was what Odin had asked for, for the boy to fight against the wolf.”

“What?”

“That is all he asked. Probably wanted to see if any more of his children could defeat the little monster like I did.”

“Little monster?! It’s just a pup! Why would you attack a dog?!” Atreus shouted. He placed the dog back on the ground, the ‘little beast’ too heavy for him to hold any longer.

And it was just as well that he put the pup down, or the sudden, blasting force from behind would have sent them both falling to the floor.

The boy, infuriated, turned to face his attacker, only to jump back in surprise as he was met face to face with the frowning, plain face of Vidar.

Vidar had pushed him.

He pushed him.

“I don’t think Vidar likes you very much, Loki.” Thor chuckled, patting the Jotunn on the shoulder with a resounding thud. Atreus didn’t say anything to the thunder god, resisting the urge to grab his shoulder in pain as the bruise began to form atop his skin.

But Fenrir, like Thor has done for Vidar, decided to speak for his creator. He began to growl once again, muscles tensing and black fur rising in animosity. Once again the Aesir retreated closer to the safety of the streets, and even Atreus took a step back as he saw a strange red glow began to encase the pup.

“And I don’t think that your pet doesn’t like Vidar very much. Calm it down before anything gets out of hand.” Thor said. His hand gripped the ebony handle of Mjolnir ever so tightly, and the boy could feel a hand grip at his heart as the horrid image of what could happen should he let the pup loose.

He knew what the hammer was capable of.

“Fenrir, stop. We must head back now.” He ordered, clapping his hands to receive the pup’s attention. But, to his shock. the wolfling ignored it. Instead it yapped in irritation as Vidar smiled and reached his hand out towards the little beast, pulling it away just before Fenrir bit it off.

The little god snickered, or at least mimicked the gesture, for indeed no sound escaped his plain lips.

“Fenrir, that’s enough! I said stop!” Atreus tried again, this time stomping his foot. And again he was ignored, the pup’s growling now accompanied with the laughing of the Aesir, watching as the Jotunn they heard so fouly of wasn’t able to control what he liked to call a ‘simple little pup.’ A simple little pup that was aggravated by the mere machinations of a child.

“Fenrir-”

But the demigod was interrupted by Fenrir lunging at Vidar, the pup’s patience worn too thin. The little god, although surprised at first, greeted the fight with a smile as the cub’s teeth dug into the child’s arm, drawing forth blood. With his other hand he grabbed the tail, pulling with all of his unnatural strength.

“Stop it!” Atreus shouted out.

With enough force and persistence, Vidar managed to tear the wolf of, the sound of ripping cloth and flesh being followed by gasps of shock and cheering of support. The smell of copper permeated Atreus’s nose, along with the bright glistening red of blood.

“Stop it!” he cried out again, no begged . But Vidar took no notice, instead throwing the pup to the cobblestone ground with a thud and a yip. Fenrir skid across the ground, the sound of dirt peeling off fur and skin painfully loud to the Jotunn’s ears until the dog stopped just before the edge of the huge endless pit. Vidar, not wasting any time, quickly placed his plain leather boot against the pup’s neck, leaning down. The dog’s panting was quickly cut off, replaced with the frantic struggling of an animal as it tried to escape, tried to breath before it lost what little air it had left.

But that was not what the pup needed to worry about. No, it needed to be afraid of the weight that was steadily increasing upon its fragile neck.

“Stop it! NOW !” Atreus yelled into the air, his cry of anger and desperation silencing all the other noises around him. He could feel the eyes of Thor on his back, and didn’t care. All he cared about was the little god staring at him with a blank gray look, boot still on the dog’s neck.

Then, strangely, Vidar gave a smile. Slowly he removed his foot from Fenrir’s throat, and a sharp yapping gasp could be heard, a noise that sent waves of relief through Atreus’s stomach. The wolfling slowly rose back to his feet, limbs trembling as he slowly regained his strength.

The Jotunn boy took a step forward, wanting to grab his newest creation and run back to his safer prison, where Ymaru lay waiting and the three could sit together and protect and.

Vidar smiled again. One thin, mischievous smile, as he lifted his leg again, placing it ever so gently against the pantin pup’s side.

“No!” Atreus called out in warning.

“Vidar, don’t-” Thor began, but it was too late.

With one simple push, Vidar kicked Fenrir into the pit.

Down into the dark endless pit.

What happened next was a blur.

Atreus screamed, he remembered that. He remembered feeling a bright sting of anger suddenly burst from within his chest, encasing the world in both red and fire as he ran at the little god. Vidar was not expecting it, gray eyes wide in shock and fear as the young Jotunn jumped onto him, clawing the skin open with a single swipe, right down to the muscle and near the bone. But he didn't feel it, all he felt was this encompassing burn over his body and red, flaming red that made the blood all the more darker. Atreus remembered slamming the other child’s body against the cobblestone ground, hearing a satisfying crack of bone crunching and a grimace of pain from Thor’s younger brother as he felt some measure of liquid warmth seep between his fingers.

But he did not remember how Vidar managed to get a leg underneath him, how he somehow managed to kick Atreus off of him and push him away with an energy pumping with fear.

Away from Vidar, to the endless black pit.

And Atreus too fell down, down, down.

Chapter Text

In complete honesty, Kratos did not understand the fear that had begun to crawl over his companions faces, did not fully comprehend the reason behind Hela’s widening eyes and clenching jaw.

“Why that’s not fair! Surely you must give him a better chance!” She exclaimed. However Freyr did not react to her shrill demands, still staring at Kratos with that unnerving smile and chimera eyes still watching him, waiting for a response.

“Surely you must find this request easy, brute. I used to watch the mortals test their children by having them run against their dogs, see who is faster to aid with the hunt. And looking at you, what should a man of your stature be afraid of?”

Those words made him let loose a chuckle, a deep rumble that burned at the back of his throat like a reopened wound.

“You think me a fool, yet I know what you are trying to do. Do not take me as a man of large strength and small mind.”

It was then that the smile faltered from the scrawny magician’s eyes, his very appearance seeming to dim from lost confidence as his smile curled down. But the persistent personality of the Vanir king did not remain dampened for long.

“Well then, there’s no time for us to waste! Let’s get started! Zirri, help me escort them!” He ordered cheerfully, watching as the warrior moved to lead the group, before stopping her with a wave of his hand.

“Actually, why walk? I can just take us there, less time wasted!”

And he did so. With a simple clap of his hands, the room of rusted metal and dried earth quickly transformed into a terrain of swamp water and soft mud. The war god couldn’t help but grimace, a slight twitch of the corner of his lip as he felt his feet sink into the ground, mud soaking through the animal skin of his boots.

“I feel like this will be a good place for our special event, don’t you agree? Say you agree.” Freyr asked.

Kratos did not answer. Neither did Hela, Baldur, Sigrun or even Mimir.

“Good! Let’s get started! Zirri, bring forth the people, let us give them a fun spectacle!”

The warrior replied to the command with a single nod. Zirri quietly gave the head back to the silent Spartan, before she let her body melt into the trees with a loud wooden groan. The Vanir king took no time explaining the rules to the group, many going over their heads as he muttered and fluttered with his birdy speech.

“And I thought Odin talked just to hear his own voice. This bastard can ramble until the fire in Muspelheim bloody dies!”

Kratos couldn’t help but sigh in agreement. He remembered fully well his imprisonment by the Furies, how they would torture him by cutting open his flesh with their spider-like claws, until his innards spilled forth onto the burning pavement. He remembered clearly the smell of searing flesh wafted up into his nose as his stomach, liver, and every other organ was cooked by the unnatural heat of the underworld.

And he’d go through it all again, if it meant that he didn’t have to hear the scrawny king’s damn speech anymore.

It didn’t take long for the people to arrive, much to the Spartan’s relief. Yet although they were far away, mere pinpricks amongst the murky landscape, he could see every detail in clear perception. They all walked with their feet hovering just above the water in order to avoid the muddy sludge that reached all the way up to the group’s knees. Yet they were shuffling, as if in fear of the strange group beside their ruler. It was then that he noticed their minimal number, small for a supposed kingdom. Many of them wore clothing of cloth and wood, dresses and tunics made out of branches seemingly bending and swaying in a way thought to be impossible. A few with armors of darkened oak and mud carried a giant cage between them, holding it high above their head and remaining cautious of the beast inside that trotted from side to side, grunting in impatience.

“Behold, visitors! The great Gullinbursti!” Freyr shouted joyfully into the air, unflinching when the boar broke out of its rusted prison and leapt into the air, walking along the liquid surface towards its master.

Kratos couldn’t help but admit, the boar was… spectacular, mesmerizing as it stood with its head high and muscles tensed. The creature’s entire coat were bristles of pure gold, finer than anything the god has seen in both realms he resided. Every hair shined with vivacity, its pure white tusks gleamed with triumph, and those shocking black eyes shined with murder.

So this was his opponent?

“Magnificent, is he not? Fastest creature in all the realms, able to beat both of Thor’s goats and the lightning of Midgard, at least the last time I checked.”

He did not say anything. But Hela no longer remained quiet, her anger no longer containable.

“I call an unfair advantage on your boar! It stand upon the water, while we all sink a foot into the mud!”

The king smiled at the queen.

“Well, what does the brute think? Does he find himself at a disadvantage? Does he find himself weakened by such a meager factor?”

The words caused the flame inside his chest to break through some corners of the cage, much like the boar had done with its own.

“I do not need any support or assistance. Let my feet sink into the ground, it cannot stop me.”

Freyr’s grin grew wider, as well as Hela’s eyes.

“Well then, no time to waste! Rules are simple. Run from one side to the next, first one there wins, simple as that! Start here, and end where my people stand waiting for the winner!” The king announced, pointing at the supposed starting line, right where his boar sat waiting. With a simple nod the pale warrior gave Mimir to Hela, before taking his weapons and throwing them across the swamp, hearing them land with a satisfying thunk into the wood. He stood beside the golden creature, kneeling to create a tension to make him leap farther. This reminded him quite a bit of the olympic games of Greece, how men would run, fight, and jump like trained dogs to prove themselves to Zeus.

How ironic.

“Renna!” Freyr shouted.

Something changed within Kratos, something powerful. He let his anger break the cage around it further, fueling him with the power to run faster than any mortal, to run faster than lightning itself as he-

And yet he was only halfway across, when the boar reached the finish line, trotting to a stop.

The Spartan was dumbfounded. Just what happened? How did that pig manage to beat him? That pig that was having its hairy chin scratched by the scrawny king, having praise showered upon it like rain. He looked towards his companions, only to have the same expression of surprise written upon their face, staring at the creature that had seemingly vanished from one side and appeared on the next.

Except for Hela, she had a look of fear and sadness, something he could not fully read.

Freyr slowly strode towards him, that annoying smile wider than before as he ran a hand down the boar’s side. The pig snorted as it came near the god, almost as if it was laughing at the foreign man.

“Well, I won. Guess that means-”

“I demand to try again.” he interrupted, the remnants of the again caged rage making his voice sound more feral, more godly. Yet the king did not even flinch, a glint in his chimeric eyes as he nodded and motioned for his golden pet to go back to the start. Kratos didn’t even wait, already prepared to start once again.

“Renna!”

This time he let the cage fully break, let his rage run through his body in completion, boiling his blood and burning his skin with a deep hiss. The water of the swamp vaporized around him, the trees bent away from the incredible source of raging fire as the man sprinted across. He could see the boar beside him, see it running as the light flickered across its bristles and it fell behind him and-

Only to be two thirds across, and watch the boar cross the line once again.

The people were now beginning to cheer, applauding the creature as they grew more and more entertained by their visitor’s defeat. A few were even beginning to chuckle.

But Freyr laughed. No, he cackled, let the world around him hear it ringing as he again praised his pet. The light reflecting off the golden coat made the glint in its masters eyes grow brighter and brighter.

And Kratos wanted nothing more than to distinguish it with a crush of his boot.

“Well, you lost again. Not that I’m surprised, no one can beat my beautiful Gullinbursti. But… how about a third try? Everything at foot, winner takes all, the whole lot. What do you say?”

The Spartan knew that he was just taunting him, teasing him to make him act irrationally and play into the scrawny man's hands. Yet this knowledge only fueled his anger further and further as he resisted the urge to tear the man’s head off, and the Vanir god knew it as he waited for an answer.

“Yes.”

“Perfect! Just right where it started, same thing as before! Let’s go!”

The god just grunted in annoyance and turned, ready to run once again and defeat that damn pig, before his attention was caught by Hela and her still sorrowful gaze. She motioned with her skeletal hand for him to come over, which he obliged. He could hear Mimir mutter in Hela’s grip as he grew closer, the same rant that the war god knew oh so well.

“This isn’t good, not good at all. Why oh why do I always bet on the wrong horse?”

“Quiet, head. What do you want, Hela?”

“Isn’t it obvious? We’re losing this bet.”
“You don’t need to remind me. But I cannot lose this.” he growled in response.

“I know, which is why I have something that could help us. It’s dangerous, but it could help in this dire situation.”

She held out her hand for him to take, a gesture Kratos did not take.

“What is it?”

With a quick look her strange green eyes looked at the Vanir king. Freyr was tapping his foot impatiently, waiting for the show to go on, yet he was not paying attention to the group at all. Nevertheless, Hela leaned closer to whisper her secret.

“It’s a spell my father taught me. The giants used it to trick Thor in the early days before the war. You will become as fast as thought, so long as you let the sole thought run, and if it has a source to feed upon. And, well… knowing you, you have a very powerful source of energy to use.”

The Spartan could almost see the spell resting in her palm, little glowing points among her fingers as she still waited for his hand, waiting to give him the spell. The spell that would help him defeat the boar, to receive the ship and help him save his son. And it was that final thought that made Kratos lift his hand, fingertips brushing against the woman’s freezing cold ones. Hela smiled, her expression turned hopeful as he hovered over her hand. He could feel the pure power from that one brush, the raw magic being offered to him freely.

He lowered his hand back to his side.

“I need no such spell.”

Hela’s hope quickly fell into fear. Her hand clenched into a fist and she grabbed at the leather around his chest, pulling him closer. He could see the rage and desperation burning in her eyes, an anger that rivaled his own.
“But you will lose without it! We cannot lose, not after coming so far! We need to get to Asgard now! Don’t you want to win, save your son?!”

But her exclamation did not faze the god. Instead he asked her a question that has been burning in his mind since he had left Hel with his new companion.

“Why are you so desperate to help me find my son? What are you gaining from this?”

The rage was still in her eyes, but her face turned to one of shock as Baldur gently loosened her grip on Kratos and placed it against his neck, letting his deadly chill crawl over her fingers. He whispered unfamiliar words of comfort to try and calm her down, words that were lost to the war god as Hela responded in that same foreign tone.  Nodding in agreement, she turned her attention back to the Spartan before her.

“I have family up there too. Two brothers and a father, who have needed my help since the birth of the gods. They have been held there for centuries, I can’t let them suffer anymore. I just hope they’re not dead by now.”

Her words shocked Kratos. But he did not let it show, instead placing a hand on her bony shoulder at an attempt at comfort.

“Trust me when I say that I will not lose. Sigrun, grab my blades from the tree.”

The Valkyrie did not question his request, and flew as fast as her ethereal wings would let her. She returned a second later with the chaotic weapons in her arms and a questioning look on her face.

“I hope to the great dragon below that you know what you’re doin’.”

He resisted the urge to tell Mimir to shut up again, and returned to the starting line, now with a familiar weight on his back. He kneeled ready, and could see in the corner of his eye that the boar did the same, ready to please its master once again. The damn pig that held all of the war god’s hopes in its run, that was the key to the cloth around Freyr’s wrist.

He shook his head, returning his thoughts to the race as he waited for the call.

“Renna !”

Again Kratos let the cage break fully, let his fury encase him as everything became a light sheen of angry red. Everything slowed down, unable to keep step with his flaming body. But the boar by his side was already beginning to move ahead, it's bursting trot becoming a lightning sprint as it grew closer and closer to the cheering people, closer to victory.

Not this time.

With as much of the burning strength he had left, that he had not used to keep up with the damn beast, he grabbed one of the blades from his back and threw it at the creature. He saw it moved with the speed of the gods, and sink into the beast’s leg. The resounding squeal of pain invigorated him as he pulled it away from the end, away from the shocked spectators, and back to him. The red in his vision slowly faded away, but that did not weaken him as Gullinbursti struggled to break free from the blade in its side, no longer wanting to win but wanting to live. But the fire in the weapon only ignited further, and the golden flesh around the wound began to melt away and drip into the swampy water it stood upon, creating a shining metal puddle in the murky surface.

The creature was now at his feet, held down by his muddy boot. He took the other blade from his back, both now flaming with chaos, and raised it high above his head before chopping the beast’s head clean off. No blood spurt forth from the wound, no crimson red flow that Kratos was familiar with. Instead the head just fell forth, revealing the clean and seemingly smooth metal inside, golden marble that still shined despite the mud. It was like he had cut off the head of a statue. The edges hissed with heat, melting just like the skin of its legs, creating a golden stream.

This was its own form of bleeding.

And everything had grown silent. The pig’s cries had ceased, the cheering had died, even the swamp itself had shushed in shock. The only noise Kratos could hear was his own labored breathing as he walked over the finish line. He couldn’t help but smile. The silence was a cheer enough.

“You killed my boar.” Freyr said. The smile was gone, the glint was gone, only hopeless surprise remained within him.

“I won your petty race.”

“You killed my boar.”

“You must keep your end of the bargain.”

“You killed my boar.”

He was growing impatient. With the flick of his wrist, his blades rested against the man's neck and chest, just waiting to slice it open and let true blood spill forth.

“Now, about that ship.”

Freyr sighed in resignation. His head lowered, his whole posture seemed to wilt as he slowly untied the silky cloth from around his wrist. The warrior Zirri tried to stop him, but the king whispered something to her before holding the fabric in his hand. Zirri nodded in somber understanding, and led the people away, back to their homes.

Kratos didn’t care about them. He had won. He could see Hela in the corner of his eye, smile wide upon her face in both happiness and relief. The anger in her eyes was gone, green now shimmering instead of burning.

She really does look like Fae, to his dismay.

“Here, let me show you how to use it, brute.” Freyr said, bringing the Spartan’s attention back to the present. He watched as the man threw the cloth into the air, before cupping his hands around his mouth to amplify his birdy voice.

“Opna !”

The effect was almost instantaneous. One second there was an open space, the area that Kratos had to run for both sport and risk, the next there was a ship, breaking the trunks of the trees as its dark wooden hull grew in size. It was long in design, like the many ships of mortals that Kratos has seen over the centuries. The mast sported a bright red sail, the port held numerous shields of wood and bronze, and the figurehead sported the wooden head of a dragon, glaring at those below it with a look of pure terror. The Spartan was surprised that it wasn’t spewing fire at everything in its wake, the design was so realistic and detailed.

“Well, no time to waste, let’s get on!” Freyr exclaimed,and clapped his hands. Instantly everyone was on the hull, everyone scattering to admire in their own way. Sigrun flew around with Mimir’s head in her hands, showing her former lover all the detail of the warship of her home. Hela had to resign to Baldur’s slow pace as he took his time simply to annoy his mistress. He only smiled in amusement when she would beat against his chest, wanting him to move faster so she could see it all.

Kratos just stood where he was, looking at the floorboards beneath his feet. Although cleaner, it was so similar to the boat in Hel, the one that he and his son had flown.

Atreus, I’m coming to get you. Hold on.

He was broken out of his thoughts by a question from Hela.

“Lord Freyr, it has no wheel. How do you steer it?”

Freyr smiled a smile of hidden meanings.

“Simple, like this.”

He held his hands out, and began to mutter in a different language. His hands began to tremble, as did the ship

“Åh, Vanir's store skip, ta meg til hvor hjertet mitt ønsker…”

“What are you doin’?!” Mimir shouted, but he was drowned out by a loud groan escaping the base of Skíðblaðnir

“Ta meg til min søster!” Freyr completed, and the groan turned into a scream as wind burst forth from nowhere, as the ship began to rise higher and higher into the sky. The shields began to rattle to join alongside the noise, and there was even a faint sound of humming lost somewhere in the dinn

Kratos launched at the king, forcing the man to the floor with his hands trapped behind his back. But it was too late. The ship had heard its master’s call. The masts raised, the red sails unfurled, and before anyone could do anything, Skíðblaðnir took flight.

Chapter Text

Atreus didn’t know when he woke up. All he felt was pain, a dull ache in his body that travelled from his head to his heels. It pulsed every few seconds, tensing every muscle with a groan.

This feels very familiar, he thought bitterly.

Slowly opening his eyes, he quickly had to look away when a sudden flash of light blinded him, bright and burning against the surrounding darkness he had grown accustomed to. But there was no mistaking what he saw, and his stomach sunk in response.

Above him, the sole source of light that was no bigger than his thumb, was the pit that he had fallen into. No, the pit that he had been kicked into, by Thor’s little brother, the ‘babe of the family.’

“Damn it,” he cursed under his breath, slowly sitting up.

He gasped in pain from the movement, the spikes once again tracing up his body in both pinpricks and gashes. Falling back down, tears tried to escape in the corners of his eyes as the jabbing gripped his mind. But he would not let them fall, would not let the pain take over as he blinked the tears away and sat up again to see what was ailing him.

His leg, from ankle to thigh, was twisted, bent and broken in ways that he knew for a fact no mortal or immortal being could do. He foolishly tried to move his ankle from side to side, and desperately tried not to cry as multiple stabs of pain laced up his limb. He felt something warm and wet begin to sprout and grow under his crippled leg, the strong smell of copper permeating his nose.

Wonderful, just wonderful, he thought.  

Ignoring every aching moment, he twisted his body to end up in a crawling position, his broken leg just dragging across the ground as he put a hand to his mouth and called out into the echoing darkness.

“Fenrir, where are you?” He called out. What had happened to his pup, where had he wandered off to? At least, Atreus hoped that the pup had wandered off, and did not suffer the same fate (or worse) as he did.

But fate, or whatever beings that gods believed in, smiled upon him as he heard a far off yip, happy and energetic and practically wonderful to the demigod’s ears. The joy only grew further when he saw a furry shadow prance over to him, and felt a rough tongue trace his hairline with slobber.

“I’m so glad you’re okay,” he muttered underneath his breath, running a hand through the pups matted fur. As gently as he could, he grabbed the small of the cub’s back and pulled himself up. He could feel Fenrir brace in assistance, allowing himself to be used as a living crutch. But as Atreus leaned into the furry side of his creation, he couldn’t help but frown in confusion.

Was he… bigger? Atreus swore that the pup shouldn’t reach his waist already, he was far too young for that. After all, he was made only a day ago.

At least, he hoped it was a day ago.

“Where’d you wander off to?” he asked the wolfling. Fenrir responded by pointing with its snout, careful not to shift and aggravate its master’s injury, before ever so slowly moving in that direction, towards a cave that was darker than the pit they were already in. He could only see the outline, smoothened over the course of centuries, whatever engravings there were around the entrance too faded for him to read. And although skeptical and a little afraid, Atreus trusted the pup, ignorant of every hiss that accompanied every hop, every cry that followed every jolt, he continued along, down through this tunnel. More runes appeared on the wall as they went deeper.

“What is this?” he muttered to himself. Fenrir just sniffled in response, a noise that echoed on the stone walls.

The boy swore that the walls were growing smaller and smaller with each hobbling step, he could see the granite reach closer and closer. His notions were proven true when he felt the roof of the cave begin to scrape against the top of his head, forcing him to bend forwards before it began to run across his back as well. Fenrir stared at his creator, and Atreus knew that they could go no other way.

“Okay. Let’s just, do it as slow as possible.” he said, hoping that the cub could actually understand him. Letting go of his handful of fur, he held onto the wall instead as he watched Fenrir begin to trot ahead, out of sight and into the darkness. Atreus followed suit, the wall his new support as he kept an eye on the dark shadow ahead of him, watching it as the shadow lowered further and further to the ground, until it was crawling between what little space remained of the cave. He crawled too, grunting as he tried to ignore the pain that burst through his body, and whispering comfort when Fenrir whined in concern.

The demigod could feel the runes on the surface, feel them become newly carved with each creeping step, rough against smooth. He traced them with his finger, and only realized then that they are, or at least were supposed to be, protection runes.

What are they there for?

The child was broken out of his thoughts when the furry shadow before him suddenly leapt out of sight, leaving him alone. He frantically reached out where the shadow once was, seeing where in the nine realms his creation could have gone, before being reassured by the feeling of warm breath spread across his hand, and he could see the sharp amber eyes burn, even in the darkness.

“I guess we found our exit, huh?” he asked, only to be answered by a tug in his sleeve, slobber dripping from the wolfling’s mouth onto his wrist. He pulled himself forward, feeling the small confines around him break free to open air. Once again using Fenrir as a crutch, he pulled himself back up, turning and scratching the pup behind his ear. The dog curled in and scratched its leg in satisfaction, and the boy couldn’t help but laugh.

The little piece of joy was broken when, suddenly, Atreus felt a blast of warm and wet air behind him. He could see literal steam curling around his body before it wafted to the ceiling, dissipating just as quickly as it appeared. Fenrir’s body froze, eyes looking up at the source, with ears turned back and tail between his legs. That only made fear grow much quicker in the pit of Atreus’s stomach as he turned around ever so slowly, witnessing the marvelous and terrifying creature before him.

“I guess Sindri was wrong. There are still many... MANY dragons left in the nine realms.” He muttered to the pup by his side. He whimpered.

The first thing he noticed were the eyes, calm and pearly as they sat glowing within the creature's angular skull, staring at them with a look that the boy hoped was curiosity and not hunger. Two crystalic horns sprouted from atop its temple, curling inward and around its thorned jaw from the overgrowth. Its head was almost bumping against the ceiling, revealing a scaled and molting neck that ended in a slender body. Rows of spikes ran across its thin spine, right to the tip of its tail, although there was a missing chunk in the very middle of the back, clearly sawn off to make room for a saddle. Four thin and shaking limbs managed to carry its starving figure with pride, but the demigod was too busy marveling at the silvery-gray wings, the thick membrane and eerie bone stretched as far as the cramped den allowed. They were decorated with claws on the very edge of the wrist, and the slender flesh of the seemingly limitless span gave them even more of a bladed structure. It was like they could cut through stone and skin with one fell swipe. It was proven true as the forelimb sliced through the air to rest the tiny claws against the child’s cheek.

“Hello there, little dragon. It is good to finally meet you,” it whispered, a deep and grinding hiss burning within the child’s ears. But he did not flinch away, not when the creature curled its long tail around him, trapping both him and Fenrir. The coldness of the reptilian scales seeped through the thin golden fabric of the boy’s clothing, and he couldn’t help but shiver slightly at the chilling touch along his back.

“I am Nonguc, the leader of this pack, the eldest child of Surtr and Nidhogg. No need to introduce yourself. We know who you are, little dragon.”

This statement confused the demigod.

“But… I… How can you know who I am?” he asked. He could hear Fenrir begin to growl, fear already forgotten to be replaced with foolish bravery once again. But the dragon, Nonguc, just released a menacing chuckle and the growling ceased with a whine.

“Little dragon, what we know does not matter to you. What matters is why do you visit me and my family in a place like this?” Nonguc hissed, looking to the side and releasing a small puff of electrical fire. It was only then that Atreus saw the expansive size of the chamber, where many more dragons rested in their own nook, staring at the newcomers with sharp and all-knowing eyes. All of them were thin, emaciated, and terrifying.

“We do not get many visitors here. Only our feeders, and the occasional aesir who foolishly decides to become our next unfortunate snack .” the giant beast teased, smiling at the boy and chuckling once more. It was a rumble that forced Atreus’s own heartbeat to try and follow the rhythm of the low laugh, and he couldn’t help but grip at his chest from the jolting sensation.

“Well that’s very comforting to know. I… at least hope we taste good.” he joked along, praying that someone would find them soon before their fate was sealed.

“Little Dragon, you and your child have nothing to worry about. We old friends of the giants are more than happy to see you as a companion.”

The boy couldn’t deny that he felt his body loosen in relief, and he smiled back at the dragon. Hesitantly he placed a hand on the tail behind him, stroking the smooth scales. The strange sensation cause the appendage to twitch, but a twitch was all it took to send the boy sprawling to the floor, moaning as he gripped his broken leg. He could see more blood soak out of the many wounds, the new crimson shining in the dragon’s sparking flames.

“What is the matter child? Why is it that you have been wounded?” Nonguc asked. Ever so gently they lifted their paw towards the child, remaining still as Atreus slowly pulled himself up and sat upon the palm.

“Well, um… I don’t exactly have the best relationship with the Aesir.”

The creature used the claws upon their wings to examine the child, running them through his red hair and across his features. Their eyes flickered with sadness, and it released a huff of despair.

“You do not know how much it hurts me to see a Jotunn like yourself be forced to dance for our captors, after what they had done to you and your brethren.”

Their despondency seeped into Atreus along with the scabrous chill, but he quickly pushed it away.

“It doesn’t affect me that much… at least not anymore. I didn’t really know the other Jotunn, or that I was even one of them for the longest time.” he said, trying to soother the no-longer terrifying monster. But instead they seemed to grow more disheartened from the statement.

“Then you are lucky. It is painful to watch my family be used like a horse on the battlefield. Although now we are only used as a source of warmth, given barely enough food to create a fiery breath, small sparks of heat to travel through the labyrinthine caves and ducts our jailers have created in order to warm them. ”

This intrigued the boy. Nonguc raised a thin paw and scratched its chin, creating a thick grating noise that bounced off the walls, deafening nearly every other noise. It silenced the other dragon’s roaring fire, the boy’s very own breathing, and almost quieted the sharp and shrill cawing in the distance.

Cawing?

Slowly so as not to disturb his leg, the child turned in the paw of the beast to see a shimmering green creature hiding in a corner, staring straight at him with glassy eyes. It shifted from one foot to the other, and it spread one of its wings to clean the nonexistent grime in its ethereal wings.

Atreus felt his stomach drop as he recognized what the being was.

Suddenly, with a growl and a bark, Fenrir lunged at the uninvited raven, smashing it into shining pieces with sharp teeth and bloodied claws. Nonguc placed the child next to the energetic wolfling, leaning down to whisper as quietly its growling voice would allow.

“We don't have much time anymore, little dragon. The raven has already delivered its message to The Mad One. I must tell you the secrets entrusted to me since the imprisonment.”

“What is it?” he asked, leaning closer. He placed both of his hands on the dragon’s snout, and was surprised to feel heat seep from the scales.

“We were told by a friend to tell the one of icy blood two things, should he ever visit us.”

“Who would tell you this? Who’s out to help me?”

“We do not know. Whoever told us made us take a vow to not remember his face or even his voice. And a dragon never breaks a promise.”

This only made the boy want to know more. Was it the same person that told the guard to help him? Or was it more than one? Was it just a cruel play by Odin, or was it truly a way for him to survive? To escape?

“Although all of us know the tales we are to tell, I am glad that I am the one to tell you. The first is about your search for your past story. The rest do not matter to you, a dead chronicle that only affects what you want it to affect. But, according to your ally, history has an odd way of teaching us about the repetitive foolery of every being. The tale of the Labyrinth, for it holds the answer to your escape.”

“My past story? What is that?”

“The tales of your father, the Ghost of Sparta. The stories you have yet to learn.”

Atreus could feel his body tense. The world began to shift along with his stomach, fear rising like bile as he realized what he needed to look for.

Just who was his father? What kind of god was he to gain such a reputation?

“And… what about the other… tale. What is it?”

“Call our father’s name, the great Surtr, and we shall come. Remember this, little dragon, if you want a chance of victory on the final night of everything, on the day of Ragnarok.”

Chapter Text

Atreus does not know what happened next. It all became a pure blur of gold, fire and pain. He could feel warm human-like arms wrap around him, a fire burst within his leg, could hear the screech of anger and fear from Nonguc grow further away from him as he and Fenrir were sped out of the underground prison, the light of dragon fire transforming into the light of the Asgardian sun.

But he did not care, not of the verbal rage between deities or flashing lights or anything external and overwhelming. All that mattered to him at the moment was the burning pain that shocked and trembled throughout his leg, traveling all the way up to his chest and shortening his breath. More liquid warmth soaked into his clothing, until the fabric couldn’t hold any more crimson and instead began to seep down his leg and into his shoe.

He thinks that he screamed, that he might have cried from the agony in his body.

He did not know when he blacked out, or when he woke up. All he knew was that the strange figure that held him was replaced by cold soft silk and cushioning, the sharp stabbing now a dull throb. Slowly opening his eyes, he couldn’t help but smile at the sight of the wolfling at the foot of his bed, sprawled on the floor in a fluffy black mass. But that smile disappeared as he saw a long, scaly tendril of sea-green constricting around the dog’s body, wrapped around his neck and chest and shortening his breath.

Atreus sat up with newfound energy, groaning when the ache spiked from the sudden movement. The noise seemed to have woken up the two creatures at his feet, and the creature suddenly leapt up, prepared to pounce upon anything that threatened his creator as Ymaru the serpent rose from his back, ready to strike or spew their black venom. But both relaxed as they saw the demigod sitting up, Ymaru resting its triangular head on Fenrir’s as both ethereal pairs of eyes looked into the demigod’s surprised ones.

And no one could blame the boy for his shock. He had not expected the two creatures to be so… amiable upon meeting. He expected for them to be filled with fury once they saw each other, an unending barrage of snarling and hissing and endless pleading for it to stop. But he could only smile in relief and happiness as Fenrir scampered over and rested his head on Atreus’s waist while Ymaru coiled gently around his neck and rubbed its angular cheek against the boy’s temple.

Ireeees-juuuuuuu-a-sseeeeetuuuuu , It’s good to see you, he whispered. He traced a hand across the freezing scales, relishing in the sensation he didn’t know that he missed so much. Unfortunately his brief moment was cut short when he heard a door open, the wooden creak echoing off the golden walls. He turned to face the door, his stomach sinking as he witnessed Odin limp closer to the three. The scar in his hand slowly grew in strength, a stinging reminder of the child’s ties to the elder god.

The elder god that smiled upon seeing the unnerved Jotunn, his one red eye gleaming with an emotion that Atreus knew wasn’t caring.

“Good day, Loki. It is nice to see you awake and aware.” He said, ignorant of the foreign warnings coming from the demigod’s creations as he stood right beside the child’s bed. The boy himself said nothing, hand still running through Fenrir’s fur as he glared upward.

The allfather chuckled at this.

“No need for such anger. I just come with a request and a gift, just a temporary aid while your leg heals.”

“Don’t want it.” The boy replied almost instantly. He wasn’t even surprised by the gravitating force that accompanied his response, that forceful and endless push against his body that made him grab at his chest in both fear and pain.

He looked the old god in the eye, wondering if he could see that same powerful force that was pulling at him. A force that, even though his form now knew it so well, his mind still feared it all the same.

But, like so many times before, it disappeared before the boy had gotten a good look.

“You need it, child, now .” Was all he said, holding out his staff towards the boy.

Atreus slowly nodded, and took the offered cane. Immediately he felt a sense of… revulsion run through him. The feeling that this was not his, that it was an atrocity to just touch the staff of Odin squirmed in his stomach like a worm.

He wanted nothing more than to drop it, to end this unusual and unwanted sensation right then and now. But instead he just tightened his grip around the weathered wood, slowly shifting in his cot so that his legs dangled to the side, his toes barely touching the floor. Even though the boy couldn’t stop the groans of pain that escaped his mouth, he continued with his endeavor until he happily found himself standing, leaning to his left with the staff in hand.

Odin chuckled, and Atreus looked up to see the god smiling, leaning onto a new, previously unseen staff.

“Why, you could pass for my own son if need be.” Odin jested, patting the boy on his shoulder before turning back to the door.

The very thought made Atreus resist the urge to vomit.

“Now, come with me. Your pets can come along as well if you like.”

The wolf and the serpent waited for no order from their creator, already by his side as the demigod followed outside of the medical room and into the intricate hallway of Valhalla. Again Atreus tried to focus his attention upon the floor, upon the pathway that the halls were creating. But, like all the other times before, it was not long until his head began to swirl and ache, and he had no choice but to let his eyes unfocus from the painful attempt.

“Where are we going?” he asked.

“Back to the central plaza.”

The boy’s stomach churned. “Why?”

“I have my reasons, child. You just need to follow now. All I will tell you is that you will enjoy it far more than your… first excursion.”

Atreus highly doubted that. Nevertheless he continued to follow through the halls and to the doors, careful not to touch them.

This gave the child an idea.

“Interesting cast you have on these doors. What is it?” he asked Odin.

The allfather chuckled with pride.

“Just a simple Vanir cast, nothing more.”

“But, you know, it’s always the simple ones that are the most effective.”

“That is true, child.”

“But… it must be hard to have others go through. I can only imagine the crowding that can happen.”

Odin smiled at the boy, a condescending grin that burned at Atreus’s temper.

“It is simple. They have my blessing, they don’t need to worry about the curse at all. As for you, you need to earn that blessing.”

Of course. Just that simple .

Atreus did not ask any further as the two reached the Asgardian town, choosing to remain silent as the Aesir greeted their leader with cheerful and heartfelt greetings, and acknowledge their guest with suspicious whispers. He could hear a few of them snicker at the sight of him and his broken leg, but it only took one rise and hiss from Ymaru for them to turn into a sharp cry of surprise and fear.

It made him smile, the dedication his companions were showing for him, and it made him wonder.

Did his father ever feel this way for him? Did he ever have this warm and swelling sensation in his chest, this ebullient sense of pride when he saw Atreus take his first kill, partake in hunts even with his illnesses weighing upon his body?

He hoped so. He truly hoped so.

The boy was broken from his thoughts when a hand clapped on his shoulder, muffled by his golden tunic. He looked around, trying to see what Odin thought he would enjoy oh so much. But all he saw were scrutinous stares and and curious contemplations that looked away as quickly as he saw them, directing their focus instead towards what rested in the center of the grand crowd.

For, standing just as confidently and foolishly as the last time, was the plain god Vidar, smiling up at his older brother Thor.

Atreus could feel anger begin to seep into his chest, a burn that creeped up his neck and into his head, blurring his thoughts into one urge of rage. His creations were not free from their fury either. Ymaru rose as far up as they could, while Fenrir lowered further to the ground in preparation to pounce. Snarling and hissing combined into one gruesome symphony, a song that frightened the Aesir and empowered the boy.

It just made the allfather laugh.

“I do not blame you for feeling this anger, Jotunn guest. My youngest son has not been the most hospitable towards you and your kin.”

“Hospitable?! He pushed me down a pit! I know ogre’s that show more generosity to their next meal!” Atreus yelled, his voice carried further by the agreeing shrieks of his creations. A few of the Aesir laughed at his comparison, but all were shushed as Odin stood just a little higher, red eye glaring with both anger and disregard.

“Do not tell me of ogre’s boy. They are nothing compared to you and your kin.”

There was a burn in the boy’s hand, right along the scar. He could see tiny wisps of smoke waft away from his hand, where his damaged palm came into contact with the revolting wood. The stinging smell made his eyes water, and Fenrir let out a small whimper of distaste. But the smoke and scent quickly disappeared as Odin once again shrunk back down, his shriveled old form looking smaller than ever.

“But, despite your lineage, you are still a friend of the Aesir. And we do not indulge in the atrocity of a friend being harmed on our land, even less so by our own people.” The allfather stated. Slowly he pointed a withered finger at his two sons in the center.

“Thor, remove your gauntlets. Remove Megingjord from your waist. We don’t want to kill him, after all.”

This scared the demigod, whose shock only grew as Thor nodded and tossed aside his weapons, the gauntlets and belt landing on the cobblestone with a clang. Immediately Atreus began to back away, his two creations standing in front of him as meagre forms of protection. He knew that this would happen again one day, he just knew. Odin had already attempted to kill him before it was only a matter of time but he didn’t want to kill him he wanted to make him suffer-

Thor grabbed at Mjolnir from his waist, only spurring Atreus further to run, to run away from this chaos if only to delay the inevitable-

“Do not worry… brother . You are not the one being punished today.” Odin said. The boy’s rapid heartbeat suddenly stopped, his plunging stomach easing away.

“What?” he asked, no longer sure of what was to come. The allfather answered by lifting a withered finger, pointing at his two sons in the center of the circle.

With a single nod, Thor grabbed his younger brother by the shoulder, shoving him to the ground. He placed a foot on Vidar’s lower back, trapping the young god before he could run away. But that did not stop the little god from trying to escape, squirming and grabbing at the ground in vain.

“What’re you gonna do to him?” Atreus asked, both confused, frightened and fascinated at the same time. Odin leaned over and whispered in the child’s ear, a voice almost too excited for what was about to happen.

“A broken leg deserves a broken leg. He shall receive the same injury as you, and if he can live with it, he shall be forgiven for his crime of hurting another god. As the saying goes, an eye for an eye, an oath I learned from the Assyrians, right before they destroyed each other in a vengeful bloodlust.”

The sick irony was not lost on the child as he watched Thor raise his hammer above his head. He muttered something underneath his breath, something Atreus could not comprehend so far away, before bringing the hammer down. There was a splash of blood, flying in the air and splattering on the floor into a sickening crimson canvas, decorated with the bright blue sparks of Mjolnir’s lightning. The smell of burning flesh and copper permeated the demigod’s nose, quickly followed by the deafening sound of crunching bone, torn skin and splattering red.

But there was no scream to accompany it. Vidar remained silent, even though he looked on in horror at his leg.

Or rather, the remains of it.

“Thor, you hit him too hard. You destroyed his foot instead.” Odin scolded. He did not react to the mangled and torn sight of his youngest son’s appendage, nor did he react to the blood pooling underneath. The rose-colored pool was painted further as Vidar began to drag himself away from his older brother, crying silent tears as he reached the edge of the crowd and continued to crawl. The people only watched as they seemingly made a path for the little god to crawl through, their only voice a handful of murmurs that passed around too fast for Atreus to catch. But he did not care, his only focus was the dying god before him, and the hand upon his shoulder as Odin pulled him back to make way.

“The child is trying to reach Skavir before he loses all of his blood, or at least have the rest of his body reach her before it freezes beyond reanimation.” the allfather whispered.

“Well we need to help him!” Atreus whispered back, trying to move forward, but the hand remained strong.

“No, we do not help him. This is a trial to test his strength. Something your lineage knows very well.”

“Reanimation isn’t the same as resurrection, he’ll still die!”

The demigod could feel the invincible pressure build up once again, sense it gripping his heart as the red eye bore into his mind and soul.

“And why do you care, brother? He was the one that almost killed your dog, almost killed you with his brash impulse. If anything you should be overjoyed with this revelation.”

But the boy did not listen, prying off the hand, throwing the revolting staff and fighting against the force before making his way to the dying deity.

Damn this. Damn all of this.

Atreus could feel his leg burn from the pain as he bent down, as he wrapped his arms around Vidar’s and pulled him up. It hurt so much, burning and breaking across his lower body. But he did not care, not for the biting pain or the voice in the back of his head shouting at him to leave the other boy be, to watch him suffer and choke. He pushed it all away along with the growing rumors of the people and the increasing strength of the debilitating force.

He did not want another face haunting him in his, in his crowded dreams.

“Fenrir, Ymaru, I need your help!” He called to his creations. But he looked up at them to find them just sitting next to the allfather, looks of confusion etched onto their bestial features.

Atreus cursed under his breath. He didn’t have time for them to decide whether they should help or not.

It all became a burning blur by then, the pain coursing in his body combining with the urgency in his mind. But all he had to do was look up and see that he had only made it a few feet, the short river of blood his evidence of just how little he had done. The discovery forced away the boy’s willpower, allowing darkness to seep into the corners of his vision and blur the rest. Through the pain he could feel himself fall onto the concrete, but he didn’t know if he was getting back, every other touched numbed away.

It was then that the boy felt something bump against his shoulder, and he looked up to see, through the blur, something big and black that panted with warm and comfortingly fetid breath.

It was Fenrir, he knew it was. It had to be. The hope was only proven when he felt a long and scaly rope slowly curl around his arms, pulling him up and against the warm and furry creature above him.

He doesn’t know what happened after that, the darkness finally taking over his mind.

When he had awoken, he was both displeased and relieved to find himself back in the simple cot of the healing ward. Both Ymaru and Fenrir were once again by his side, their attention shifting between him and the young and pouting Vidar in the next bed. The deity upon seeing the awakened Jotunn, stiffened with surprise as the two creations began to bounce in joy. Atreus couldn’t help but laugh as Fenrir jumped onto the bed, licking the boy’s neck and cheek, couldn’t help but smile as Ymaru’s wrapped their head around the boy’s wrist.

“Thank you, guys,” he whispered. The two repeated it in their own tongue, the serpent in Giant and the wolfling in yips.

But the sentimentality was destroyed when he heard a knock to his right, and turned to see the little god holding out a folded strip of paper, head turned the other way.

Stretching as far as he could, he took the paper and flattened it on the wolf’s back, forehead creasing as he tried to interpret the chaotic scribble.

‘Thank you for saving me .’

The boy smiled in smugness.

“No problem. Just don’t kick me or my wolf again, and we’ll be golden.”

Vidar held out his hand again, and Atreus gave the note back. Using the thigh of his stumped leg, the little deity ever so slowly wrote out another message with a lump of charcoal, a speed that the boy rolled his eyes at.

At this rate I could've written a whole scripture, he thought, almost missing the lump of paper that was thrown at his head. It hit him right at the temple and into his hand, and the Jotunn muttered a curse under his breath before reading the new sentence below. 

‘Don’t mention the color gold around me. I’m sick of it.’

Atreus couldn’t help but chuckle. No he laughed, a farce that brought a guffaw straight from his stomach.

“Well that makes two of us, then.”

Chapter Text

It was such a shock to Kratos’s body, the sudden shift between worlds. Heat and muggy air quickly became gentle swimming ether, only to turn into the sharp and familiar bite of the Fimbulvetr winds. It stabbed into his skin, crawled along his muscle and sunk into his stomach like icy spears, and he couldn’t help but grunt from the unwelcome force as he curled his body to fight it off. His companions fell to the ground from the shock of the sheer cold, Baldur’s legs literally frozen onto the boat as ice coated Hela’s frail body, Sigrun’s wings the only things protecting them from being encased in frozen waters.

But through the screeching cyclones and the burning fire inside him that fought back, he could see the Vanir Leader jump over the edge of the ship as he shrieked in triumph.

“Hello dear Midgard!”

Ripping his hands off the frozen deck, he rushed to the edge to watch Freyr fall through the icy gales, through the protective barrier and down to the land of Midgard, to the red forest and golden fields of Freya’s home. Kratos followed suit, choosing to remain ignorant of the warnings his companions threw at him.

The king landed in front of Chaurli, the giant turtle growling and snapping at the intruder. Even though the earthen creature dug it’s heavy body further into the ground, it only took one spell from the excited man to uproot the creature, the red trees bending, twisting and tearing to force the hidden home above the earth.

But he didn’t even reach the door, the burning hand of Kratos grabbing his shoulder and hurling him across the field. Yet all Freyr had to do was mutter a single word under his breath and the grass rose up to meet him, cushioning his fall and lifting him up with enthusiasm and hunger.

“I had forgotten how malleable the earth was here. Much more eager to listen,” he said, smiling to the Spartan’s scowl. The smile only grew wider when the door to the tortoise’s chest flew open, and out stepped the goddess Freya, hands glowing gold with magic and eyes sparking with what was left of her warrior’s spirit. It all faded away, though, when she saw the thin and twitching figure of Freyr.

There was silence, a stillness filled instead with surprise, fear, and anger as the witch fell down to her knees, a hand outstretched.

“Br...brother?”

A laugh, bitter and unforgiving, hissed in the air as Freyr lifted an accusatory hand.

“Hello, dear sister . It’s been so long. And here I thought you to live in Asgard, out of my reach. But hear you stand, hiding from your people like the coward you are!”

“Brother, I-”

“Sókn! ”

Roots burst forth, grass tore and entwined to create sharp ends, all that flew towards Freya with the intent to kill. With a swing, Kratos cut them all with his blades, the broken tails igniting from the burning metal’s touch and turning to ash.

The king humphed. With a tap of his foot, one of the many trees bent down and picked Freyr from the ground, weaving a wooden throne for him to sit upon.

“I have had enough of your games. First you hold me by rope, then force me to race a pig just for your entertainment, and now you only delay me further.”

“How rude. Rót! Gil!”

Immediately the ground began to quake, a rumble and crack as the golden grass split in half to reveal the endless gray abyss beneath, stretching into permanent darkness. The earthen sides revealed topiary roots, roots that wrapped around Kratos’s legs and travel up his waist in a wooden buzz, holding him trapped in the air. No matter how many he cut off of his body and turned to soot, they continued to cultivate, tightening their grip before tossing him down into the ravine.

And yet, Freya continued to kneel and watch, tears and emotions blurring her senses as she stared at the ensuing chaos in front of her.

“Please, don’t…” she whispered, but the plea was lost to the sound of cracking boulders and the yawning gorge.

The Spartan quickly threw his blades to the sides, the greek metal cutting through earth and stopping his fall, pieces of dirt caking across his pale skin. He muttered a few Grecian curses under his breath, including a few Spartan swears as the Vanir leader shouted another spell.

“Lúka! ”

Kratos could feel his body sink as more of the rock began to crumble, as the earth began to move again, this time back to where it once was.

“I must say, this is not how I imagined him to try and kill ya.” Mimir muttered, eyes closed to prevent any rubble from damaging them any further.

“Quiet head, I don’t need any of your complaints.”

“Oh, sorry. Not trying to be pessimistic, just saying that there‘re many other ways to try and end ya that would have been more likely to work.”

That made the Spartan grin. The truth truly was the most humorous farce.

With another twist of the chains around his wrists, he pulled with as much might and strength as he allowed to course through his body, launching out of the abyss and soaring in the air. He threw his blades at Freyr, missing his adversary’s head by only a few inches. Yet the wooden throne could not take the burning rage of the blades, and burst into flame.

The verdurian king shrieked in surprise as he leapt off, patting out the sparks that have caught onto his sleeves and remaining unaware of the advancing war god. He only managed to prevent another killing blow by shouting another spell as quickly as he could, chanting more and more with each step back. Yet Kratos continued to chop them down, dodge out of their way and rip them apart. With every attack and every defence, he managed to draw closer to the king, who was growing more tense and terrified with every inch lost between the two. His chimeric eyes widened in fear as the last of his spells failed to keep the Spartan away, only able to claw at the hands that wrapped around his neck before he could get away.

But the grip did not tighten, stopped by a cry of horror and a roar of rage.

“Kratos, STOP!”

It was Freya, once again on her feet and walking towards the battling gods. The ground healed beneath her bare feet, what remained of the ravine sealing shut and the trees sighing in relief as the witch finally let them rest. But they quickly shied away from the witch as she marched closer and closer, a fury burning behind them that overtook her body and bathed her in a golden red magic.

“Don’t kill him. Don’t you dare kill him.”

“Freya he-”

“He is my brother! You have already done enough damage! Just let me control my own fate, no more meddling and murder from you!”

The war god hesitated, eyes shifting between both Vanir as his mind conflicted with the breaking flame inside him. The flame that shouted kill him kill him , that reasoned he’ll try and kill Freya like Baldur did , and begged to stop it before it begins . He willed the cage around the flame to grow tighter, but it only made the flame’s voice grow louder, pounding against his ears as he looked down at his hands around Freyr’s neck and watched as they tightened and ignited and-

He was broken from his inner thoughts by a hand, cold and sharp, resting on his shoulder. He turned to see Hela, Baldur and Sigrun stand beside him, the death goddess’s nails were coated in a thin sheet of ice, ice that melted into water as soon as she touched his ashen skin.

“Kratos, let her do it. She will be fine.” She said, offering a skeletal and supposedly comfortable smile. But the Spartan could see the pure and unraw fear burning in her green eyes, engulfing that sparking hate he had grown used to seeing within her.

But it was not fear for him, or for the fate of Freya.

Understanding, he let go of Freyr and stepped back, watching as the Vanir king fell to his knees and coughed for air. But his bright chimeric eyes stared up at his sister, anger and insanity blending into that one gaze.

“Well… seems now I can finally fight you without someone getting in the way.” he jeered, raising a hand for another spell.

“Rót hepta! ”

But nothing happened. Gentle gales rustled the leaves and grass, the water continued its journey to the lake, but no magic disturbed the calm forest.

Freyr again tried the spell, only receiving the same result.

“He no longer holds power here. Freya has reminded the forest just who it follows.” Sigrun whispered, wings motionless so the ethereal winds did not agitate the still air.

“Well that would’ve been more useful a few minutes ago! I wouldn’t have gotten dirt in my eye!” Mimir shouted, receiving a well-deserved smack from Kratos.

Nevertheless, the king tried again and again to use his spells against the witch, his words becoming more and more incoherent with each shout. It wasn’t long until Freyr held his face in his hands, his rapid and inconsistent breathing amplified. Freya reached out a hand, brushing against her brother’s shoulder before he jolted away.

“Don’t you dare even try to touch me! Even when you leave for our traitors, laugh at our demise and just… just stand there, you are still… still… why must you always be better than me?!”

Freya said nothing, letting her brother shout at her. She watched as he reached for her throat, only for his hands to fall back to his sides.

“You know, when you first left for Asgard, I thought that you had been taken as a hostage! I ignored the reasoning of our people, all trying to tell me the truth of your betrayal. Yet I continued to believe my own lie!”

“Freyr, I-”

“I gave up my sword for you! I traded it to the light elves for a compass towards Asgard! Even if the Valkyries slew me if I crossed the Aesir border, at least I would have died thinking that I was saving my sister! But instead those… traitors came and stole the damn contraption! They broke my hope, killed my lie .”

No one said anything as the god twisted away, lifting his hand to his chest and gripping the loose brown fabric of his tunic. His fist was shaking along with his breath, and he failed to still either one.

“And when-when you left… you don’t know what they did to us. What they d-did… to ME.”

Freya no longer remained still and accepting. She placed a hand on both of her brother’s shoulders and turned him back to face her. Even though power still burned golden around her, her face remained gentle and calm, unafraid and endearing.

“Then tell me. What did they do to you? Although I cannot change the past, at least I can understand it.”

Freyr’s body tensed, and he grabbed at her arms and threw them away from him.

“NO! You can’t understand it! You can NEVER understand! I was only a child that watched his people be mocked and abused! I was only a child when Thor’s… disgusting sons would come and… and…”

He was unable to finish, unable to stop the pain from breaking his anger-fueled exterior and forcing the long silenced cries out of his chest.

Nor did he have to finish. They knew just what he spoke of, and Kratos found himself to once again be selfishly thankful that they were both long dead.

The king closed his eyes to stop the tears, held his breath to stop the sobs. He did not try to escape Freya’s hold this time, only leaning further in as she hugged him as tightly as she could. The dirt around her eyes began to smear as her own tears fell down her cheeks, but she only let her brother’s pain fill the air.

“All I can say is I’m sorry. Ek angr.”

The ground rumbled from the statement, truth sealed in the ancient tongue. Freyr nodded in understanding, and soon his cries dulled away.

“Ek angr, systkin.”

Suddenly, as if a reminder to those in wait, Skíðblaðnir above the forest creaked, the winds of Fimbulvetr forcing the ship into a tilt.

“Well, I say that’s perfect timin’ there! Remember we’ve got work to do!” Mimir suddenly and eagerly shouted from Kratos’s hip, receiving a smack from the war god for the impatience and impertinence.

Freyr looked at the group, chimeric eyes warping and shimmering in intrigue.

“Yes, you need my ship. But what for? You say you need it to get to Asgard, but that’s impossible. And, not to sound boorish, but I don’t think a dead Aesir, skeleton, Valkyrie spirit, foreigner and talking head are really gonna stand well.”

“Oh brother, trust me we will do just fine.” Mimir murmured, lowe enough for only Kratos to hear.

“We’re not heading to Asgard first.” Hela said.

Kratos turned to face her, skin searing and blood boiling in restrained anger. The grass around his feet began to wither in burning from the unexpected and intense heat, and Baldur stepped back to protect his mistress from the burning flame of the war god.

“What do you mean?” He growled. Hela couldn’t tell if it was the growl of a warrior or of a beast.

“We need to go somewhere else first in order to reach Asgard.”

“But you said-”

“I know that, but the ship is only a part of it all. Trust me.” Hela said, pulling her skirt over her mutilated legs to protect them. Not that it would do much in the end.

“I have trusted you. So far we have run to Hel, Midgard, Vanaheim and back, and not any closer to that accursed realm. Not any closer to my-”

“Your son isn’t in Asgard. Not anymore. That’s why we need to go to The Roots.”

The flame within Kratos withered away once again, and he could see Hela literally relax in relief. She beckoned Freya over to her, asking a question in a language that he didn’t understand. Freya nodded, and whispered back in the same language before turning back to her brother.

“Freyr, can you send them up to the ship? They must go now, if they want a chance of success.”

“Alright, simple!” the king said. He and Freya shared another conversation in their native tongue, before the brother clapped his hands. Much like before, they all appeared on the ship’s deck, many of it coated over with a thin ice after the winds had bombarded it. It all melted into a thin puddle once Kratos had become known to the cold weather.

“What are the Roots?” Kratos asked. He was answered by Mimir, the rest too busy trying to avoid the freezing water that now flooded the deck.

“Quite literally what the name says. The roots of Yggdrasil, home to a thousand snakes, a hundred deer, the three Norns, and even hosts the great dragon Nidhogg, trapped forever in the lowest roots.”

“And why do we have to go there first? What makes it so important?”

“Because of the Norns, the three women that are able to create a person’s past, present and future.” Hela stated indifferently, trying to stifle a giggle as Baldur’s face scrunched in annoyance from the ankle-deep lake he was forced to stand in.

But Kratos could find nothing humorous as his body stiffened in surprise and apprehension. Old and bitter memories of a time long-ago where he held blades encased entirely in fire and sunk it into the face of the white eyed women that will no longer foretell his future.

He thought he could kill it, but the truth is no one can ever escape fate.

He was broken from his calamitous memories when he could hear Hela begin to shout as loudly as her thin lungs would allow her, words broken and scattered by both the wind and her anger filled speech. Kratos took a step closer, wanting to hear what they were arguing over.

“You made us a bet, one that you lost! Your ship belongs to us now!”

Freyr chuckled. It was an irritating noise that the Spartan did not miss.

“Sorry, but you’re not taking the ship anywhere without me. I’m the only one that can steer the ship. It only listens to the voice of the Vanir. So, if you want to go anywhere, you have to ask me to take you to it.”

The Vanir’s smile grew wider as Hela’s grimace deepened.

“This is absurd! This was not a part of-”

Kratos did not have time for this.

“Freyr, take us to the Roots, now.”

Both gave him a look of surprise, the king’s turning into one of smugness as Hela’s mouth opened and closed like a stolen skull.

“But, Kratos, he-”

“He has already wasted enough of our time. I will not have him waste anymore.”

The Spartan leaned towards the pale queen, whispering the rest.

“Just know that I am tired of picking up strays.”

That simplistic statement made Hela smile, and the Spartan couldn’t stop the pang of sadness that traveled through his body as he was reminded of Faye once again. The image of the thin and skeletal smile was so similar to his love as she lay dying in their bed, sickness overtaking everything but her mind.

Until that was eventually taken away too.

Skíðblaðnir’s ethereal sails began to unfurl as Freyr whispered the destination to the magical ship. The freezing wind slowly phased away to be replaced by the increasingly familiar sense of the space between the realms, the diamond dust already clinging to everyones hair and flesh.

“Let’s go! Off to The Roots! Hope you’re wearing thick skinned boots, brother.” Mimir shouted.

“Why?”

“It’ll give ya’ a lesser chance to be bitten by the lost serpents.”

Kratos groaned in annoyance.

“Well if ya’ think that’s bad, wait ‘til you meet Beli, the protector of the Norns.”

Chapter Text

The two boys had to spend many days together in the ward, Vidar unable to quickly heal because of his punishment, and Atreus because he still would not even let Skavir near his cot, nor would his bestial companions let her get any closer if their creator did not want it. Already there was a congealed puddle of black venom from the number of times that Ymaru hissed and spat, and both children had learned to ignore the snarls that emitted from Fenrir in the middle of the night, when the healer hoped to finally check on the Jotunn boy.

Not that she really needed to, he was healing perfectly fine without any need of Aesir magic or medicine, using his own spells that he discovered from the ancient Jotunn tomes. He couldn’t help but smile as he watched the cuts upon his legs sew shut and the bones loudly yet painlessly pop back into place. At night he would practice walking on it, letting Fenrir know when he had enough and let the wolfling lead him back to the cot.

But the noise and the nightly jaunts inevitably drew the other deity’s curiosity. And with his curiosity came many questions, along with many, MANY notes slowly scrawled and thrown at him.

‘What are you doing?’

‘Is that magic?’

‘You know magic?’

‘How much magic do you know?’

Atreus had grown tired of it very quickly. Every time he would groan whenever Vidar tried to write another question, head aching from the scritch, scratch and squeak of well used charcoal on crumpled paper. He had refused to answer any of the questions once thrown at him. He can’t deny the little god’s accuracy, he always knocked him in the head or on the shoulder.

The next time he received another question, he caught it just before it hit his head for the dozenth or so time. Immediately he tossed it straight back, grinning as it hit Vidar square on his plain face.

“Before I answer any of your dumb questions, I want you to write down… Trolls travel towards treetops to try and trap trivial prey. 10 times, no less.”

Vidar gave him a confused look, not understanding this sudden and strange demand.

“If I’m gonna be stuck here with you, then I’m gonna teach you how to actually write. I’ve already wasted enough of my life here, you’re slow writing isn’t gonna waste any more.”

He realized just then that he sounded like Mimir when he tried to teach him the Aesir and Vanir languages. Multiple practices of writing that he groaned at every time it was ordered by the dismembered head, but was thankful for now that he saw the practice come to fruition.

He wondered if Vidar will act the same way as he did, grumbling and complaining until proven useful. That would make him like Mimir, knowing that in the end he’s right.

Although Atreus hoped he didn’t become a talking head anytime soon, he fought hard to keep all of his limbs intact.

But Vidar did not complain (at least out loud or in writing), and instead began to write the sentences and statements like the boy had ordered. Once he was done, throwing the paper at the Jotunn to prove his work, Atreus just threw it back and told him to write a different phrase, to which the little god just frowned and tried to complete it again. Both kept up this paper-tossing lesson until Skavir deemed both children healthy, saying that they are free to leave whenever they wish. Atreus decided, as a parting gift, to give Vidar the walking stick that Odin had gifted him, knowing full well that Vidar needed it more.

That, and the strange oaken cane still gave him that dark, revolting sensation that he wanted to be rid of as soon as possible.

And that was how he said goodbye to the little god, holding out the stick and saying goodbye, acknowledging an unsaid truce between them before he turned around and promptly ran off, both of his companions following. It wasn’t until Atreus felt an ache in his leg that he stopped, leaning against the wall as he pressed and rubbed the sore muscle. He could hear Fenrir whine with concern, and smiled as he scratched the pup behind the ears.

“Don’t worry. I just need to use it a bit more, then I’ll be fine,” he soothed, hoping the wolfling could understand him. He said the same thing to Ymaru, feeling the words of the giants rumble in his body and down to the floor beneath him, almost shaking the ground itself.

But the rumbles were drowned out by the sound of clacking wood and dragging shoes, a noise that the boy had grown uncomfortably used to. He could already imagine the withered man that was inevitably following him, wrinkled lips smiling as they held back a curse and red eye glowing with both hate and manipulation. Atreus could feel his own curse simmer right in his throat, and he resisted the urge to spit it as he stood up, turned around and-

Came face to face with Vidar, the god’s grey eyes looking down at him in both boredom and curiosity, leaning heavily onto the staff gifted to him.

Immediately Fenrir began to growl under his breath, still wary of the child that had thrown him into a pit, but stopped when Atreus quieted the pup before he faced the other deity with a growl of his own.

“What’re you doing?” he asked, more surprise in his words than spite.

Vidar, of course, said nothing, but held up a piece of wrinkled paper in front the boy’s face.

‘You still haven’t answered any of my questions. I want to know how you do magic.’

This confused the demigod.

“What? Why?”

Vidar pointed at the paper again.

Because that power you showed back then was not just strength. I saw the red in your eyes.

The Jotunn felt his blood freeze. Both Fenrir and Ymaru shrunk as well, understanding that their parent was troubled with what he read.

“I, uh… I don’t know how.”

The little god shook his head in defiance, crossing an arm over his stomach.

Atreus didn’t need him to write it down to understand what he was trying to say.

“I don’t have to answer any of your questions! I don’t owe you anything, okay’?”

But Vidar didn’t take that as a satisfactory answer, tightening his grip around his midriff.

“Look, I sa-”

The boy was cut off as Vidar suddenly knocked the staff against the wall as hard as he could, a loud metallic ring jumping across the golden metal and stone.

Silence followed as the boy looked in disbelief, not understanding what just happened.

“Did… did you just-”

Clang! Vidar once again hit the staff against the wall, interrupting with another loud clang. The boy could feel anger begin to burn at the base of his stomach as he pointed a finger at the other child.

“You did! You-”

Clang!

Atreus didn’t bother trying to talk again, knowing full well the results. He turned around and walked away from Vidar, trying his best to ignore the clacking footsteps that shuffled behind him, now accompanied by a now-and-again clang from the staff. Fenrir trotted along with Ymaru on his back, both beasts confused to the ordeal that had just happened before them.

“Fatrooooo, teee straaaaaan-booooo stiii forrrroooo-uuuuusssuuuuu,” Father, the strange boy still follows us, Ymaru hissed, stretching up to rest their head against the boy’s shoulder. Their tongue flicked back and forth in the air as Atreus sighed and nodded in agreement.

“I know, Ymaru. I know full well.”

oooOOOooo

It was unnerving how rumors about Atreus spread so quickly among the Aesir. Maybe it was because he was a Jotunn that they felt the need to spread so many misconceptions about his character. Or maybe it was because of his magic, and the unnatural way that he was able to create life when Odin had not. Or, quite possibly it could be because the boy, enemy or not, is a newcomer that they did not expect or want.

Nevertheless, Atreus couldn’t stop the annoyance that spread through his body whenever he heard them whisper about his state of mind or if he was creating some sort of trick to play on them.

Vidar was no help either, what with his incessant following and constant attempts to get his peer’s attention.

Quickly the whispers of rumors became the jeers of accusations as deities conceived the idea that the Jotunn might have placed a spell or hex on the little god, replaced him with one of his clay creations, or even managed to seduce the other boy, forcing him to wallow in the sorrows of rejection.

Atreus had to give the Aesir credit, it was impressive how they were able to create such interwoven tales from something so small as gossip.

Although, the ones that called themselves Spartans and Grecians made no small feat to let their stories and afternoon tales live on, according to the thousands of texts that he had managed to find. He had no clue just how much information there was when he finally decided to follow Nonguc’s words, his heart literally sinking at all that lay before him. His bestial companions looked up at him with eyes of concern, knowing full well what their creator was trying to find in the labyrinth of literature.

“Well, let’s just start off with these ones first, I guess.” He muttered to himself, grabbing a few tomes and scrolls before sitting down and turning through the first page. Apollo and Hyacinthus , it was called.

And by the end of the Asgardian day, the boy found himself trying to find various ways to speed up the process, already reading enough of Spartan spells and warrior poetry. Some he had found interesting, like a chant that supposedly grew a limb out of a person’s clothing, but other than that it was all foreign text that just made his head hurt by the end of it. He had given half of the work to Fenrir, hoping that the wolfling knew how to read as the pup tilted his head back and forth before trying to turn the page with his big tongue.

Or maybe he was trying to eat it, which all Atreus could do was hope that the tome didn’t have the one tale he was looking for.

“You know, maybe Nonguc could’ve given a little bit more to go on,” he told Ymaru, who could only slither between the two and cheer words of encouragement. He leaned against the shelf as he closed yet another book, placing it into the pile that was starting to become taller than he was.

“Liiikkke-whhhe?” Like what? The serpent asked, watching as the boy grabbed another copy that he placed in his lap.

“I don’t know. Maybe like, telling me the title of the myth? Or maybe the title of the tome, that would’ve been helpful…”

Atreus’s voice trailed off as he looked down at the words before him, finger tracing over the title again, just to be sure that he had read the foreign language correctly.

The Labyrinth and the Minotaur .

Strange, Nonguc didn’t mention any ‘minotaur,’ whatever those things were. But this was the first sign that he was creating some sort of progress, and so he took it. Trying to read through the text both as quickly and thoroughly as possible, he couldn’t stop the smile that grew on his face at the hope of finally finding an answer to the dragon’s fortune, his feet tapping in exhilaration.

He also couldn’t stop the uncomfortable blush that grew as he discovered just what a minotaur was.

Suddenly he felt a long coil of scales slither across his shoulders as Ymaru tried to see just what was causing this strange shift of emotions from the little Jotunn. Fenrir had grown curious as well, trotting over from his pile of slobbered books to see what all the excitement was.

“Whhhe haaaaaa-tuuuuu fooouuu ?” What have you found?

Atreus responded by pulling the book away from the two so they couldn’t see what it was, saying that it was nothing for them to be worried about. Of course the two beings did not believe him, but nevertheless they left him to interpret the text on his own, sitting and conversing with one another without any words spoken between. However their exchange did not last long, cut short when their creator, with a yell of anger that echoed off the marble floor, threw the book as hard as he could, not caring as it smashed into another shelf and created an avalanche of literature to tumble down. A few of them bounced and landed on Fenrir’s paws, and tail the pup yelping in surprise as Ymaru crawled up their brother’s back to avoid the onslaught.

“That was no help at all! What was that supposed to be about, it told me nothing! All it talked about was how the inescapable Labyrinth was solved with a spool of… of damn hair!” He shouted, before falling into a never-ending string of ancient curses on how he had to continue his search. The two creatures looked at each other, unknowing of what to do with their master’s unsuspected burst.

However, they were not the only one that were surprised by the sudden bitter mood as a singular piece of paper, wadded into a ball, bounced against his head and into his lap. Already guessing what the message was, he stretched out the parchment and read the singular message written in the center.

What in the nine realms is wrong with you?

He groaned as he finally turned to see his curse looking straight at him, plain gray eyes squinting in confusion. He held onto his staff with only one hand, the wood covered in smears of blood from reopening blisters, a pain Vidar ignored as he clutched a worn book to his chest.

Funny, Atreus thought reading would be the last thing the deity would try.

“How do you keep finding me?!” He asked, throwing the paper back so the little god could write down his answer. Vidar took out the stick of charcoal he now kept in his boot, and quickly wrote it out before tossing it back, to which Atreus caught perfectly.

He’s had a lot of practice lately.

You’re easy to find. You always get lost in the halls, so they send you to the places Odin wants you to go to. And you’re also very loud.

“So Odin knows where I’ll end up?”

Vidar nodded.

“Well how’d you find all this out?” the boy asked, about to throw the paper back. But the little god quickly raised his hands and pointed at the note once again. Apparently he was getting as good at predicting Atreus’s answers as he was of the other deity.

I asked .

“Of course you did.”

At that they left the rest in silence, the boy moving the books on the floor so his creations could move out of the printed sea. Scratching behind the wolfling’s ears, he tried his best to ignore the sound of paper spheres falling at his feet, or the repetitive noise of wood banging against the floor in a childish attempt to get attention. Many of the papers bounced against his ankles, to which he kicked back as he wondered how Vidar got this much paper in the first place.

His question was answered when, suddenly, a random burst of pain split across his skull as something fell down onto the back of his head with a dull wooden thwomp! Fenrir and Ymaru hissed in defence, both raising to their full height as Atreus once again spouted a number of curses that only he could understand. He turned to glare again at the deity behind him, only to duck as Vidar tried once more to hit him across the head to get his attention.

“Look, I don’t know how! It just happens okay? It is just something I do!”

Again Vidar just shook his head, further fueling the annoyance that the boy felt from his recurring presence. Motioning for his companions to follow, he walked past the other deity, not waiting or caring to see if Vidar followed them.

But the little god wouldn’t allow it, grabbing at the hem of his sleeve and pulling as tightly as he could. Atreus scrambled to find his footing, yanking his hand away from the grip as the other deity tried once again to shove the paper into his hand. But Atreus wouldn’t accept it, retorting to the unwelcome pull with the hardest shove he could muster.

What he didn’t expect was for him to give way so easily, the boy almost falling alongside. Grabbing at the shelves to steady himself, he watched as Vidar landed with a painful thud , his staff rolling away as its owner desperately tried to grab it before it moved too far away. The boy swore he could almost hear a disheartened moan escape the little god, although he highly doubted it. But he couldn’t deny that he saw the look of defeat that creased the corners of Vidar’s features, nor could he stop the thin tendrils of guilt that sunk into his heart as he watched the other deity began to crawl towards the necessary prop. The remaining stump of his leg dragged behind, Vidar’s muscle and memory still trying to walk upon the now non-existent appendage. Each stagger and trip made the coils tighten further, until Atreus couldn’t take it anymore. With a sigh, he held out a hand, eyes darting to the side as the familiar look of confusion bored into him.

“Take it before I change my mind,” he muttered.

Hesitant, the little god took the offered limb, body tense as he was pulled up with a strength unexpected of the boy. Atreus held onto his arm, keeping him balanced on his one leg as he asked Fenrir to bring him the staff, thanking the pup when he handed it back to Vidar.

He just hoped the kid wasn’t easily revolted by dog slobber.

“Look, I can’t show you the… the whatever it is you want to see. So, how about I just… do you a favor. Will that be enough at least?”

Vidar thought about it, staring at his foot and trying not to grimace from the sensation of saliva between his fingers before nodding yes.

Immediately Atreus gave an order to Ymaru, the giants tongue shaking the very floor they stood upon. The serpent, although reluctant, nodded their triangular head and slithered off of their brother’s back, landing on the floor with a grace only known by such a strange creature. However, its gliding elegance was ruined by the sudden lurch of their head, a strange and guttural heave escaping through their teeth along with drops of black venom. The putrid smell of curdled toxins began to permeate the room, and both deities held their nose as they watched a sudden square lump emerge in the base of the snake’s throat. It slowly traveled up the thin body until it eventually reached the back of the creature’s jaw, stretching its triangular head even farther before it finally spat out what it held in the dredges of its stomach.

A journal, the brown leather turned gray as the pages smeared and curled in. There was a puddle of inky venom that it rested in, hissing from the sour acidic taste.

Atreus felt something sharp jab into the side of his ribs, and he turned to see Vidar staring at him with wide and shocked eyes, pointing at the strange spectacle before them.

“It’s so Odin can’t read it. This way I know where it is all the time.” he said, voice muffled by his hand and silenced by the bubbling black fizz.

Trying his best to take no notice of the smell anymore, he picked up the soaked book as carefully as he could, wiping away any poison that pooled on the cover and squeezing out the saturation. The venom began to dry on his fingers, causing them to stick together as he tried to wipe it off on his tunic.

The other deity gagged as the stench suddenly grew worse.

“Yeah, okay, it’s a little disgusting… actually a lot… but it’s better than having Odin steal from me!” The boy retorted, flipping through the pages as quickly as he could before they stuck to each other. Most of the scrawls he had written were now smudged in gray, and he had to squint to try and make his own handwriting legible.

He made a mental note to try and find a more… efficient way of hiding his belongings.

“Okay, how about… this?” He asks, holding up the book for the little god to see the simple little parlor trick written down. Vidar took a minute to read the bloated text, before shaking his head no. Again he turned through the squelching pages, showing the option before it was promptly turned down as well.

“I’m not gonna do this all day, you know. I’ve got things to do,” the boy said, frowning in annoyance.

Vidar raised one brow as if to ask ‘ like what?’

Atreus decided not to answer, turning back to the poisonous journal as he faintly muttered the word klár-rass under his breath.

If only Brok could hear him now, he would probably give him a run for his money. The memory made an unwanted bud of warmth and regret burn in his throat, and he forcefully swallowed it back down before it could grow into something more. He didn’t need memories to get in his way again.

“How about… this?” He asked, holding up the book once again, and was not surprised when Vidar said no to that one as well. He tossed the book behind him, and he could hear Ymaru catch it with a hiss and a swallow.

“Okay, well, what do you want me to show you?”

He waited, and read the answer as soon as he caught it.

How about you stop the pain in my leg?

Atreus smirked. He had a better idea.

Without explanation he leaned down and began to untie the lace wrapped around his shoe. He ignored the questions Ymaru and Vidar flung at him, both figuratively and literally as he took off the article of clothing, as he hopped on one foot to avoid stepping in the acidic venom.

Vidar tapped with the staff. Atreus knew just what he was asking.

“Your timing is great, actually. I just read a few hours ago about a spell that could help you a lot.”

The little god tilted his head.

“Like a lot a lot.”

The boy focused on the shoe in his hand, noticing how there were no scuffs or scratches on the leather, even though he had worn these shoes without stop since he had first received them. He tried to remember the spell, of the strange language it was written in.

“ Είστε-” he began, only to choke at how rough and dry the dialect felt on his tongue. Is this truly what his father spoke in his youth?

“ Είστε… um… Είστε το… Είστε το χαμένο άκρο .”

He could feel the material stiffen underneath his fingers, as if it was made of wood instead of animal. It cracked like bark and snapped like branches, and grew heavier and heavier with each passing second. He had to hold it to his chest before he dropped it into the pool of venom, not yet ready to see the reaction of foreign magic to acidic poison.

“Whhhe dde tuuuuu doroooon?” What have you done? Ymaru asked. The creature let out another hack before it forcefully swallowed the book back down with a loud gulp.

“I think I just grew a foot.” the boy responded, holding it out as if it were a gift. The little god’s brow creased, and Atreus quickly dropped the wooden limb to the ground before the soreness overtook him completely.

“So… what do we do with it now?” he asked the other boy, ignoring the fact that he couldn’t talk back. Vidar took notice, and promptly thwacked the Jotunn on the head before giving a shrug. Both stared at the newly-strange object in front of them, unsure of just what to do with it. Atreus searched through the mound of tomes for the book that gave him the spell in the first place, seeing if it would tell them what to do next. Fortunately it seems that his companions thought ahead of him, for he felt a nudge at his elbow as Fenrir tried to hand him a text. Thanking the pup, he turned through it before finding the same spell, lips turning into a frown as he read the instructions further.

“It says we need to-”

The boy was interrupted by a sudden and loud vacuous sound, as if a door was open to the harsh winds outside, icy air overtaking the encased warmth. He turned around to see more than half of the library has collapsed, with Vidar standing in the center as his looked down in surprise, watching the shoe begin to attach itself to his stumped leg. The laces and leathery-wooden tendrils were intertwining with his clothes and flesh, weaving a pattern to delicate for the naked eye to notice.

Both were silent as the little god tenderly placed weight upon the object, and smiled as he did not collapse to the ground.

“Okay, that works too.” Atreus muttered to Fenrir, who whined back in response.

Vidar continued to play with his new “limb,” jumping up and down in glee as he threw the staff away, uncaring of whatever damage he further caused to the room as the boy tapped him on his shoulder to get his attention.

“Does this mean you’ll leave me alone now?” he asked, uncaring if the smugness in his voice was obvious or not. Vidar nodded, joy still clear in his eyes, before it faded away into an emotion that Atreus did not understand. Looking down at his new limb, the little god held out a book to Atreus, an item that went unnoticed until now. The boy took it in confusion, wondering just what it was for. Resting on top of the leather cover was a note, to which Atreus unfolded and read, expecting it to be some sort of snarky remark from the little deity like always.

In fact it couldn’t be farther.

A gift, to learn about old family relations, brother.

Odin

That was when the little Jotunn noticed the title of the book, a name he had grown familiar with long ago.

The Ghost of Sparta.

Atreus could feel his body tense. He knew full well what this was, memories of Nonguc’s warning coming to the front of his mind. He heard his father’s voice, whispering just behind his thoughts of what he has carried within him for so many years.

“I killed many who were deserving. And many who were not.”

As quickly as he could, Atreus threw the tome as far away from his as he could, hearing it crackle and thud along with so many others.

He didn’t know if he was ready to learn the full story of his father just yet.

Before the child could change his mind, he heard a startled gasp from behind him, one he recognized all too well.

“Hey… Sif.” Atreus said, turning around in guilt to see the golden goddess, looking at the destruction around her in surprise. Vidar joined him as well, holding both of his hands behind his back as if that could hide the damage they caused.

“What happened here?” she asked, voice void of accusation and full of knowing. Vidar answered by pointing at the other boy, who responded by swatting it away with a foreign curse. She raised a singular brow as both boys fidgeted in front of her, then smiled as she leant down to them.

“Well, doesn’t matter. Not our problem in the end.” She whispered, unable to contain the pure and earthly giggle that escaped her apple red lips.

“O...ok.” the demigod said, his own smile forming as the deity tucked a strand of her shining hair behind her ear.

Her hair.

Her… hair.

The mortal Daedelus only escaped Zeus’s wrath by using a spool of thread, made entirely out of strands of the great seductress Aphrodite’s hair.

His smile disappeared as he finally understood Nonguc’s message.

“I came here to let you know that the gods are about to sit at a Valhalla feast, and Odin want both of you to attend. I’ll be there as well, so you don’t have anything to worry about, Loki.” She said, motioning for them to follow her. She grew concerned as the boy didn’t respond and continued to stare, his focus into nothingness only broken when Vidar flicked him on the head.

“Uh, yeah. I’ll join you later, thanks for telling.” Atreus said, quickly running out of the room with his creatures following behind. He reached the door, about to push it open with the unexpected surge of adrenaline running through him, before he ran back and grabbed Vidar’s wrist, pulling him along. He ignored the protests from the little god, only smiling at Sif as she said how proud he was of making a new friend before he closed the door behind them.

Immediately the little god pulled out a piece of paper and the charcoal behind his ear, writing down his question before Atreus swatted stole the paper from his and grabbed at his shirt, pulling him close.

“Hey Vidar, I changed my mind about our deal… Think you can help me with something?”

Chapter Text

In all honesty, Atreus was surprised that Vidar agreed to help at all, after he told him the pure insanity that was his plan.

Well, he wasn’t about to waste this unexpected (and unusual) opportunity, he lost so many already.

Both children had been separated early into the divine dinner, one hoisted onto the shoulder of his thunderous older brother while the other clung desperately to the golden walls of the hall, not wanting to get lost in the crowd of drunken warriors and deities that screamed songs he has never heard before. He would refuse any food or drink offered by the wandering spirits, suspicious of anything the allfather offered to him, even in his absence from the roaring meal.

It would only lead to slipped secrets or something worse shared to the many ears surrounding him. And if there turned out to be nothing hidden within the fare, he will still choose an empty stomach over a fuzzed mind, the one thing he did not need this important night.

Although it proved to be much harder than he thought, his gut screaming by the time that the last of the warriors finally collapsed to the ground, bodies belching ale with every other breath. Ignoring any temptation before him, he left as quickly as he could, assured that Vidar would find him when the time is right. He allowed the hallway to take him wherever it or Odin so wished, pretending to struggle against the magic so that he didn’t appear to follow willingly. Although he wasn’t surprised when he was taken back to his room, knowing full well that it would be awhile before he could enter the library again.

The memory of the wreckage (albeit accidental) made him smile as he opened the door and greeted his companions. Their hellos quickly turned into query as they asked for food from their creator, mood growing sour as he told them he did not have any to give. Despite this sudden bitterness, Atreus tried to explain the plan he had devised, stopping only to scold the two when they complained again of their empty stomachs (though he couldn’t blame them with his own still growling). To give credit, they managed to withhold the sparse information they had received as they sat alongside the boy, waiting to take action. With a few mumbles in a language that he failed to catch, Atreus watched the two creatures conversing as he waited, rolling his eyes when he finally heard a familiar clack on his door. He didn’t even wait before he leapt at the door and opened it with nervous energy, choosing to remain ignorant of Vidar’s wide-eyed surprise.

“You ready?” Atreus asked.

Vidar answered with a stuttering nod.

The boy motioned for his companions to follow, both scrambling to catch up to the two little gods traversing through the enchanted hallway.

Well, Atreus did not. He held tightly on to the wrist of the other child as the spell overtook his mind and blinded his vision, making their walk turn into a guided pull.

You know that your eyes change? Vidar had written, the piece of paper shocking Atreus out of his trance, bewildered yet unsurprised that they have already reached their destination, a large door made of greased iron and oiled hinges, the design perfectly embodying the resident behind it. He had to shake Fenrir and Ymaru out of the same stupor, their dulled eyes glowing back to awareness and surprise.

“Vidar? How do you know how to get through the halls?” The boy asked, scratching behind the ears of the dizzy wolfling. He could see a grin grow on the little god’s face, watching as he wrote another note.

Father taught me .

“How to walk through the halls?”

The scritch scratch of the charcoal pen was loud in the golden halls.

He taught me how to see through the magic. And he only taught me.

Atreus quirked an eyebrow in suspicion.

“Really? Just you? I’ve seen the guards walk through just fine.”

They need either Odin’s blessing or a guide. I need nothing, I alone can see where the halls actually lead .

This intrigued Atreus, made him wonder why the allfather would just impart this knowledge to his youngest son. It didn’t make sense why he would give it to him and not to Thor or Heimdall or any other god that he should trust more than a (not-so-bright) child.

Either way, Odin’s questionable decision ended up benefitting the Jotunn, and he can’t decide if that’s a good or bad thing.

Reaching into the shaft of his boot, the boy tried his best not to cut himself as he slowly pulled out a dagger, checking the point before he dug it into the keyhole. He heard a small knock on the floor, turning his head to see Vidar holding up a note, head tilted as far sideways as his chicken scratch writing.

Where’d you get the knife?

The sentence made him snicker.

“We just came from a feast with warriors that died on the battlefield. One of them was bound to have one in their own boot,” he muttered, trying to listen to the scritch of the knife against the metal mechanism. He would hold his breath, desperate to catch any sound of progress, but it was no help when he heard another stomp behind him, much louder than the last.

“Quiet! You might wake them up!”

It was Vidar’s turn to laugh, or what Atreus had associated as a laugh. If anything it was more like a choke, a thin wheezing sound that cut the air and made the flames quiver on the wall.

It’s fine. Thor’s snoring is so loud that they won’t be able to hear us.

Atreus did not laugh this time.

By the time the demigod had unlocked the door, the knife had bent far to the left, reminding Atreus more of a rib than a weapon. Placing a finger to his lips to remind the three to remain quiet, he slowly pushed the door open, and was almost blown away by the thunderous roar that escaped the confines, rattling his teeth and bones.

And Atreus thought his father snored loudly.

Despite his attempts to be quiet and covert, he ended up falling with every booming inhalation, and shuddering with each earsplitting exhale. He tried to tell the stones underneath their feet to stay still, but even they could not stop the quaking that ran through their earthen forms. With a shrug and a gesture to follow, three of them slowly stepped into the dim room, Ymaru choosing to sit behind in fear of the loud noise, not even daring to answer as its head shook from the force of such noise.

All the two godlings could see was a bed in the center, the wooden posts creaking with each breath. Shelves hidden in the darkened corners bounced up and down in vibration, now barren in fear of losing anything in the ongoing cacophony. Yet what surprised them the most was that out of everything, the only thing to remain still was Sif herself, sleeping peacefully beside her husband as if the world was silent, empty of anyone but her. Despite the limited light leaking through the cracked doorway, the goddess’s golden hair seemed to glow like it was the sun itself, a bright and dazzling shine that memorized the boy. For a short time, he let the hair keep him in a gentle trance, admiring as he gently grabbed some of the silken threads and wrapped it tightly around his quivering wrist.

He didn’t know if the shaking was from fear or the vibrations. Most likely both.

He held the knife in his hand, still bent from picking the lock (why didn’t I grab a spare? he cursed himself). Raising it above his head and brought it down upon the golden locks, unable to hear the thin tear of metal upon silk from the first cut.

But he could hear the sudden and unexpected hiss of vines, see the shining hair quickly lose its glimmer and transform into something coarse and cold. Without hesitation it tightened around his wrist, lifting him into the air like he was nothing more than a rag doll.

Atreus tried to cry out in surprise, but the strange object had moved up his arm to wrap around his neck, choking off any air. He could see in the corner of his eye as Vidar and Fenrir ran up to try and do something, only to be caught by the same verdurian creature. The little god was held upside down and swung around by his newly attached foot, while Fenrir tried to keep the tendrils at bay with its sharp teeth and fiery claws. But even then they overtook the wolfling’s might, wrapping around his stomach and constricting like a snake.

The ruined knife was useless, unable to cut through the creeping plant, but nevertheless he tried, unable to think of any other solution. All spells were silenced with a squeeze, and almost any action was restricted by a grip. It wasn’t long until his knife was taken out of his grip as well, torn out of his hand. He could feel its wedge cut into his palm as it dropped to the ground, but he couldn’t feel the cut as his head slowly grew lighter and lighter.

But as suddenly as the attack begun, he felt the creeping vines quickly and unexpectedly loosen, dropping him down to the floor. He choked, rubbing at his neck and feeling the swollen skin just underneath his chin. He could see many red marks on his skin where he was held and tightened, but they were the least of his concern as his eyes, who have seen things both inexplicable and unknown, tried to understand the unusual sight in front of him.

Ymaru was at the foot of the bed, it’s sleek silver body raised as if to attack. But it was not attacking, it was feeding.

Feeding upon the vines as it tried to attack the long serpent, only to be swallowed further down the venomous maw.

Atreus swore he could hear the vines cry in pain as the venom dripped onto its skin, burning away like acid.

As quick as he could, he grabbed the bent knife from the ground and ran up to Sif, cutting the vines-her hair at the root.

They gave way almost instantly.

As soon as the serpent had swallowed the last of the… hair, Ymaru lay upon the floor, lazy, content and much heavier with its work. Not wasting any time, the boy lifted up as much of his companion’s body as he could, heaving it onto Fenrir’s back. He watched as Vidar grabbed the end of the tail, a small and devious smirk on his lips as he followed the wolfling out of the room.

Atreus didn’t care, only worrying about how much a mess Ymaru will make when it chokes the hair back up.

Chapter Text

Kratos could tell he was getting used to all of these dimensional shifts. The once stretching and nauseating feeling of leaping from one land to another now became only a twinge in his stomach, a minor tear in his muscles that healed within seconds. Yet it was a feeling that he relished in whenever it surged through his body, a sensation that he related to adventure and progress.

For with every leap and every surge between worlds, it meant he was one step closer to finding his son, to freeing him from the clutches of the Aesir. 

He wonders how much time has passed. Will he find Atreus just as he had last seen him, just about to cross the threshold of adolescence. Will he still find wonder in that with each day he grows just a little bit taller, his voice the slightest bit deeper? Or will he be a fully grown adult, all child-like wonder drained away and replaced instead with fear, anger, and senseless obedience? Will his son be replaced instead with a soldier, a new god to evoke fear among mortals?

Kratos did not want to think anymore of it, pushing the thought out of his mind.

Which is just as well, for the ship had suddenly lurched to one side, nearly throwing him and all the other passengers off into the never-ending abyss.

“My apologies! It’s been awhile since I’ve flown her.” Freyr shouted, a hidden smile and wild glint in his eyes suggesting that the tilt was no accident. But the war god decided not to look any further into it, knowing that it was nothing more than a bout of excitement or insanity, both too similar to discern. He only watched as the Vanir god looked up to the sky, the glint quickly replaced with the shining of the otherworldly stars that flew by. Kratos remembered the ones back on Midgard, missing the sensible order and geography that they carried. Now he only saw pure chaos race away, changing color, shape and direction every time he closed his eyes. He could see Sigrun up there as well, flying alongside the ship as its guardian, its protector from any mystical beasts that saw it as an easy meal.

“The roots shouldn’t be that far, only a half-day’s ride. I suggest you rest before we arrive, be ready for what we will face.”

“And what exactly will we face?" Kratos asked, but it was Mimir that answered.

“Oh, nothing yeh can’t handle. Just some guardians, all-powerful deities and a couple hundred potently-venomous snakes that would really like to bite off whatever they can grab.”

“I don’t need your sarcasm.” Kratos sighed.

“Oh, it’s not sarcasm brother. Just hope they try and take off a limb, and nothing else important.”

The Spartan simply thwapped the head on its temple before making his way to the hull, deciding to take the other’s advice. However, he was quickly stopped by a tap on his shoulder, turning to see the little verdurian deity staring up at him, hands behind his back and body tense as his shifting eyes moved one corner to the other.

“Do you mind if I, um, borrow the head?”

The strange question left a wary feeling in Kratos’s gut.

“What do you plan on doing with it is my question.”

“Nothing, certainly nothing. Nothing bad, at least. I just, really, I just want to talk with him.” 

At that Mimir chuckled, swaying side to side in a form of ‘no.’

“Not on yer life! There’s no way that-”

“Make sure not to throw him over, lest you end up like your prized pig.” The Spartan warned, unhooking the disembodied head from his belt and tossing it over. Freyr said nothing, simply smiling as he took the head back to the wheel and held it out in front of him, examining it with one hand as he used the other to steer the ship.

“I swear to the gods above that don’t want me dead, if you put me anywhere near-”

Mimir was quickly cut off as Kratos walked down the steps, trying to stop the smirk that grew on his lips.

But his humor quickly withered when he remembered the promise he made to Freya before they left, having to speak in a language that he did not understand but felt the power within all the same.

“Why must I utter such foreign words?” He asked, still feeling the burning sensation on his tongue after coughing every syllable and choking on every vowel.

“Because, he must never know. Freyr must never know of his relation to Baldur,” Freya whispered. She looked over to see her twin talking with Hela and Baldur, his fingers creating small magical shapes that bloomed and withered with every twitch of his fingers. Her features softened into a look that the Spartan knew well. It was a look Faye often gave when she saw Atreus playing in the snow, when Lysandra saw Calliope wearing a new ribbon in her hair or a new bracelet upon her wrist. A look of someone finding another happy, witnessing family uncover joy in either the mundane or abnormal.

But Kratos could see another emotion hiding within her, a glint in her eye just barely visible if one didn’t try to look.

It was a look of despair and fear.

“You speak of what he can’t.”

“And do I really need to? You remember the brothers well, you heard his speech. Do you really think he could live with the knowledge that his family is now tied to them?”

He decided not to answer.

Kratos was broken from his reverie when he reached the lower hull and found Baldur and Hela, the goddess asleep in his lap as the dead deity ran a pale gray hand through her hair. From temple to end he combed slowly, gently plucking away to undo every tangle without disturbing his mistress. Every now and then his hand would move up to pull the strands that fell into her eyes, thumb brushing against her temple in endearment. Hela herself was peaceful as her skeletal cheek rested against his thigh, her thin bony hand holding onto his ankle. With every passing second, she curled further into his chilled body, a movement that he shifted so she wouldn’t be uncomfortable in her slumber.

If he looked closely enough, Kratos swore he could see a small smile on the Aesir’s pale lips almost hidden away by his beard. It was a simper not of pride or gloat, but of a feeling that brought back memories that he had long locked away in his mind, memories of that emotion he had felt before, only for it to be replaced with a sadness and anger that hurt worse than any wound.

In an attempt to not disturb them, the Spartan turned to around to leave. But, as the fates would have it, his exit was disrupted with the sudden sound of a loud, whining creak beneath his feet. He could feel Baldur’s sharp blue eyes turn to him in response, creating a burning chill down his back.

“Oh, Kratos. My apologies, I did not see you there.”

“I do not mean to disturb you. My apologies.” 

He could hear a chuckle behind him, dry and humorless.

“No worry, you can come and sit with us. You are always welcome.”

Kratos could hear the hidden message in the words, the demand within the invitation. And, deciding to not anger the Aesir prince, he went and sat beside him.

“How long?”

“Only a few hours. We should rest while we can.”

Baldur simply hummed, returning to his task of carding through Hela’s hair. For awhile they remained in the absence of sound, neither willing to break it or ruin the monotony of the moment. But as he felt memories of Faye returning to his mind, how he would run his own ashen fingers through her fiery red locks, how she used to rest her head against his chest and use the powerful thrum of his heart to lull her to sleep, Kratos found that he couldn’t dwell in silence any longer.

“Why her?” he asked.

Baldur answered with a tilt of his head, a crease in his brow. 

“Whatever do you mean?” 

“You understand what I mean. You do not hide your affection well, you show your weakness to the world around you.”

“Strange, coming from the man who took his own son to every perilous venture before him,” Baldur said with a tasteless smile.

Kratos decided not to say anymore, and thus they returned to silence. Many noises made notice to his ears, such as the creak of the ship that was once muffled by the mumblings of Mimir, the swish of stars that were originally quieted by the cutting wind of Sigrun’s wings. Everything echoed back, ringing in his skull with a never ending loop. 

It was both beautiful and terrifying, and Kratos was glad when Baldur finally decided to answer his question, cutting off his senses from the ethereal noises.

“I suppose, if you must know, it is because she is the first woman I’ve truly touched.” He murmured, placing a dead hand on her cheek with an intimacy and tenderness Kratos could never hope to imitate. “It is because of this that I forgive you, why I thank you for snapping my neck those few years ago.” 

“You thank me for killing you?”

Baldur chuckled, a thin and crackly noise to Kratos’s ears.

“Without death, I never would have met her. Besides… I like to think of it more as a wake-up call, if anything else.”

But then his smile disappeared, and the room went cold. Small sheets of ice began to crackle at the corners of the hull, and Kratos could feel his skin steam from the frozen touch of the air.

“I know of her fate, and of mine, yet that does not mean that fate has to stop me from enjoying the few precious seconds we have.”

“What fate? What comes in our future?” The Spartan asked, eager to know of what’s to come. He has beaten fate before, and he shall do it again if it decides to stand in his way.

But Baldur merely shook his head.

“That is not for me to say. Only Hela can tell you, if she wishes. Or her father. He can see just as far as she, if not farther.”

“Just who is her father?”

“Oh, I believe you already know,” he said, the sickly smile returning.

The War God stood up and prepared to pull out one of his weapons, tired of the cryptic communication that has been given to him since the beginning of this crusade. But as soon as his axe left the holster upon his back, the ship suddenly lurched with a thunderous boom. Kratos fought to maintain his balance as Baldur shielded the now-awake Hela with his bilious body.

“What was that?”

It was Hela who spoke, her fragile voice filled with exasperation.

“It is the giants. They make their appearance. Took them long enough.”

Chapter Text

In Asgard, the morning was greeted with thunder.

It awoke Atreus with a jolt, Fenrir with a yelp and Ymaru with a shiver. 

And it didn’t take any of them long to figure out the origin of the sudden and vicious storm.

“Le maaoooo-soo krakooooo-seee taooo-soo hiii-maaaan,” The man of resounding thunder is out of his mind, the serpent hissed, wrapping a scaly body around their master’s leg. Fenrir whined in agreement.

Atreus said nothing as he pushed the serpentine creature off of his body and ran out of his room, ignoring the stares of the guards or the cries of his companions as they tried to keep up with their master.

He didn’t have to worry about them getting lost, anyway. They could read the halls better than he ever will, they’ll find their path.

But it seemed that on this day, no magic seemed to hinder him as he ran as fast as he could. To where? To the thunder.

And it seems he wasn’t the only one heading that way. Many other gods and smaller deities were running past him, far too occupied with the storm brewing ahead for them to pay any form of attention to the half-Jotunn as they all flocked around an open door ahead. Too many tried to enter the framed space all at once, an action that the boy would have found humorous if he wasn’t so unnerved by the sound of lightning that billowed out of it, the vocal force strong enough to throw back a few of the scrambling immortals. 

And it seems he wasn’t the only one watching this strange procedure, as he felt a tap on his shoulder that was meant to be gentle, but ended up pushing Atreus forward nonetheless. He turned around to see Vidar standing behind him, hand still raised and ignorant of the displeasing looks the wolf and serpent sent his way.

“Vidar, what’re you doing here?”

The mute god, like always, pulled out charcoal and paper, and wrote down his answer.

‘Could say the same for you. I don’t know what’s going on. They won’t let me in! What’s going on?!’

Another thunder rumbled the building, once again startling the two children, the two animals, and the dozens of deities. 

“Oh I think you already know.” Atreus murmured, unease lacing his words. He folded the paper and held it out for Vidar to take, only for it to be suddenly yanked away by unnaturally dry hands. He looked up in surprise to see Heimdall holding the smudged note in between his fingers, turning it from one side to another with a simple flick of his wrist. 

“And what is it that he knows, little Jotunn?” the all-seeing god asked, voice thin and raspy as always. He ignored the hiss and growl of the wolf and serpent, but couldn’t stop the small glint of satisfaction from shimmering in his sharp eyes when Vidar seemed to shrink away from his older brother. 

“Not like you don’t already know too,” the boy sneered, trying to snatch the small letter back. He frowned in annoyance when the other deity held it just out of his reach.

“Oh I do. That’s actually why I am heading to the council right now. Everyone else, despite what they say, are just there for the enjoyment of watching it all unfold. Of course, our poor lady has yet to arrive, the final piece of this basic puzzle.”

He leaned down to the boy, his papery thin skin growing in detail with each inch he drew closer. 

“I will say that the allfather is always more forgiving when the culprit confesses.”

“I didn’t do anything.” Atreus lied, hoping his voice didn’t betray the sudden acceleration in his chest.

“Well, that’s a strange thing to say just before what is to come.”

“And what’s to come?”

Heidall leaned down, close enough for the boy to feel his dry breath upon his forehead. It was a closeness that he had experienced once before, but still revolted deep within his mind as he tried not to back away.

“Oh I think you already know.”

He placed the little note back into Atreus’s hand before walking towards the open doorway. All of the other deities have finally made their way inside, however the thunder had only gotten stronger with the many voices that now followed it, as the source’s anger grew more agitated with the new presences. Heimdall paid them no mind, dry hand resting against the golden frame as he looked back to the two children.

“But if you would like to see, then I don’t think anyone would object if I, say, didn’t notice two little nuisances slip right by me as I entered.”

The demigod murmured a few curses under his breath that Heimdall no doubt heard. However he found himself drawn towards the situation, curiosity winning over caution. Vidar was the same, all too eager to see what was happening as he rushed underneath Heimdall’s arm to get inside. Atreus followed suit, comforted by the feeling of Fenrir’s warm breath on his back and the steady hiss of Ymaru gently reverberating in his ears. But that reassurance was quickly dissipated when he stood next to Vidar, feeling hundreds of eyes rest upon his lean figure.

Their presence did not go unnoticed.

“Son, Slægimuðr , what exactly are you two doing here?” Odin asked, whether out of apprehension or confusion Atreus couldn’t tell. The allfather sat on a throne high above the other deities, who all resided in their multi-tiered seating, dozens starting at the basis before thinning out to the select few that occupied the same height as Odin’s feet. Regardless, all were looking down upon him, their golden features highlighted by the thunder and lightning that brewed above them in a never-ending swirl of jagged light and darkening clouds. The cause of this elemental chaos was not sitting, but standing in the center of this council, his muscles coiling with each passing second that nothing happened. 

Ymaru hissed, Fenrir whimpered, and Atreus tried to find the right words.

“We, uhh, heard about what happened, and we want to-”

“It does not matter, allfather. We have everyone you need here, and you have me. We proceed as soon as the victim arrives, who should be entering…” Heimdall trailed off, the gentle sound of silk footsteps on metal floor behind him finishing his sentence.

Atreus could practically feel the attention divert from him and Vidar, and focus instead on the newcomer. He turned around to see who it was, even though he already knew.

Upon all eyes staring down at her, Sif immediately drew a hand up to her golden hair, or rather what remained of it. The longest strands barely reached her chin, while many others clung to her cheeks and the very tips of her ears. The very ends were blackened and singed, visibly curling away from her fingers as if they would attack at any moment, fearing that they would be burned even further.

Atreus could feel guilt lodge itself into his stomach.

“Loki? And Vidar too? Whatever are you two doing here?” Sif asked, voice gentle as always. No answer was given as the thunder above went from rumbling to roaring at the sight of the disheveled goddess. Wind whipped around the room, urgently pulling at Sif. She didn’t resist the pull, if anything she embraced the sharp current as it pulled her to the side of her husband. He took her hand in his own, his giant callused thumb rubbing circles of sorrow and comfort into her delicate skin. The storm had calmed down, a simple tumble in the sky as thunder and earth looked at each other with nothing but love and remorse.

It was an odd, yet endearing sight to behold.

“Well, it seems like everyone is here now.” The allfather murmured, blood red eye not leaving the small group below as he lifted a hand and pointed.

“Loki, Vidar, you may sit there if you want to join in this.” His voice still gave no emotion.

The two obliged, not wanting to cause any more of a scene. Not that they could’ve, as all eyes were now glaring at Sif, who hissed once she finally managed to touch the burned strands.

The guilt wedged itself even further. 

“Now that we have no more distractions, please, Heimdall.” 

The gatekeeper, with a flourish of his dried and withered hands, he bowed to everyone in the room and began.

“Friends. As you can already guess, as you already know, something terrible has happene-”

“Enough! I do not need nor care for your speeches, goat! I care only for what you saw! Tell me now!” Thor roared at the watchman, the thunder growing back into its angered intensity. A few streaks of lightning flashed within the gray vapor, desperate to reach the floor and sear anything it touches. 

But Heimdall wasn’t afraid, unfocused on the jagged lines of white. Instead his amber eyes were staring at the small jotunn, chapped lips twisting into a small smile as he glanced down at the serpent.

Atreus could feel his heart stop in his chest.

He wouldn’t dare.

“No need to shout at me, Thor. I know the culprit, and you might want to save all of that resentment for them. Nothing fuels the hammer more than anger’s swing, after all.”

A taunt, a prediction for what will happen. Ymaru’s head flattened underneath a hammer as bone snapped and matter fried under the lightning-

“Of course I don’t think you’ll need your hammer. Maybe just a boot to the skull. Wouldn’t take that much force either way. For all we know you could just-”

“It was me!” Atreus shouted. He jumped from his seat, startling Fenrir and Ymaru from their position. He could feel every single pair of eyes draw back to him, including the eyes of his bewildered companions. There was a tug at the wrist of his sleeve, and he turned to see Vidar looking with a mixture of desperation and warning, which the little jotunn quickly waved away.

Odin only sighed and looked down in annoyance.

“Loki, we don’t particularly care for your attempts at making mischief. Now is not-” the allfather began, only to be interrupted by the sound of the demigod’s fist as he slammed it against the table.

“It was me! I cut Sif’s hair, late in the night! I used a knife I stole from one of the Valhallan warriors! I-”

He never had a chance to finish. A lightning bolt screeched through the air, and Thor suddenly stood in front of Atreus. His blood red eyes were sparking with a rage the boy recognized all too well in an all too different pair of eyes.

And with old memories of crushed draugr skulls and the sounds of unbreakable bones being crushed underneath a fist encased in flame, he pulled away from the table and curled his arms around his stomach in a meagre attempt to make himself smaller.

“YOU!” 

The one accusatory word blasted through his skull, his eardrums popped, and Atreus could swear he felt blood begin to creep down the sides of his face.

“YOU CUT MY WIFE’S HAIR!”

His skin was beginning to tingle from the building electricity, hair standing on end.

“HOW DARE YOU!”

In the corner of his eye, he saw a glint of silver and electric blue as Thor raised his hammer above his head.

He ran as fast as he could, pushing any Aesir out of his way in a desperate attempt to put as much distance between him and the impending attack. But no amount of distance could stop the force of the electric swing, sending him flying across the room. Atreus curled in his body, shielding his head from the hard metal floor as he landed with a painful thud and slide. His body ached and his face tingled from the overflowing electricity, but nevertheless he stood up and began to run again, to the door. A fruitless attempt as the ground shook from Thor’s enraged footsteps, closer and closer by the second. The wolf Fenrir jumped in the way of the rampaging Odinson, froth dripping from his lips in need to protect his creator. But the canine was kicked away as nothing but a mere nuisance, colliding with the wall in a yelp of pain. 

“ Fenrir!” the boy shouted, but all he could do was watch Thor step closer, his hulking figure shadowing the child in a combination of rage and thunder. With a heavy swipe he grabbed the demigod by the scruff of his tunic and hauled him into the air. He kicked the air to try and loosen the grip on his clothing, but the thunder god’s hand only tightened in response. 

“YOU JOTUNN SWINE!”

Blood began to pool and spill from Atreus’s ears, the explosive voice rupturing his entire body with every syllable. He clawed at the hand that held his clothing, but to no avail. All he could do was watch as the hammer was lifted to his face, galvanic tendrils leaping from metal to cheek. 

“THIS IS FOR-”

Thor’s rumbling words were cut short as a long streak of kaleidoscopic silver and blue wrapped around the god’s hand, liquid black sinking into the exposed skin and muscle as his hand spasmed in pain from the potent toxins injected into his blood. Mjolnir fell to the ground with a metallic thud, and with a shout Thor released his grip on the boy’s tunic, hand wrapping around Ymaru’s neck and pulling him off. There was a loud sound of shredding flesh as the serpent’s fangs tore from its mouth.

The scream that came from the small creature was far louder than any thunderclap Atreus has heard.

But no one said anything. Not one single deity acknowledged the blood-curdling shriek they had just perceived, all looking on as the thunder quieted back to a rumble, Thor’s anger receding back into the simmering hatred the council had begun with.

“Stupid animal. I might as well crush in its skull,” he mumbled, turning the bleeding serpent left and right in his grasp.

“Don’t you dare hurt him!” Atreus shouted in response. He could feel the now-familiar flicker of rage begin to unlock deep within his chest, fueling his sight with red and his blood with fire as he ran up to the god’s side. He clawed at his side, feeling the metal plating begin to give way, and when the thunder god trapped the child’s hands within his own grip, the boy resorted to kicking instead. He didn’t care the method, he would pick whichever one he had to to save Ymaru. He will even resort to biting if necessary, let the rage sharpen his teeth until they can tear off every finger that encompassed his creation’s head in a hold that could-

Thor tightened his hand, and Atreus heard a loud crack echo in his ears. Pain quickly took place of his rage, an unending sting traveling from his hands all the way to his upper arms.

It was his turn to cry in pain.

The thunder god released Atreus’s hands from his grip, revealing the damage done to the little Jotunn. He cried out again as he fell back to the ground, pulling his crushed appendages to his chest. All of his fingers were bent into strange positions, with the swell of his palms pushed inward. His joins were bleeding from the fragments of bone that have burst free from his skin, sharper than any sword or spear. Each section burned in different intensities, only growing stronger with every involuntary twitch he made.

He could hear Ymaru hiss in anger, gumlessly cursing at the thunder god in the Giant’s tongue through a mouthful of blood and venom. Thor paid it no mind, as he crouched down to better look at the boy’s pained expression. He did not say anything as he held out his hand, and Mjolnir flew into his awaiting palm. But before he could even lift the hammer over his head and bring it down upon the boy’s head, a sudden presence loomed over the two deities. A void that stole everything around them, everything but the pain. With great effort, Atreus peeled his gaze away from his ruined hands and to the emptiness that stood behind him.

“Thor, it would be wise for you to stop.” Odin advised, his voice as desolate as the air around them. His one red eye glared at the thunder god, withered hand tightening around his staff in preparation for his son’s disobedience.

But the thunder god said nothing, only standing back up with a sigh. He tossed the writhing serpent onto the floor next to the boy, before walking to the door and stepping outside.

The door made no noise, drowned out by the thunder that followed him. However the absent clouds were quickly replaced by shouts and whispers as the people’s gossip grew in volume, trying to make sense of what they just witnessed. Some of them even began to run back and forth, trying to catch every single piece of speech that flew between their lips. But Atreus couldn’t discern any of what they were saying. He couldn’t hear anything at all. Not the troubled mumbles of Ymaru, or the whimpers of Fenrir as he limped towards his master and lay beside him.

All he could hear were his own cries of jagged pain.

Chapter Text

Fenrir and Ymaru could only watch as their creator awoke once again to pain and tears. 

No matter how much they tried to express their affection through gentle touch and sympathetic words, they only amounted to nothing as Loki held his shattered hands to his chest and tried once again not to cry.

He always failed.

Fenrir licked away as many of the tears it could take, until the salty flavor overtook his senses and he recoiled in sorrowed disgust. Ymaru could only talk, try and encourage their master in the language of the Jotunn. But they eventually ran out of words, or the writhing hair trapped in their gut would cut them short with a churn and sudden expulsion of acidic bile. It was not long before the room filled itself with the melted odor, not that Loki, or anyone cared for that matter. No one came near the demigod’s room anymore, for reasons beyond the wolf and the serpent. In the end they did not care, their false concern wouldn’t help their creator. They only made trouble in the first place. Many just stood and watched to, according to what Fenrir could understand, ‘witness the bewitchings of the Giant.’

These statements only confused the two creatures. What possible bewitchments could their creator make that these deities did not already birth with their gossip? And what do they mean by ‘Giant’ as well? It was a word they heard often, but did not understand its significance to them or their-

The two animals were broken from their bickering by another cry of pain, and they rushed to their parent’s side. He had shifted in his sleep, and awoke from the bursting pain. 

Fenrir licked away the tears, Ymaru talked away the minutes. Together they stayed with their master until he had fallen back into an uneasy sleep. The relief would be short lived, they knew he would wake up again, sooner than expected.

And it was with this knowledge, that the two beasts decided to enact their plan.

With a whisper of good fortune to Loki and each other, they snuck out of the room, and made their way to their destination.

If no one was willing to help their creator, then they shall make one themselves.

The shining gold in the walls made it difficult to discern time. It was bright, blinding even. They could only tell it was night by the sounds of everyone’s breathing, a hypnotic rhythm that lulled away at Fenrir’s mind and awareness. Ymaru simply ignored it, unable to hear anything beyond the deep tongue. Even so it blurred the pathway for the wolfling, and too many times he had almost fallen upon his sibling in a drowsy stumble. Ymaru would cry out whenever Fenrir  almost gave in to the strange spell that was taking place. Eventually they resorted to nudging the wolf along, using their head as a ram to knock against their brother’s body. It left them seeing stars every time, to the point that when they finally reached their destination, it was Ymaru who rammed themselves against the door. Fenrir snickered, a sound between a snort and a whine that left the serpent bristling in embarrassment. 

The moment of levity was cut short when the two realized the door Ymaru had run into, the one thing that separated them from their goal, would not budge. 

The paper room was locked? But how? Whenever they arrived with their creator, it would swing away without a care. Now, no matter how hard either beast slammed their bodies against the rotting wood, it did not budge, or even shake upon the impact. 

“Eparuuuuu…” open, the serpent whispered to the door. The entry responded with a sharp ethereal glow, a sign of a spell. It was an old chant, held together by a powerful tongue.

Ymaru recognized the tone of the caster.

They began to keen, believing that their trip without their master was all in vain, that Loki was now awake again, in pain and in fear of where his creations were. Maybe he would try and follow them, and only end up in a worse situation because of them? If he were caught, would something else be broken this time? His feet, the entirety of his legs? Or would they sew his mouth back shut and-

The serpent was broken from his thoughts by the sound of a deep, guttural growl, and turned to see Fenrir, dark fur bristled and eyes shifting with anger. He lunged at the door, and broke clean through, whatever hex unable to block the deep red fiery rage that had encased the creature.

Not even magic could withstand the flame of an angered wolf.

Knowing that the noise and breaking of the spell will inevitably attract attention, the two rushed into the paper room, avoiding the destruction their creator and the silent boy had left behind. They flinched whenever they stepped on paper, knowing they were leaving an incriminating trail behind as they ran to the epicenter.

To the breathing clay.

The basin sat ahead, undisturbed. The mist its icy porcelain emitted burned both of them as they drew closer, staring at the strange content swirling inside. 

Fenrir barked a victory, but Ymaru quickly shushed him as they wound their body up the crown, placing their head to the side of the bowl and pushing up. However, they found themself unable to tip the magic artefact, too heavy for the serpent. The pup decided to help, lifting his paw to push it further. But all he succeeded in doing was sending it flying, crashing to the floor and breaking into shards.  

That could work as well.

Ymaru quickly slithered around the puddle of clay and water, trapping as much of the solution with their body before any more could seep away. Fenrir stood by his sibling, ready for the next part of their plan. The serpent nodded yes, and both beasts finally began their chant. They did not fully comprehend what they were saying, only placing faith in the words Loki whispered in his sleep, talking of things and days they could never hope to understand. 

The clay began to bubble, and the two grew hopeful. They watched as it built into a mound in front of them, twisting and shifting to make a shape they recognized as human. Albeit, it was a lot… smaller than what they expected. Nonetheless they continued their supposed spell, reciting whenever they had forgotten one of the verses or had run out of breath completely. They knew it was complete when the small human’s arms, held high above its head, had fallen down to the floor, limp like a doll’s.

It was a girl, they could see. An abnormally pale and thin girl. Where fat should have rested on her cheeks and legs, instead lay a sunken, hollow appearance. Her hands and feet appeared shriveled, wrinkled, and not at all like a human’s hands. Short curls of red were plastered to her head, soaked into a dark rusty color by the frozen water. 

If it were not for the rise and fall of her frail chest, the two beasts would think she was dead.

Fenrir stepped forward and nuzzled the soft stomach of the child. He leapt back, yelping and howling in surprise. The flesh was cold, corpse cold. The little human shifted, awakened by the noise, and Ymaru dared to shift closer to the being of ice. The serpent could see a small bed of the frozen water beneath their… sister, like the shard of the artefact had collected and transformed itself into a cradle, desperate to hold the child.

Was it the remnants of the creator, wanting to protect the girl and comfort her before they took her away?

The little human slowly opened her eyes, and Ymaru leaned back in suspicion. They were a sharp, unnatural green, giving off a stare that implied far too much wisdom for a being so small. Still, Ymaru felt the need to try and present itself to the smaller creature. They smiled, showing off their rows of teeth and the blackened tongue sliding between the disorganized fangs.

She began to wail.

oooOOOooo

The day was starting to rise when the two beasts found the courage to move their sister. 

Wrapping their body around the little human, Ymaru gently lifted her onto the back of a lying Fenrir. They draped a found cloth over her, knowing she did not have any other form of protection like Ymaru’s scales or Fenrir’s fur. Her head rested unbothered between the wolfling’s shoulders, strange eyes flicking back and forth as her brother struggled to stand.

Since her creation, the little human’s body had grown. Where her limbs were once so small they could fit in Fenrir’s mouth, now dragged across the floor as her two brothers made their way back to their creator and home. Her hair had grown from their sparse curls into a fiery red tangle that tickled at the serpent’s nose and reminded them of their creator. Her body was becoming more like the deities of this world, and Ymaru hoped she wouldn’t begin to think like them either. 

The girl slowly lifted her hands from the floor and crossed them under her head, continuing to stare at the serpent travelling alongside her. She has not said anything yet, only nodding along whenever they conversed with her in their respective tongues. They wondered if she could even speak at all.

They discovered she could walk once they reached their home, the girl pushing herself off her brother’s back and stumbling into some mimicry of a stance. Slowly, she stepped forward and pushed the door open, supernatural eyes absorbing the disarrayed sight. The smell of dried blood and bile did not seem to bother her as she continued forwards, pulling the cloth tightly around her body. 

Their creator remained undisturbed, his breath shallow as his hands bled into the sheets. The new crimson color reignited within the dried burgundy, creating a sick and violent canvas.

The girl took one look at Loki, then turned to look at her brothers, silently asking for help as she grabbed at the sheets of the bed. Despite her unnatural growth, she was still too small to pull herself up. Ymaru lowered a section of his body and created a step for the little human, lifting her up into the bed and next to the sleeping deity. She gently took their creator’s hands into her own, lifting them to her face where she began to mutter a prayer into her enclosed grip. The two beasts felt a shiver run through their bodies upon hearing the girl speak for the first time. Her voice, thin as it was, carried a strength unlike any other. Little did they know of the language she spoke in, whispering secrets and spells the sleeping figure. It was the ancient tongue of creatures far older than they ever will be. They were the words of monsters that rest in the shadows of Ginnungagap, of gods long past that wait not for Ragnarok, but for the final day of all things. The day when Yggdrasil would not shatter, not split or catch fire, but disappear, with all worlds turning into dust.

The two beasts hid away as her chants began to cease, her voice slurring and drooping with sleep. They watched as she lay down next to their creator, wrapping her cloth around his body and giving him a name they could not understand.

What exactly is a ‘father?’

Chapter Text

So... It's been awhile, haha

Long enough for the sequel to finally come out, for the entirety of 2020 to happen, and for me to almost be done with college.

I still very much want to finish this. I've had it all planned out and everything for so long. But my family got hit very hard with Covid. I've nearly died due to the whole fiasco, and I've lost a lot of people I've cared about both because of covid and other political reasons. I've been stuck in a deep downward spiral for a long time. It is only recently, with one semester left of college and finally moving on from said losses and finally being reunited with family I thought lost that I finally feel better both physically and mentally.

So I want to come back to this.

But here's another thing: I've learned a lot about writing, and looking back on this makes me kinda want to change it up.

So how would you all feel about me re-writing the series?

Nothing about the plot would change, I would just fix a lot of the prose to be more cohesive and similar to my current style.

It will take awhile, but it will also help keep this fic in mind so that when I finish rewriting it, which will take next semester, I will have graduated college and therefore will have significantly more time to actually continue. Even with the sequel now out, I still want to try and finish this in the way I imagined it.

So what do you think?

I'm hoping to start this week on the rewrite process. Would you guys prefer that I update this fic with the rewrite, or start a completely new work on this site?

Chapter Text

Thank you all so much for your feedback! I have already started the rewriting process, and hope to start updating next year! It may take a little bit longer to update as my roommate really wants to edit and help me along, and I greatly appreciate the help from her. I may also take the opportunity to add additional chapters that were originally cut, side missions to further explore the nine realms and how I imagined them. It'll just introduce more of Atreus and some of the gods interacting.

If you guys are interested in additional chapters, whether they be added back where intended, or just placed in a separate fic entirely, let me know!

You will hear from me again soon!