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Chapter Text

Atreus doesn't know how long he has been in his captor’s grasp before he woke from unconsciousness, but he knows it's been long enough already. He groans, sitting up from the hard ground his captors has left him. He lifts a hand to his aching head, noticing the iron shackle around his wrist. Normally, if held like this- which was one other time, his father doesn't much like him being in the enemy’s hands- he would use his magic to make them unlock. However, upon further observation, he curses silently when he sees glowing runes etched into the metal. So they must block his magic and keep him from using it.

He sighs heavily and looks around where he is currently; what appears to be old ruins, it would seem like. He's on the edge of a large, circular stone, huge rocks stacked around the circumference in different patterns. Nearby, he can see what looks like tents and a campfire. And, sitting around the fire, are a group of dwarves.

Ah. So he was captured by dwarves of all creatures. Father would not be amused. He's not amused.

They don't seem to have noticed he's awoken, yet, though. He could try to find a way to escape while they haven't noticed.

He reaches under the sleeve of his armor, thanking whatever god is listening- probably his father, then- that they hadn't patted him down. He finds the lockpick hidden underneath his wrist and pulls it out, setting to work on freeing himself. When the shackle clicks off, he lightly sets it on the ground beside him and slowly stands, glancing towards the dwarves.

And stops when he sees that they're no longer there.

He's just thinking of how terrible a fool he was when one randomly appears beside him. “Well, boys, would you lookie here,” the dwarf snickers, moving so fast Atreus can hardly see him. He ends up getting a fist slammed into his gut. He wretches and is then pushed to the ground as another of the dwarves kicks his backside.

“The little bastard is awake!” another of the dwarves exclaims, licking Atreus square in the face. He falls to his side, rolling just as another dwarf appears out of nowhere, landing where his head had just been.

“Woah!” Atreus exclaims, hopping to his feet, backing up until he hits one of the boulders surrounding the circle. He pants, looking from dwarf to dwarf as they slowly approach him, each holding a look of ill intent in their eye. Maybe he could somehow get out of this. Dwarves weren't exactly the brightest of creatures, after all. “What is going on? Why did you kidnap me?”

“Don't act stupid, bastard,” the first dwarf said. He was the tallest of the three with a set of golden armor similar to Sindri’s- though, of course, it doesn't have the same attention to detail. “We know who you are.”

“And we know what you will do,” says another, the shortest of the bunch. His armor is ragged cut fur, covering most of his body.

“And we know how to stop you from doing it,” the lay dwarf finishes and Atreus can now see how similar they look. Brothers, perhaps?

“I honestly don't know what you're talking about,” Atreus says, hoping he sounds confused enough about the situation to their thick skulls. “You must have the wrong person.”

The dwarves pause and look from one another. Good. His words are working so far. Maybe he could push a little more. “I promise I'm just some random mortal Midgardian who was out hunting with his Midgardian Father when you attacked us.”

They begin to mutter to one another. Atreus begins to slowly inch along the face of the boulder, thinking that he could possibly slip away. “And look, I’ll even leave, free of charge,” he said. And then he's darting around the boulder, sprinting down the side of a hill the ruins are situated on. He wobbled forwards and back to keep his balance as he hurries down the steep hillside, nearly losing his footing once or twice.

“Get him!” one of the dwarves shouts from behind and he knows they're chasing him now.

Atreus clears his throat and gathers his magic back to him, yelling out the words of a tracking spell. One that his father knows as well, and that will tell his father where he is currently. “Jag är här!” his voice booms from his mouth, echoing loudly around him and soaring through the sky. In the direction of his father. He sets off that way, hoping to try and at least meet him halfway.

But then the tallest dwarf appears in front of him, punching him in the face before he could stop. He stumbles backwards, nearly falling again because of his body’s continued inertia and he grabs at his throbbing nose, sure that it was broken as blood trickles from it.

“And where do you think you're goin?” the dwarf demands, grabbing a handful of his hair and yanking his head towards his face. Damn. A dwarf is still taller than him. He really needs to have his growth spurt already. “We ain't finished with you yet.”

“Yes, well, I could hardly breathe around you three,” Atreus snarks, unable to help himself. It's his last line of defense. “You stink worse than the World Serpent’s breath.”

The dwarf growls, slamming his fist back into Atreus’s face. Atreus sputters and throws a blind kick, hitting the dwarf in the shin. He tumbled back a few steps, drawing in another deep breath, readying himself for another spell. “Jeg opfordrer-!”

But a fist connects with the back of his head before he could finish the incantation. He bites down on his tongue, tasting even more blood just as a knee slams into his stomach. He ends up coughing, splattering the blood on the ground that was suddenly very close to him.

“We’re gonna need to do somethin about that tongue of his, aren't we?” one dwarf asks of the other two. They all snicker.

“I have just the idea, brother,” a second agrees and ah, Atreus had been right. They are brothers. He looks up, vision blurry just in time to see the dwarf reach into a sack hanging from his hip not unsimilar to Sindri’s, pulling out a clump of long, golden string. Atreus’s stomach turns when a needle is pulled out afterwards. He doesn't know what they're planning, but he knows whatever it is, it's not going to turn out good for him.

“Clever, brother,” the third dwarf remarks, taking the needle and thread from much thicker hands into his more nimble fingers. Atreus’s eyes widen as they look towards him, malice in their eyes. “To shut the bastard up, we just have to sew his lips together, after all.”

Atreus’s heart stops and he kicks at the ground, scrambling to get away from them just as the two larger dwarves dive at the ground, grabbing him by the armpits and forcing him back. He kicks and thrashes, pulling at his arms and struggling best he can to get away because oh gods they're actually going to do it. “No no no-!” he screams, drawing in another breath, a quick spell coming to mind, “Pola poltta-!”

But a hand slaps over his mouth and then his head is getting slammed into the ground. He chokes on a cry, not willing to give them the satisfaction as the dwarf with the needle bends down. “Keep the bastard still,” he said, threading the golden string through the needle. “This may take a while.”

The dwarves then situate him to where his stomach is pressed to the ground, the tallest dwarf digging a knee into his spine, holding his arms by his wrists, while the other is holding a handful of his hair, one hand gripping his chin in a vice grip. Atreus tugs at his head, trying to yank it back but the dwarves hold firm and he can only kick his legs- not that it does much for him. He kicks and thrashes best he can just as the third dwarf crouches in front of him, raising the needle towards his face.

“This ought to silence your silver tongue, Loki,” the dwarf spits his mother’s given name out like it were poison. And then he's pressing the tip of the needle through Atreus’s skin where his lip begins. The boy’s entire body jolts as the metal needle slips through skin and lip, through the bottom and lip and through the top where the dwarf pulls it through fully, dragging the string after it. Atreus’s head snaps, trying to jolt backwards, but the dwarves hold firm, even as his body instinctively thrashes.

“Stop stop stop stop-!” Atreus screams but the dwarf holding his head forces his mouth closed by grabbing both of his cheeks, applying enough pressure to keep his jaws shut. He continues trying to thrash, trying to fight as the needle is now forced through his top lip. He can feel the cool metal needle sliding through his flesh and skin, can feel the golden thread dragging after it, pulling his top lip towards his bottom. He now willingly keeps his mouth shut as they pull the needle through for the fifth time- the thick string is forcing his lips to stay together, yes, but it is also too blindingly painful for Atreus to try and open them again. This would cause the string to pull on the new wounds in his skin.

Blood seeps down his chin and drips to the ground beneath him and what feels like an eternity of agonizingly slow minutes to Atreus sluggishly pass. The dwarf dragging the needle and thread through Atreus’s lips is nearing the other corner of his lip. The other two dwarves have slackened their grips, having found the boy limp and unresistant now as the pain completely set throughout his entire body. In fact, if it weren't for the dwarf holding his head up, Atreus probably would have already pressed his head into the ground. Smashed it in, too, probably.

And finally, finally, the dwarf pulls the string through the opposite corner of where he had started. He removes what's left of the thread from the needle, tucking on it a little- Atreus flinches and groans softly- to make sure it was in good. Satisfied with his work, he ties the two ends into knots. Then, he shakes his blood covered hands and smirks at his brothers.

“Finished,” he announces, standing straight up. “I feel like he won't be causing anyone else any trouble for a long time, brothers. What do you two think?”

The large dwarf removes his knee from Atreus’s back but still the boy does not move. He hovers in front of the boy, scrunching his eyes to examine his brother’s work. “You sewed pretty crooked there, brother,” he points out, touching the middle of Atreus’s top lip, a dark amusement in his eyes as the boy whimpers in pain. “Perhaps we should redo it?”

Atreus whimpers more at the thought of going through that utter hell once more, finally letting the tears he'd been holding back up to that point run free. He just wants to go home. To wake up from a nightmare.

He just wants his father.

“No, no, brother,” the third interjects, letting Atreus’s head drop to the ground as he stands as well. “We wouldn't want to waste our precious string on this vile silver tongue, now would we?”

“Right you are, brother,” the first agrees. “Shall we be off then?”

“Well, it seems our work here is done, so let's,” the second said.

And then, thankfully, the dwarves leave.

Atreus curls in on himself, tears flowing quicker as he begins to hyperventilate. His body instinctively tries to open his mouth to draw in the quick breaths of air that it needs, only for the strings to tear and more blood to gush out and for more pain to explode throughout his body. He sobs loudly, body lifting from the ground so that he could tenderly like at his sewn mouth, sobbing more as even this causes more pain.

His young mind could hardly even process how much agony he was in currently. It was just too much and he knows he was going into shock but he couldn't stop it as his back arches, body shaking as it tries to gain the air it so needs.

He ends up thankfully passing out.

At least he can't feel the pain when unconscious.

Chapter Text

When Atreus next peels his eyes open, he was praying to every god in existence- even his father- that what happened before was simply a terrifyingly realistic nightmare. But as he regains consciousness and can still feel each piece of the thread keeping his mouth shut, he knows it wasn't.

He slowly sits up, blinking rapidly to clear his still tear filled vision. He can hardly keep his balance, even when sitting, and his entire world is spinning. His lips and the skin around them are aching, burning, itching, smarting and any other word used to describe pain. He whines very similar to a dog, keeping his head low as he reaches up, feeling the area around his inflaming skin. Dried blood crusts his chin and cheeks, even reaching his neck and chest.

In the back of his mind, he knows he should probably be trying to eat back home. To get up. To do something… but he currently can't think of doing any of that. Instead he crawls to a nearby pond, looking into it so he could see the damage the stitches have caused.

He would have screamed if he could.

To actually see the golden string- now coated in blood- zigzagging across his lips, dried blood covering his chin and cheeks, nearly made Atreus pass out again. He also nearly falls over as a dizzy spell hits him, but he catches himself with a steadying hand. He groans, head dipping forward as he leans towards the water, realizing how thirsty he actually is.

But he stops midbend. How is he to drink the water now?

He throws his head back, another scream tearing at his throat that could not escape due to his sewn lips. He pushes away from the water quickly, no longer wanting to see his horrors reflection. He ends up sprawled out on his back, stomach and chest heaving as he pants loudly through his nose.

That's when he hears heavy footsteps.

Atreus scrambles back into a sitting position, widened eyes landing on the source of the noise. Well, what he can see of it, anyway. His vision is still horribly blurry and all he can currently see are bushes and trees. He starts to stand, knowing he should probably try and run from this place. Whatever it was walking this way probably wasn't friendly.

But then… blessedly, his father steps out into the open, axe drawn, steely eyes narrowed.

Atreus is hit with such a wave of relief he falls back to his knees, more tears gushing from his eyes as he can hardly hold them back. As soon as his father sees him, he's rushing forward with the call of his name, “Atreus!”

His father crouches down in front of him, normally inexpressive eyes wide at the sight of his face. Atreus ducks his head in shame, thankful his father is here, but ashamed of himself for letting this happen. If it had been his father in his place, his lips would not have been sewn shut.

“Boy…” his father’s voice is much softer than he's heard in a while and then one of his larger hands is cupping he bottom of his chin. Atreus’s eyes widen and his body jolts as one of his fingers brushes his sewn lips, head snapping back. There's a pause and Atreus peers up at Kratos through his lashes, not missing how much concern is in his father’s eyes. He's trying again. “Let me see, boy.”

Atreus forces himself to stay still this time as Kratos carefully cups his chin, gently angling his head back. And as his face is revealed to his father, the boy avoids eye contact as soon as he saw the look of disgust pass through those amber eyes. Disgust at what, Atreus isn't sure.

“They…” his father’s voice is low, tight as he stares at Atreus’s sewn lips. He doesn't seem to know why to say.

And even though he knows he shouldn't, Atreus forces himself to speak, the strings pulling at his lips as he speaks. He needs his father to know. “I-Imm ‘orry, ‘ather,” he sputters, hardly able to speak at all. Fresh blood begins to drip from the golden strings and Atreus’s eyes scrunch up at the pain. “I- tried to- ‘top them!” He then ducks his head again as best he can with his father still holding his chin and stops talking altogether, the pain becoming too much for him to bear.

“Boy…” his father repeats, even softer than before. But then he seems to shake himself and makes Atreus look up once more, his eyes much more stern than before. “Do not blame yourself for this, Atreus.” And then he's pressing their foreheads together, causing Atreus’s breath to catch. “I will tear whoever did this to you apart.” His father’s voice was a low growl that sent shivers down even Atreus’s spine.

Atreus can't stop the sob from breaking through his sewn lips, can't stop the tears from leaking faster. And before he can stop himself, he's crawling further into his father’s arms, pressing his forehead to the much larger man’s shoulder. It takes a second, but he can feel his father’s thick arms enclose around him, protectively holding him close.

Kratos leads Atreus home, keeping a hand on his shoulder the entire way back, as the boy is incredibly unsteady still. Mimir has stayed silent the entire time, opting to instead stare at Atreus’s face, making the boy slightly unconscious, even if the head is his friend. He keeps his chin lowered, eyes to the ground, leaning slightly into his father’s supportive hand as to not fall over. His face is covered in dried tears and blood trails now.

As soon as their home comes into view, Atreus has to choke back another sob. He’s already embarrassed and ashamed of himself for this whole situation. He shouldn’t have let himself be caught, should have escaped somehow and should have prevented the dwarves from doing this to him. He can't cry anymore. His father wouldn't be, after all. So he won't.

“Go sit down,” his father orders gently, holding the door open for him. He walks to his bed, keeping his head lowered as he slowly lowers onto his bed, hugging himself tightly. He bites down on his tongue and digs his nails into the arms of his skin to help alleviate some of the constant pain in his lips. His father doesn't enter for a few minutes, and Atreus can hear loud crashing and thuds past the closed door. He can only imagine what his father is doing currently.

Kratos comes in after a few minutes, removing Mimir from his belt and placing him on the nightstand between the two beds. He's then crouches in front of Atreus once more, tenderly grasping the boy’s chin between two of his large fingers, being careful to avoid touching the tender area around Atreus’s lips. He carefully moves the boy's head side to side to better see the extent of the damage, his lips drawn down further than usual. He then looks the rest of the boy over for any damage.

Atreus keeps his gaze down as his father inspects him, staying silent the entire time.

“Good,” his father says finally and Atreus forces himself to meet his father’s eyes. He can't deny that he can see the deep concern and rage in his father’s eyes. “At least you are not further damaged.”

Atreus would have told him that his nose was probably broken, but he couldn't.

“I'm going to cut the string from you lips,” Kratos informs him gently. Atreus’s eyes widen and pulls his head back, partly covering his lips from his father’s gaze. He knows they need to cut the thread from his lip, but he's terrified it's going to be agonizing. “We can't leave them there, boy. Or would you rather-” Kratos stops himself. Atreus can tell he's trying to keep calm for Atreus. “It'll make much of the pain go away quickly.”

Atreus slowly turns his face back towards Kratos, his body shaking terribly in anticipation.

“Wait, brother,” Mimir interjects just as Kratos grabs a nearby knife. Kratos looks towards the head and Atreus can see his impatience. “You won't be able to cut that thread so easily.”

“And why not, head,” Atreus’s father demands, his grip tight on the small knife he had grabbed. He notices that it's one of the two he had made on his birthday. His throat clogs at the thought of him using it at all.

“That's Asgardian gold string,” Mimir informs matter of factly, his eyes darting back to Atreus’s face. Atreus groans softly, reaching up towards his lips. But one of his father’s hands stops him from doing so, gently pushing his hands back down. “Not just any blade can cut it. Though I’m not even sure how whoever did this could have had it in the first place. It is incredibly rare, made by only two dwarves I know of.”

That last bit seems to catch Kratos’s attention as his eyes dart from Atreus’s face to the head. “And who are these dwarves?” he demands. Atreus looks the hand holding his down and slowly twines his fingers through his father’s, not missing the surprised look his father throws his way. Though he doesn’t move his hand away. “Perhaps we should pay them a visit.”

“You’re not going to much like the answer, brother,” Mimir said. Atreus looks at him as well now, curious who could make such strong threading that no simple weapon could cut it.

“Head.”

“The brothers Brok and Sindri.”

Atreus’s eyes widen just as Kratos stands, eyes blazing with fury as he pulls his hand from Atreus’s hands. The boy panics, knowing in his heart that neither of the dwarven brothers could have ever known their creation would be used for something like this, especially if it was used on him. He quickly stands, balancing himself as his father punches one of the walls, causing the entire cabin to shake and creak loudly.

Atreus grabs at his father’s hand again as he storms towards the door. Atreus knows that if he were to let his father face the dwarves so angry like this, it probably would not turn out well for them. So, he does his best to ignore the throbbing and burning in his lips, tugging at Kratos’s hand.

But when Kratos pushes him back, he grows angry himself. And annoyed because of the stitches holding his lips together.

Not that he would let that stop him.

“F- father-!” forcing the word out between his sewn lips is one of the most painful and difficult things he’s done and his knees begin to shake. His father stops in his tracks, back tensing. “S- ‘op!” F’s, s’s and t’s are probably the hardest letters to annunciate. More blood flows freely from the many, tiny wounds across his lips and now he knees give out. He pants heavily, his body tending as he can't open his mouth to breath through it. And, when his body does try to do so instinctively, it only causes more pain and panic to course through him.

He can barely register his father turning and kneeling beside him quickly, barely even register a heavy hand gripping his shoulder. “Breathe boy,” his father is instructing. Atreus claws at the air and then his throat, desperately trying to through his nose. “Breathe slowly through your nose, like this.” his father actually breathes in example and Atreus focuses on that, trying his best to copy his breathing. He starts off drawing in shaky breathes, back hunching slightly. Until finally, he's able to mimic his father’s pace, breathing slowly in and out until he's no longer panicking. “That's it.” As soon as Atreus is breathing steadily on his own, his father continues to speak, “Do not fear for the dwarves, boy. I will not hurt them.”

That sends a wave of relief through Atreus. He nods shakily. Whether it's because his father cares for Brok and Sindri, or because he sees them as a sort of necessity to upgrade their armor and weapons, Atreus will take it.

“Now lay down, boy,” his father orders softly, helping him to stand once more and guiding him back to his bed. Atreus climbs onto his bed, not yet wanting to lay down. He's not sure how he would keep from rubbing his lips along the pillow, after all. “Do you want me to tell you a story to help you sleep?”

Atreus does his best to smile, beyond happy his father is being so patient and gentle with him. He needs the comfort currently with his lips aching as much as they are. He slowly and carefully lowers his head onto his pillow, resting its back on the fluffy object. He lays on his back and stares up at his father, waiting for him to begin.

Kratos clears his throat as he sits on his bed near to Atreus, eyes locked on him. Mimir is silent on the nightstand, watching intently.

“In the land where I am from, there once was a god by the name of Ares,” Kratos begins, his voice a low gravel to help lull Atreus to sleep. “He was known as the original God of War, revered and feared by many mortals that he thought himself above…”

Atreus’s eyes slowly drift shut, sending him to blessed sleep, guided by his father’s voice.

Chapter Text

Kratos was pissed.

No, scratch that, he was furious.

When his son had been captured by unknown captors, he had already been growing worried for the boy. But upon finding him in the condition he was, lips sewn shut and blood covering his face, left withering on the ground, the fires of Spartan Rage had so badly wanted to envelop him and he had wanted to tear every rock from every realm to find which bastards did this to his son.

His son.

But when the boy’s eyes burst with tears upon seeing him, Kratos knew that that would have to wait. For now.

It was a beyond terrifying sight to see his own son in such a state, agony filling his normally vibrant blue eyes. He had wanted to scoop the boy off of his feet, to rush him home and cut the damn thread out of his skin instantly, but he knew he had to be slow about this. Knew he had to look over the boy for any other injury first.

And when Atreus apologized for something as terrible as this, that wasn't even his fault in the slightest, Kratos’s heart broke in half. What has gotten the idea of his father being disappointed in him for getting hurt in such a way was beyond Kratos. Sure he's taught the boy to be strong, but when he has been hurt, he's never scolded him or told him off. Maybe for something small like a tiny bruise or scratch, but never for anything like this. He wouldn't have it in him.

So he let Atreus walk on his own, knowing the boy was already ashamed of himself. He kept a hand on his shoulder, though, letting the boy lean into him as much as he needed.

When he's heard it was the two dwarves they knew that made the string, he was blinded by rage. He was going to beat them in brutally, demanding they give him the answers his son currently cannot because his lips are sewn shut. He was going to show them no mercy… until Atreus had pleaded with him, speaking when he shouldn't, not to go.

All of the unprecedented rage had left him quickly.

Now as he stares at his son’s sleeping face, he's relieved to see him much more relaxed with his eyes shut. He stands and grabs a cloth rag from nearby, wetting it and gently dabbing the skin around Atreus’s lips coated with blood. He avoids the inflamed red parts, not wanting to disturb the boy. He then wipes the blood from the boy’s neck, throwing the rag into the flames once he is finished.

Then, he glances to Mimir. “Keep an eye on him, Head,” he orders, his voice a rumble.

“You don't have to tell me twice,” Mimir responds and Kratos thinks he would have nodded if his neck was still attached to the rest of his body.

With some reluctance, Kratos leaves his body to sleep.

He needed to have a word with a couple of dwarves.

~~~

When Kratos arrives at Brok’s shop, the dwarves are doing what they normally do: banging away at melting metal to make new weapons and armor. They look towards him as he enters and Brok steps up to the counter to greet him. But the blue dwarf frowns when he doesn't see Atreus.

“Where's the little turd?” he asked gruffly and Kratos has to draw in a deep breath to not snap. He's here to talk. Not to rampage. Yet.

“Who have you sold Asgardian gold string recently,” Kratos asks, his voice more gruff then Brok’s. The two dwarves seem to stiffen before looking towards one another. Sindri hurries to the counter as well, biting his bottom lip.

“Uh.. How do you know about that?” Sindri asks in his usual stammering voice. But Kratos really doesn't have the patience for this right now.

He slams a fist on the counter, causing both dwarves to jump out of their skin. “That does not matter,” he growls, leaning forward, letting his eyes narrow to a glare. “Who. Did. You. Sell it to.”

Sindri and Brok share another glance. Sindri looks pale and ready to pass out while Brok just looks more pissed than usual. Though, he knows better than to further piss off their best customer, even if they are somewhat friends.

“Last people we sold it to were the…” Brok snaps his fingers as he thinks, grunting loudly. “Weren't it to those three brothers? Alfrigg, Berling and…”

“Dvalin,” Sindri supplies helfpfully.

“Dvalin!” Brok repeats proudly. Then he frowns again, crossing his arms over his chest. “And why'd you need tah be knowing that?”

“How do you cut the string,” Kratos demands of answering. They don't need to know his reasons. They are his, afterall.

Brok growls to himself, walking off as he starts to grumble to himself under his breath. Kratos does catch “annoyin customers demandin shit”. Sindri gives Kratos an apologetic and sheepish grin before he follows after his brother. He can hear them bickering to one another beside the forge and his patience is beginning to wear thin.

“Tell me now, dwarves,” he growls, making sure they can hear him. They look at him, Sindri’s eyes wide and Brok’s eyebrows scrunched. “Or I swear to whatever god you hail that I will rip you limb from limb.”

“It must have something to do with the boy,” Sindri whispers to Brok, his voice tense as he stares wide eyed at Kratos.

“As long as it's not fer the wolf,” Brok mutters back. Then, he bends down, pulling out a tiny chest and opening it. He pulls out a pair of gold and silver scissors, slowly holding them to Kratos. “As soon as yer finished with em bring em here.”

Kratos snatches the scissors from Brok’s hand. “And make sure nobody else uses em,” he grumbles as Kratos storms from the temple, calling, “an’ stay away from that wolf! He ain't nothin good!”

Well it’s good Kratos won’t be dealing with any wolf, then.

Chapter Text

Atreus wakes with a small groan, his lips continuing to sting and ache. And slowly sits up, relieved to find his skin is no longer stiff with dried blood. His father just have cleaned it off at some point. Speaking of his father…

He's about to call out for his father, but this causes the strings to tug on the tiny wounds trying to heal along his lips. He whines quietly, growing annoyed as more fresh blood trickles down his skin that was probably just recently cleaned.

“Ah, good morning, little brother.” said a voice beside him and he jolts, calming when he sees it's just Mimir. “You're probably wondering where your father has gone off to, am I correct?” At Atreus’s nod the head smirks knowingly. “He went to speak to the brother dwarves for information.” When Atreus’s eyes widen the head chuckles. “Don't worry, he was as calm as that man can be.”

Atreus lets out a sigh of relief through his nose, nodding again a little more subtly.

“Hopefully he’ll have whatever can cuts those thick strings,” Mimir said and Atreus nods again. That's all he really can do in response, after all. “You want to know why that string is so strong?” Another nod. The head chuckles again. “Well, little brother, it's because of the World Devourer Fenrir. Ever heard of him?” At the shake of the boy's head Mimir hums. “Most people don't. He's not yet here fully, after all.”

The boy scrunches his eyebrows in confusion. All of this Norse mythology stuff is too confusing for his brain to handle most of the time.

“I know. Odd,” Mimir sympathizes. “But anywho; Fenrir is one of the three giant wolves, though, he is borne of different parents. Two giants, it would seem, conceived the World Devourer- a wolf who never stopped growing. Because of this- and the fact the wolf wouldn't stop eating dwarven kind- Brok and Sindri worked- or will work- with the Aesir god's one final time: to make Asgardian gold string. Now on its own, Asgardian gold is already a very durable metal. But to have it melted down into a string thick and strong enough to hold Fenrir down made it nearly impossible to break. So, the dwarven brothers made the string and Odin- who is said to be killed by this giant wolf- had Thor capture and corner the great beast so they could bind him with the string. It is said as soon as Ragnarok begins, the wolf will be large and strong enough to break his binding and devour Odin in one swallow.”

Atreus’s mouth would have already fallen open if it weren't stitched. His mind is already racing with this new story- or, prophecy. There really was someone- or something- that could kill Odin… He wonders who the wolf's parents are, though. He is kind of curious about that. He's also curious as to how Brok and Sindri would already have the gold string if they hadn't even made it yet. His brain started to hurt with how all confusing this is.

“Don't worry, little brother. It'll all make sense one day,” Mimir reassures, knowingly. Atreus looks at him sheepishly, being careful not to move his lips too much. He's tried his best keep them as straight and still as possible as to not irritate the small wounds spanning across them this entire time.

There's footsteps outside of the house and Atreus looks towards the door. “Ah, that must be your father,” Mimir said as Atreus pushes to his feet, walking past the fire pit as his father steps into the house. “Welcome back, brother.”

“Sit back down, Atreus,” Kratos orders soft yet sternly, helping the boy sit back on the bed by lifting him under the armpits. Atreus frowns a little, wincing as his lips ache once more. His father crouches in front of him, a strained look in his eyes, lips pulled tighter than usual. Atreus frowns deeper as his father pulls out a pair of scissors from his belt.

Then he realizes what they must be for.

He whines quietly, knowing this has to be done but still terrified. He begins to shake, lowering his chin to his chest. His father cups one of his cheeks in his large palm gently, meeting their gazes together.

“I know this is going to hurt,” his father says honestly, keeping eye contact with him as he sets the pair of scissors on the bed beside him. “But we need to get the string out of your lips. It will all feel better soon. I promise.”

Atreus swallows heavily, his shaking not ceasing but he does nod slowly, taking his father’s words in. He slowly raises his head once more, grabbing hold of his father’s wrist tightly, his knuckles turning white. His father looks hesitant before he says softly, “Stay still now.”

Kratos then carefully grabs Atreus’s chin, angling his head back in the slightest. His hand keeps the boy’s head still as he raised the scissors, opening the two, sharp blades. Atreus grips tighter to his father’s wrist, shutting his eyes and biting down on his tongue.

And then he can feel one of the blades sliding beneath the tight strings and he whines loudly, more blood trickling down his skin. His body tenses and his feet kick out instinctively, hitting his father’s stomach. He draws in deep, ragged breaths through his nose as the scissors cut along the golden strings, going far too slow for the boy. His fingernails begin to dig into the skin of the wrist he's holding and his head almost flies backwards, if not for the large hand still carefully holding his chin. He kicks faster and harder, starting to pull at the hand holding his chin as the scissors continue to snip across his lips.

He can feel blood on his fingers where he's holding his father’s wrist.

“Almost done,” his father’s voice breaks through his pain filled mind and he clings to that, forcing himself to stop kicking, to stop clawing.

He settles for whining pathetically.

And then finally, the scissors are drawing away from his lips. He peeks his eyes open as his father sets the now blood stained silver scissors on the bed, reaching up towards one end of his lips. “I am going to pull the string out now,” he informs Atreus. The boy nods and screws his eyes shut once more, not missing the color red on his father’s wrist.

The tugging on his lips and the string once more getting dragged through is worse then when it was first sewn in. He whines louder, gritting his teeth, back arching as his father pulls each piece of string from his skin. He can feel each piece sliding through his skin and flesh as its coaxed out, leaving a tender wound in its place gushing with blood.

As the last piece of the string is pulled out, Atreus leans heavily into his father’s hand, suddenly aware of how tired he is. He opens his eyes once more, watching as his father moves the scissors and throws the bits of string in the flames behind him, setting the scissors beside Mimir(the head had had his eyes closed throughout the entire process) with his free hand, allowing the boy to continue holding his other. Then, he grabs a fabric cloth and a water basin from nearby, dipping the cloth in it.

“I am going to clean your lips now,” Kratos tells him. Atreus nods, holding his head up best he can with what little energy he has left.

The fabric is dabbed lightly along his lips, slowly turning the cloth from white to red as it soaks more and more of his blood up. He watches this all quietly, his lips feeling so much more light without the string stitching them together. His eyelids droop as his father rubs along his neck, cleaning what remains of the dried blood from his skin.

His father then sets the heavily stained rag aside, instead picking up a herbal concoction Atreus had made a few days ago for all manners of wounds. He dabs this on each, tiny wound across Atreus’s lips with his fingertips delicately. The medicine soaks into the wounds, easing their pain and his eyelids droop further in relief.

“Th… thanks…” Atreus tries, wincing as his lips continue to ache and throb, even if they are no longer stitched together.

“Sh,” his father hushes gently, setting the medicine down nearby. He then looks back into Atreus’s eyes, pride mixed with a small amount of concern lighting his eyes. “You did wonderfully.” One of his thumbs begins to rub along Atreus’s cheek and his eyelids shut fully. “Now get some rest. You'll need it.”

Atreus nods, opening his eyes so he can situate himself better on his bed. But the color red on his father’s wrist catches his attention; there are red markings coated with blood on his wrist where Atreus had been gripping him. His eyes widen as he realizes that he did that to his father. He's about to say something, but it's as if his father read his mind as he says, “Do not worry, boy. You did not know what you were doing. Now lay down.”

He nods again, slower this time and lays on his side, looking up at his father through his lashes as he stays crouched in front of him. A small hand finds a much larger, calloused hand a second later as Atreus grabs hold of a few of Kratos’s fingers for reassurance.

“Would you like another story?” Kratos asks softly, his voice returning to that lulling tone. At Atreus’s nod the god clears his throat. “There once was a woman named Medusa who was said to be the most beautiful mortal in all of the world…”

Atreus really does enjoy the stories his father tells him, even if they are stranger than Mimir’s. His eyes drift shut as his father tells of Medusa, who's very gaze could turn a man to stone.

He imagined doing that to the dwarves who sewed his mouth shut.

Chapter Text

Kratos was getting angry again.

But also sick to his stomach as he cuts the string from Atreus’s lip, his wrist only stinging marginally as he snips the string in half. Every time the boy whines, every time his body jolts, Kratos’s stomach does a flip and he almost stops. But he forces himself to continue, to finish, and to as carefully as he could pull the bits of string from his lips.

Now as he stares at the sleeping face of his boy, he knows he wouldn't be able to contain the anger he's built for the three dwarves much longer. He quickly cleans his wrist- the scratches were tiny and shallow- before turning to Mimir.

“Who are Alfrigg, Dvalin and Berling,” he demands of the head, not stopping the anger from making his voice a low growl. His hands are itching to wrap around someone’s- most preferably one of the dwarves who did this- and strangle them. He hasn't been this angry in a long, long time.

Mimir’s golden eyes widen and his lips purse. “Those three did this, huh,” he said, his nice scrunching up in disgust. “I am honestly not surprised. Well, brother, they and their fourth brother were blacksmiths for Odin and Freya during their short marriage. But that was the only reason they were blacksmiths for the Allfather- because of Freya. As soon as Freya and Odin has their falling out, the Aesir grew tired of the four- yes there were four- and so they banished the brothers. However, they snuck back in. When they were discovered, the Allfather was furious, and so he murdered their fourth brother. Disappointed but not beaten, the remaining brothers are trying to do anything to regain Odom's favor so they may return to Asgard. I am honestly not surprised they would have done something like this.”

“Where are they,” Kratos asks, the anger rushing through his veins.

“Last anyone saw them, they were somewhere in Niflehiem,” Mimir informs. “The three of them somehow worked up an immunity to the gasses there and can stay there indefinitely. Though, brother, if what they did to your son was to somehow regain their place in Asgard, I have a feeling that that’s where they’re headed.”

“So how do I find them?”

“These dwarves are different from the rest, as I’ve heard. They have a resistance to any gas, but they cannot realm walk as Sindri and Brok. They should be headed for Tyr’s Temple if I were to guess their next move.”

Kratos grits his teeth and storms out the door without another word.

He would make this quick. Quick enough so that his son would not wake again without his father.

~~~

It doesn’t take long for Kratos to reach the temple, and as he opens the doors, he can hear three voice along with Brok’s and Sindri’s.

“What the hell did you do with the string?!” Brok is yelling, screaming in anger.

“We used it as you told us,” came a voice Kratos hasn’t heard before.

“D-did you… somehow… use it… to hurt a boy?” it’s Sindri now, and even though he is still a bit nervous, there is a hint of anger in his tone as well.

“How’d you know that? News spread fast?” came another unknown voice.

“Yeah, so does the pissed off father who’s probably on his way to tear you limb from limb now,” Brok shouts and that’s all Kratos has to hear. His anger from what happened is building up, blinding him, deafening him and he can no longer contain it. He has to slaughter them.

He slams the doors open, the two, large slabs nearly breaking in half with the force. There are currently five dwarves standing in the center of Brok’s shop, the two brothers near their work space while the three Kratos is about to rip to shreds are on the other.

“And here he is,” Brok spits at them, his arms crossed over his chest.

One of the three brothers start to speak, to taunt, “Oh yeah? He’s just a Midgardian, what is he going to do to-” Kratos is suddenly right in front of the speaking dwarf, the red flames of Spartan Rage bursting to life as he grabs the dwarf by the beard, yanking his head down and into his knee. And just when the dwarf is trying to escape by turning invisible, Kratos digs his fingers into the dwarf’s neck and throat, yanking him back and slamming him to the floor, preventing this from happening. The dwarf sputters as the fingers sink into his throat, partly cutting off his air supply.

The other two dwarves throw themselves at Kratos, but he uses their own brother as a weapon, knocking them back. He then removes his fingers from the dwarf’s neck, letting him sputter and choke on his own blood and the air around him before grabbing onto his bicep, muscles tensing as he yanks at the dwarf’s arm, hearing the ripping and tearing of flesh and tendons as he rips the arm from the shoulder. Blood splatters everywhere, staining his face and the ground around and he’s pretty sure he can hear Sindri gag. He hurls the disembodied arm at another of the dwarves as he tries charging the pissed god once more with enough force to have him flying back.

The dwarf beneath Kratos is screaming and gurgling on his blood and it’s still not enough. He grabs onto the other arm and repeats the process, each rip and tear slightly satisfying his bloodlust. Once he’s tossed the arm aside, he stomps down on the dwarf’s head until his head is crushed like a nut, splintering every which way with blood and pieces of bone.

He looks up, his world red as he searches for the other two dwarves. Brok and Sindri are currently- cleverly- out of sight, and so they are out of mind. But the two other dwarves scrambling to now escape the temple are not as lucky.

Kratos’s legs tense up before he releases the tension, flying forward and tackling another of the dwarves to the ground, grabbing his hair and smashing his head into the ground until he can hear the skull snap. He then grips the hair more tightly just as the dwarf starts to fight and struggle against him sluggishly, twisting and turning the head and pulling all at once until the neck skin and muscles rip. He twists the neck enough to then break the spine and tear the head from the body, looking up at the remaining, terrified dwarf.

“Wh-what are you?!” the dwarf cries, cowering back as Kratos stands, head still gripping in his hands. “You aren’t just a mortal, are you?” His eyes widen and he gasps, fear evident as he nearly trips and falls backwards. “Y-you’re the Ghost of Sparta-!”

Kratos let’s out an enraged shout, throwing the head at the dwarf and rushing after it, throwing his elbow into the dwarf’s face, breaking his nose. He then kicks the dwarf’s legs out from beneath him, sending him to the ground. He pins the dwarf to the ground, reaching down to the dwarf’s stomach and stabbing his fingers through his flesh and muscle, digging until he can feel the organs pulsing beneath his fingertips. He then pulls apart, tearing the dwarf’s body open and in half, causing blood to spray up and over, raining down on him.

Kratos pants heavily as he stands back up, his ashy skin now covered and soaked in the three dwarf’s blood. He lifts his hands up, clenching them as he draws in deep breathes, knowing he needs to calm down now. He killed them, made them suffer before they could fully die.

He looks down at the body he’d torn in half beneath his feet, the entrails and organs spilling from either side, blood pooling as rain begins to full. He leans his back, using the breathing technique Faye had taught him years ago; in through the nose, out through the mouth. He could almost imagine her holding his hands in hers, her soft skin warm against his cold and calloused hands.

The dwarves who had hurt his son are dead now. They wouldn’t be walking this Earth any longer.

He stands for a while longer. He stands there until the rain soaks away the blood from his ash covered skin.

At least that can be washed away.

~~~

When Kratos returns home, the sun was beginning to set and the rain was turning into snow once more. He steps into his home, looking towards Atreus, relieved to see that his son is still fast asleep, his face relaxed, his chest slowly rising and falling with his gentle breaths. Mimir blinks at him and smiles knowingly, but says nothing, which the god is grateful for.

Kratos once more kneels beside his son's bed, slowly and hesitantly reaching out to pull the blankets better around the boy, making sure to keep him warm. He seems to be shaking, after all. He frowns and throws more wood into the fire, hoping to warm the boy up.

He then stands and changes into more comfortable clothes for sleep, perching on the edge of his bed to watch Atreus for a few more seconds. Any of the anger that had been left in him quickly disappears. His son is here and okay, sleeping and well.

He lays down, pulling his own covers tight around himself. It was a very cold night, even for him. He shuts his eyes to sleep, snapping them open again as Atreus is suddenly, but not surprisingly, climb into his bed. On many cold nights like this in the past, him, Faye and Atreus would all crawl into one bed together to keep warm, curling close to one another.

His son curls up into his side, his small body seeming to fit perfectly there. Kratos sighs heavily- no, not a yawn- and wraps an arm around Atreus’s small frame, holding him close so the boy could warm up.

Everything would be fine now. He would not let anyone else lay a hand on his son again.

He'd tear them apart before he'd let anything like this happen to Atreus again.