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Chapter Text

When Tyr could not trust his mind, he trusted his feet. The land itself spoke to him. Mortals and gods were alike in their love of deception.

The land ravaged by Fimbulwinter and Desolation could not lie. The dead still could not find peace in any of the nine realms. The yoke of the All-Father was taken off, but the scars on the land remained: the mining rigs of Svartalfheim, the ruins of Vanaheim and the sheer emptiness of Jotunheim, now inhabited only by a child and an old woman.

Devastation and ruin. To think that travel used to be so joyful. Problems, yes, but also unexpected delights. Friends. Now even the friends were burdened by grief… and only slowly recovering from it.

Tyr took his time surveying the lands. If there was one thing Tyr has learned by heart is that before giving advice, you should listen. Before helping, watch. Before acting, understand.

Tyr was gone for so long and the realms moved on. The buds of ruination that Tyr beheld before his imprisonment came to full blossom… and mercifully were withering away once again.

The realms were finding their step, still stumbling under the weight of the past. Tyr wished to help with the burden, but he held back once again.

A path needs to be walked by the people themselves. A child needs to fall, before it can learn to walk.

Tyr walked and walked, tired and restless all the same. A myriad of familiar and unfamiliar sights greeted him. Old friends with scars of their own. Strangers who have woven themselves tightly into the net of familiar relations.

There was only one thing that Tyr could not find: a place where he would belong, where he would still be needed after the storm has passed.

And so Tyr marched on.

Kratos had forgotten so much. He thought he remembered: the training, the combat, the friendships in the Spartan army. Yet he had forgotten what it felt to be young, exuberant and bold. His road to glory was so fast, it almost felt like Kratos was flying. Every breath tasted like wine.

It was so long ago.

Midgard was thawing with thunderous waterfalls, ice breaking under your feet and snow avalanches breaking right over your head. Spring in Midgard was gloriously violent. Change and grow along with the land or be swept away like stale snow.

The soul of Kratos was so full of hope it felt like it could burst any day. Once he had cleaned out the worst of raider and draugr nests, he had set to working on bridges and roads. Was it the work Kratos should be doing? He did not know, but he could not sit still.

The humans of Midgard were wary and respectful. Once a young man brought to him dried meat and mead, when Kratos was fixing a collapsed bridge near the settlement.

The man left shortly after. Kratos ate the meal alone. The meat was oversalted and mead watery. It was still one of the few supplies the refugees brought with them. They wished to share it with Kratos.

Kratos ate slowly. Every bite, it felt like something was rising inside Kratos. It was only food and not even good food. Unwillingly, Kratos remembered the roadside altars. People left coins, but far more often food. Kratos, as a hungry young Spartan, stole from the gods more than once. Each time, it tasted delicious.

Without noticing, Kratos finished the last bite. He brushed the salt crumbs in his lap with his thumb and licked them of his finger too. He felt again like the child he once was: always hungry, no matter how often he got fed.

The bridge that Kratos built was swept away by spring rain. Kratos found out only weeks later and by that time the villagers had set up their own rickety bridge.

Everything was ever changing these days. Kratos feared he was not changing fast enough.

Chapter Text

When Kratos found Freya she was sitting by a mixed group of builders. By now the Aesir went from sunburnt to tanned. Their clothes equally have changed, growing more similar to Vanir style. Someday the Aesir may become indistinguishable from Vanir, but that day had not come yet.

Aesir were not unfriendly to the goddess they once called their queen. Yet there was an awkwardness to them that the Vanir did not possess.

The Vanir were joking and laughing. An outsider may think Freya was merely a friend visiting, but that illusion faded quickly. The joy on the faces of the men was too pronounced and while the Vanir sat in her presence without much ceremony, it was obvious how quickly they would drop on their knees if she so wished.

Kratos did not interrupt them. He leaned on the stone wall and watched.

Freya was lecturing them. Apparently, some of the men got hurt. One Aesir man was sporting a bandage over his head and Freya raised her voice when he tried to stand up. He meekly sat down again, only watching as Freya showed the rest of them the Vanir magic that was meant to secure falls from heights. The Vanir picked it up quickly, while the Aesir struggled.

It did not matter to Freya. She patiently showed the words and the gestures, again and again.

It was evening by the time the Aesir got the hang of the Vanir magic. They would barely be able to entangle someone with a few words, but several minutes of chanting together allowed them to erect a carpet of vines that would catch them if they slipped. A young Vanir woman was still teasing the Aesir, perched high up and having apparently forgotten all work. Freya swooped up to her in one swift motion and gently pushed the woman over, letting her fall into the vines the Aesir summoned.

The Vanir and Aesir alike burst out in laughter as the Vanir woman cursed. No one was rushing to release her from the magic.

Kratos wondered if this was a rare display of playfulness… or merely Freya as she was in her most natural form. A loving mother to her people, so close to them she could be their equal.

“Kratos,” greeted him Freya.

The builders started packing their things. The sun was setting. It was not safe to travel in Vanaheim at night… but what did they have to worry about with Freya accompanying them back?

“Freya,” replied Kratos.

A sheen of sweat covered Freya’s face and her eyes sparkled. Pure joy radiated from her like warmth from the sun.

“Do you need me?”

Kratos hesitated and then shook his head.

“I just wanted to see you.”

“Don’t grow sappy on me, Kratos.”

“I was not planning to.”

The builders finished gather their supplies and were glancing at Kratos and Freya.

“Your people are waiting for you.”

Freya looked back at them. Then she reached out for the arm of Kratos.

“Call me, if you need me.” Freya’s eyes were as piercing as ever. She searched Kratos’ face as they shook arms.

Kratos nodded. Freya let go and Kratos watched her as she departed with her people. The builders came here on one boat, a small group as they were. Freya stood at its helm, guiding the rowers.

In the encroaching dusk, Kratos could no longer tell the Vanir from the Aesir. They rowing was smooth and they moved as one under the guidance of Freya.

Chapter Text

In the tapestry of the world all threads were known to Tyr. Those he did not know personally, he has heard of. With those he did not hear of, he knew their relations and where they came from.

As Tyr combed through the realms and listened to the stories, he realized that even the stranger next to Freya was not a stranger at all. Tyr had heard of him, the Ghost of Sparta. It would have been a more disturbing realization had it been the only thing that Tyr had heard of Kratos.

This man was a friend of Mimir’s and trusted by Freya. He was described to Tyr as cautious, quiet and brusque. A formidable warrior, to no one’s surprise.

None of that made a difference. Something about Kratos repulsed him on a level that went beyond words. It could barely be the wanton murder the Kratos the Godkiller was known for. The Ghost of Sparta had shed his cruelty and turned a new leaf. Tyr wished no quarrel with him.

Equally, Tyr felt no desire to converse with him. It may be ungrateful, as he helped Freya to rescue him from Odin’s prison, but Tyr could not help it.

No matter. Kratos was thankfully not Tyr’s concern, even if their paths crossed more often than not. The taciturn nature of Kratos meant that Tyr did not have to entertain him with conversations and Tyr’s desire for solitude was respected.

If not for that, Tyr would have to say he had a remarkably dedicated stalker. Who else would have followed Tyr into his very own treasury, walked past all the traps just to stop right behind Tyr’s shoulder?

Tyr could not even accuse Kratos of being a thief: the treasury was well looted by the time Tyr arrived here. Dead bodies implied draugr. Broken vases and looted chests implied a skilled invader. Tyr could not fault Kratos for taking his share of the treasure. Tyr did not insult Kratos by offering a reward for his release, but as it appeared, the reward landed in Kratos hands long before Tyr found his freedom.

“I would offer disabling the traps, but you seem to be getting past them well enough on your own and the traps may still deter less skilled guests.”

Kratos grunted in acknowledgment.

Tyr noted that Mimir was not by Kratos’ side. It seemed that Mimir spent more and more time with Sigrun. Good for him.

“I wanted to ask,” Kratos gestured towards Tyr, “about you. About your work.”

Kratos seemed to be thoroughly uncomfortable to be making this request. It was the only reason Tyr did not refuse him. Many others could tell about Tyr. Mimir himself was intimately familiar what steps Tyr took towards peace.

Yet Kratos did not seem to be asking out of idle curiosity.

“I have seen Freya… Freyr, too,” added Kratos, like an afterthought. “They are leader of their own people, so they lead.”

Kratos made it sound so simple.

“You,” Kratos gestured towards Tyr, “are different. You are worshiped by many realms, many people. How come?”

Tyr could have laughed, but it would not be fair to Kratos. Ghost of Sparta came from a land which was more or less unified… The Greek were one people. It was a valid question, even without considering that no one in their right mind worshiped the wrathful God of War that Kratos became.

“That is not an easy question.”

“I know,” was all that Kratos said.

For what it felt like the first time, Tyr looked straight at Kratos. The man before him was not used to asking for help, but not ashamed of it either. Any emotion in his eyes was overshadowed by a deep, burning desire.

Tyr had an inkling what the desire was for. That was why he wished to refuse. That was also why he could not refuse him, as much as he wanted to.

“Follow me,” said Tyr and walked deeper into the tunnels.

Kratos followed.

As Tyr walked, he mulled over what he could say.

A thorough explanation of Tyr’s journey would test both Tyr’s and Kratos’ patience. A short answer on the other hand would be not do justice to problem Kratos struggled with.

The corridors were dusty and Tyr was pleased by it. The major tunnels with gold and treasures from foreign lands were ransacked, as Tyr intended. The inner sanctum could be opened by pressing certain buttons on the walls and the ceiling and its insides were plain. It had was not intended to be seen by intruders and Tyr had hoped its plain look would dissuade further exploration.

Back when the temple was built, the dwarves insisted on adding metal plates with floral motives. They were beautiful and Tyr tore them down right after the work was finished. Now the tunnels were empty both of traps and decoration. A moldy smell permeated the air.

They walked for a long time, passing several secret rooms. They were left unmarked, but Tyr still faintly remembered their locations. Once he had finished his conversation with Kratos, it would be time to do inventory of those places as well.

Tyr expected to see his personal rooms in a worse state, but was pleasantly surprised. The bedding needed to be replaced and the wall coverings were a dull gray with holes inside of them. The smell, however, proved to be tolerable, despite the perishables Tyr stored here ages ago. Tyr even found out several flasks of mead survived his absence.

“Sit.” Tyr gestured towards the table with two chairs.

Kratos put down the axe and sat down. Tyr could not read Kratos well. Was he puzzled over the choice to talk in this decrepit location?

Tyr washed the dusty cups with mead in lack of water, then poured a generous portion for them both.

Then he sat down as well and looked at the room, as a stranger would see it. Bookshelves with scrolls and books overspilling. A bed in the corner, a table with two chairs in the other corner. A wall covering which hid another secret room.

What did the sight tell Kratos? What did Tyr himself wish to tell Kratos, by showing him this place?

“I think,” quietly said Tyr, “you should remember that my wisdom did not protect any of the nine realms.

“Whatever you ask, remember that I in many ways am more ignorant than you - you, who started Ragnarok and lead Odin to his downfall.”

Kratos traced the cup’s edge with his thumb. Then he raised the cup and drank from it. He scowled at the taste and put down the cup.

“The people I respect have failed at protecting their realms.” Kratos tapped the cup thoughtfully. “They failed at war, but now they are thriving in a time of peace.”

That was not an insult, had to remind himself Tyr. It was the truth. Still, for one second Tyr wanted to grab his own cup and smash it on Kratos’ head.

Interesting. Tyr did not think himself a prideful man.

“What is it that you want?” asked Tyr in a low, gentle voice.

Kratos looked up from the cup he was grasping. Once again, Kratos’ gaze was so open, he almost seemed vulnerable.

“I want to be a god. Serving people.”

It was remarkable how rare it was for Tyr to hear it to be described this way.

“I see.” Tyr took a drink himself. The mead was less sour than he expected. Perhaps Kratos was more used to wine.

“I do not know you, Kratos. I may not be able to advise you well.”

“Any advice will do,” shook his head Kratos Kratos.

“I disagree. My path is not the path you can walk. Knowing what I did in the past may not be of much use to you.”

“Then?”

“Tell me of yourself, instead. You are a warrior, that much I know. What else?”

“I am a father,” came the reply, almost shyly.

“What else?” pressed Tyr.

Kratos frowned in silence.

“I ask, because you must know your strengths. The people of the nine realms have nine thousand problems. Which one can you help with?”

“There is only one thing I know how to do well,” said Kratos with grim fatalism.

This time Tyr did laugh out loud.

“We live long lives. You have time to learn.”

Unexpectedly, Kratos raised his cup:

“To learning.”

Tyr smiled:

“To learning.”

Perhaps he would learn to tolerate this man after all.

Chapter Text

Mimir was unceremoniously lifted up from the rock on which he had been watching the Valkyries train.

“Ah, brother, how did your conversation go?”

It was certainly more pleasant to look at Valkyries, even when Sigrun was not among them, than to dangle from Kratos’ hip, but Mimir could be magnanimous. Kratos was a bit lost lately and Mimir felt pangs of guilt over leaving him to his own devices so often lately.

Kratos grunted in reply. It was, decided Mimir, a satisfied grunt.

Mimir would have liked to be a fly on the wall… or a head on the table, if you will. But Kratos, like all prideful men, took advice best when it was given to him in private. It suited Mimir well enough, back when he was the adviser.

Now, as an outsider, he was dying from curiosity.

Kratos rapidly climbed the cliffs down and ended up at the shore. Mimir could swear Kratos slipped a couple times.

Once in the boat, Mimir asked:

“Eh, have you been drinking without me?”

Mimir did not try to hide the wistful notes of envy in his voice.

“Yes,” was the curt reply.

Kratos rowed the boat energetically. They rammed ice blocks on their way to Tyr’s temple. Twice.

“Er,” said Mimir, “the boat has a hole now, brother.”

“I know,” said unperturbed Kratos.

Silly of Mimir to point out the obvious. The freezing water was rapidly entering the boat and Kratos’ soles were already submerged.

Kratos did not bother aligning the boat with the dock. He simply grabbed Mimir and leapt over to solid ground.

Mimir hoped, Kratos had a boat parked on the other side of the temple, because this boat was now joining its many brethren on the ground of the lake.

It did not slow down Kratos’ blundering pace at all. Mimir could do nothing but to hang on, bemused.

They paused at Lunda’s workshop in front of the shelf with knickknacks Kratos collected and sold. Kratos grabbed something and left. Lunda yelled about payment, but Kratos did not pause.

After this, Kratos climbed the mountains again. A couple times, his chains missed the cliff side, leaving them in free fall for a couple seconds. Still, they reached they reached the destination, a particularly scenic cliff overlooking the lake, in one piece.

Kratos plopped down and shoveled with his hands a small snow hill to set down Mimir on top of it. Mimir appreciated the gesture, though it did little to set him to a level closer to Kratos’ eye level.

“You need to tell me about my strengths,” declared Kratos.

As nonplussed Mimir was, he had to say something.

“Well, you are strong, strongest warrior I had ever seen. And good at climbing.”

Kratos stared at Mimir.

“Handsome, too” added Mimir. It was a miserable attempt at flattery, but Mimir was still entirely lost what was required of him here.

“You can do better,” decided Kratos.

Instead of interrogating Mimir further, Kratos pulled out a lyre. That was what he took from the workshop, deduced Mimir.

While Mimir was still wondering if he going to be serenaded by Kratos in strange attempts at courtship, Kratos started tuning the lyre.

“What is this about?”

“You don’t know enough about me,” said Kratos, as if that explained anything.

Once the lyre responded to Kratos’ plucking to his satisfaction, Kratos set down his hands in proper positions.

Then, Kratos played.

Kratos was not prone to bragging, so Mimir believed him when he said he was proficient at this instrument. Or, at least, that Kratos believed himself to be proficient.

Once again Mimir was glad he did not doubt Kratos out loud.

Kratos played beautifully, even when his drunken fingers missed a note or two. It was a melody Kratos played often, it seemed.

Mimir listened carefully, as this impromptu concert would not repeat itself any time soon. He noticed quickly, when Kratos’ fingers started stumbling.

Kratos furrowed his brows in concentration, but it was no use: the melody faltered and fell apart. Kratos tried again and got a little further, but he got lost again, plucking the strings hesitantly, uncertainly, until Kratos stopped playing at all.

“I forgot,” Kratos said. Then he started crying.

Chapter Text

It was not the worst way to wake up after drinking. That honorable first place belonged to the time when Thor challenged some fool to a drinking contest and Tyr took his place out of misplaced chivalry.

Both Tyr and Thor ended up at a swine through. Judging by Thor’s wet and muddy hair, Tyr had dunked him in the water, either to sober him up or to wash his hair from the mud. Tyr hoped he had not tried to drown Thor in drunken aggravation.

Tyr himself woke up in the water filled through. A swine tried to nibble at his hand and another greeted him with a kiss, snout to face. Though, that was likely also a nibble.

Armed with this knowledge as consolation, Tyr opened his eyes. His nose was buried in a moldy blanket and his mouth was dry. Tyr rolled over onto his back and stared at the ceiling.

The sight of a gray, unwelcoming ceiling actually reminded of an even worse time. Back then the temple was still under construction and Tyr often rested at this room, back when it was still a storage room for construction material.

There were no windows and only hidden doors. Tyr felt trapped, suffocated, but also safe, hidden. Back then he was still on good enough terms with Odin. But Tyr knew, the peace could not last. Tyr was too willful and Odin too controlling. Odin would tighten the leash, not knowing when to stop. To Odin, a dead dog was preferable to a disobedient one.

Tyr fought back in the best way he could: with secrets and hidden doors. He warned and advised. He kept the back door open to anyone who would ask for it, but not many would.

Back in his cell, Tyr endlessly wondered if he should have taken the fight to Odin himself. The Giant’s prophecies held him back. But was it not better to die in a battle than to rot until all the realms burned, leaving only destruction behind?

No, was Tyr’s verdict. Tyr would wait for Ragnarok and for Odin’s fall. He would help rebuilding what was left of the realms.

Now Ragnarok passed in a whirlwind of fire and death. Like wildfire, it purged the old trees, that were suffocating the forest, and opened up the growth of new life.

Tyr felt like one of those old trees, missed by the firestorm only by chance.

Foolish thoughts. This place festered melancholy like nothing else.

Tyr rose. It was a small room, so even a small mess stood out. A long line of empty flasks of mead and wine, several smashed to pieces. They ended up scouring Tyr’s treasure for alcohol and found more than Tyr expected himself.

The remaining detritus could only be attributed to Tyr himself. After Kratos left, Tyr raided the weapon storage adjacent to this room. With deep satisfaction he broke all of the spears, except for one. On the wall of the armory Tyr carved the face of Odin. Then he tossed the spear at the wall until the spear broke. The spear shaft was still stuck, preventing the door to the armory from closing. Tyr pulled it out, letting the door’s mechanism close.

There was still work to be done here. Tyr no longer felt like it, so he did what always did when his head was full with unnecessary thoughts: he went to a place far far away from here.

Helheim looked very much the same, but it too had changed. The Bridgekeeper was dead. Gorm was no longer imprisoned, but also no longer a danger to the realms. Hraesvelg was preparing herself for retirement and Tyr could not fault her.

It was still strange to hear signs of other living beings in Helheim. High above the rock tower, overlooking the stranded ghost ship, sounds of metal being worked on echoed over the realm.

Tyr did not hesitate to climb up. The irregular sound of a hammer striking iron left him with an ominous premonition.

At the top, he saw a dirty, hunched figure bending iron rods into spider-like shape. In the middle of the “spider” was settled a chunk of green, half-transparent Helheim ice.

Tyr did not hide his presence, as he walked closer, but he did not speak either. He sat down next to the anvil. Up here was a view over all of Helheim. Tyr realized, that he missed one notable change: a ghost ship that used to dock at the other side of Helheim was now stranded right below him.

“I would like” — another strike with the hammer — “to be left alone.”

Sindri’s voice was brittle. Tyr was very sorry he could not oblige him in his request.

“I could climb down, if you wish to work in peace. When you are ready to leave, I will go with you”, Tyr did not bother looking back at Sindri. Sindri would barely take offense at that more than at his words.

Besides, Odin wore Tyr’s face when he killed Sindri’s brother. Sindri likely had no desire to look Tyr straight in the eyes.

Sindri huffed, but spoke no further.

Helheim was a deeply unpleasant place. The wind of Helheim did not merely freeze your body; it reached deep inside you are drove a chill through your soul itself.

Stay here for long enough and you would lose the will to leave, paralyzed by your own fear, despair and loneliness. To die in Helheim also meant that you would never leave this place for a more comfortable afterlife.

Tyr did not prepare much in terms of protection against the cold of Helheim. He did not plan stay for long. However, Tyr had an inkling that Sindri did not prepare as he should, either.

Near the horizon Hraesvelg was stretching her wings. She refused to tell Tyr where she would go once her assignment was over. Tyr did not press her, but a little idle curiosity still lingered in his heart.

“What should be the punishment for betrayal?”, Sindri asked the question as if continuing an ongoing conversation, “What is the punishment for betraying someone who trusted you?”

Tyr hesitated, but Sindri did not wait for his answer.

“Death? Oh no. He did not get to have an afterlife, so death alone is not enough. The soul would survive, even after death. Death can’t be enough…” trailed off Sindri.

“What punishment would Brok want?” asked Tyr.

“Brok was stupid… why ask him? It’s about justice. Would you have made Brok a judge for all the people?”

“Would you not? Your brother was wise, you know that yourself.”

“I know nothing,” bitterly said Sindri.

Sindri continued working in silence, hammering on his creation.

The wind howled harshly, almost tuning out the metal clangs. It carried the pain of all the tortured souls. Who deserved to stay here and who decided that? Did the souls themselves know where they had to go, once their bodies failed them? Did their own guilt drag them to this realm of loneliness and sorrow?

For all the horror of this realm, it had a mesmerizing quality that made it hard to look away. Tyr noticed only belatedly that he lost feeling in his feet.

When Tyr looked up to the working station, the spider seemed to be almost finished. It had gained another set of smaller legs and the center of the spider has shifted. Now it looked like the small legs were supposed to hold something in place right over the Hel crystal, while the bigger legs attached themselves to something bigger.

It was a dangerous thing, only meant to bring pain. Just looking at it made Tyr’s heart stutter and beat out of sync.

Tyr did not avert his gaze in time, when Sindri looked up at him.

“You don’t have to do this thing where you don’t look at me. I know it was not you.”

Sindri sounded tired, like a man so exhausted he could not find in himself any ability to care.

“To know and to feel are two different things.”

“My heart can’t hurt any stronger than it already does.”

Sindri lifted up the spider, looking it over. It was big, covering half of Sindri’s torso.

“What is the punishment for betrayal?” asked Tyr softly.

Sindri put down the spider.

“I have not decided yet,” said Sindri, leaning over the spider and measuring its legs with his hammer.

“Do you hate Kratos that much?”

Sindri snorted.

“Kratos? No, not him. Not even Atreus, or, Loki as he calls himself these days.” The last words dripped with venom.

Tyr waited for Sindri to say more.

“Do you still not understand? Brok could have at least an afterlife. I left him with nothing. Me, whom he trusted and loved the most. What is the punishment for that?”

Sindri stared at the spider and then shook his head.

“I do not know. But I will find out.”

Sindri picked up the hammer again and brought it down violently, breaking the spider’s core. Then, he started breaking all the appendages.

His fingers must have been utterly frozen, for Sindri started missing and hitting the anvil instead of the cursed thing itself.

Tyr stood up and reached for the hammer.

“Let me do it.”

Another strike that only barely missed Tyr’s own arm.

Tyr added:

“Please.”

Sindri stopped. His hands were trembling. When Tyr touched them, pulling the hammer out of Sindri’s hands, he felt how ice cold they were.

Tyr had to hurry up.

Though he was no craftsman, he could handle dismantling this thing. Breaking was always easier than building. While tearing off the metal rods from the core, Tyr finally realized what it reminded him off. A twisted, small ribcage, fit to be worn by a dwarf. The core of a Helheim crystal nested in this contraption right over the heart. If inserted and if held in place, it would keep the soul inside the body, even after death. A cruel, slow torture that could last for centuries.

With disgust, Tyr tore off the remaining legs and threw them down into the abyss.

“There. Let us go now.”

The wind drove Tyr to full body shivers. It had to be worse for Sindri, who was here for far longer. He curled into himself while standing, staring at the floor.

Things were so bad, that Sindri did not even protest when Tyr started packing his tools. A dwarf never allowed anyone, but his closest friends and family members to touch them, but often not even then.

Using a rope, Tyr lowered himself and Sindri. They were walking to the gate of Helheim, when Sindri spoke up again:

“Be careful, Tyr. They take and take until nothing is left. And then you have no one to blame but yourself, because all you gave, you gave willingly.”

Tyr only tightened his grip on Sindri’s shoulder.

Silently, they left Helheim and entered the realm of the living.

Chapter Text

The Dwarves always worked fast. Tyr was still surprised to come to his temple and see the treasury piled up to the ceiling with material and new floors being erected. There was pleasure in seeing this place, which represented both Tyr’s greatest hopes and greatest despair, being torn down and replaced with something new.

The plan that Hildisvini spearheaded was simple: as the first realm to receive its harvest, Vanaheim would deliver food to the Dwarves of Svartalfheim. Once Midgard was ready, they too would trade food for Dwarven products. Once Vanaheim and Svartalfheim agreed on the price, Svartalfheim would learn to grow their own food, using the magic Vanaheim shared.

No one was happy with this agreement. The Aesir complained they barely could feed themselves, the Dwarves complained that Vanaheim’s rates were too high and that the Aesir had to hold their previous agreements, lost realm or not. Midgard asked for food supplies from Vanaheim as well, which the Dwarves did not take well. The Vanir complained that everyone was complaining too much.

Despite all this, it did not come to blows. This meant Tyr’s role in all this was a small one. He would oversee the safety of the merchants and their shipments. That alone was something all parties could agree on. Tyr was flattered: his reputation had only improved from his long absence.

The key to all this would be the temple of Tyr. He toyed with the idea of establishing a marketplace for the realms, but the Dwarves put their foot down, worrying about Midgardian humans getting unfair advantage. Tyr modified his idea, proposing instead to make Tyr’s Temple a place of rest for weary travelers and merchants.

After all this time, Tyr’s temple would indeed become a temple with followers tending to it.

First of all, however, Tyr needed to make space. Clearing out the treasury was not hard: its riches would pay the Dwarves and while doing so, they would empty it out. The Dwarves in return would create quarters for living for both Tyr’s faithful and their guests.

The Dwarves did not seem enthusiastic to hear Tyr’s proposal, but it did not take them long to discuss it among themselves. The price they named was reasonable, far too reasonable, in fact. Back when he built the temple, the bargaining took almost as much time as the construction itself.

The Dwarves no longer had their regular commissions from Asgard and as such did not delay setting off with Tyr to Midgard. After that, everything moved quickly.

For the most part, all Tyr had to do was to stay out of their way. He provided the plans for the renovations back when he arrived with his proposals and since then he has accepted all modifications without argument.

He declined only one suggestion: a place for prayer. Tyr argued that anyone who wished to pray to him could go outside and pray on the lake or on the shores of the lake itself. Or even simpler, talk to him directly when Tyr was present.

It was a matter of practicality: while the treasury seemed huge, Tyr had expected the trade between the realms would only grow in the following years. There was no sense in wasting space for altars or statues.

Perhaps Tyr offended the Dwarven sensibilities by this. In the following days he found in a secluded corner some candles and an assortment of offerings which only grew bigger. It was Dwarf custom to write down demands to the gods and to list the offerings a Dwarf would offer in return to the completion of their desires. This letter would be burned. Depending on the results, offerings would afterwards be placed near the statue of the corresponding god.

The custom had faded with Odin’s hold over Svartalfheim. Either it was easier to hand the letters to Odin’s underlings or it simply dawned on the Dwarves that gods did not care about their demands. Asgard would take what it wished to have this way or the other.

This impromptu altar did have short letters, but the customary offerings list was not part of it. No surprise, for they were asking for the impossible.

“Keep the peace.”

“Protect Svartalfheim.”

“Food for our children.”

“No masters, no slaves.”

The short paper notes went on and on. A litany of hope and a desperate need for assurances.

The Dwarves never felt the full brunt of Asgard forces. Still, they felt the chain attached to their necks. This new peace, why would they not distrust it? Last time they lost the war by making one agreement after another… until they became dogs at Odin’s feet, fed scraps from his table.

Whom could the Dwarves trust? They did not have enough foresight to escape Odin’s traps. Their military forces were non-existent and it would take them decades to train soldiers. If Vanaheim emerged as the new dominant force, what could they do?

The answer was simple. Pray.

It explained the quick agreement Tyr reached with the Dwarves. The low price was part of the bribe… or the offering, if you will.

Tyr could not offer them any guarantees and they knew it. His impartiality was a virtue which everyone appreciated… but in the end, every realm still hoped for Tyr to regard them a little fonder than the others.

It was as if everyone had forgotten that Tyr’s friendship did not save the Giants and that in the end, Tyr could not protect even himself.

The offering’s table was tactfully set. There was no expensive jewelry or gaudy coin stacks. In accounting for Tyr’s tastes, there were books (particularly travelogues), hand carved statuettes and items of more sentimental, than monetary value. Worn necklaces out of stone beads, child drawings and even a small off-tune music box… And of course, food, which was always a safe bet and warmly appreciated by Tyr. Nut cookies, fruits of Asgardian harvest, cheese and a string of sausages, typical Svartalfheim fare.

The Dwarves paid with sincerity to receive sincerity in return. Tyr spent some time each day reading the paper prayers and burning them.

Once that was done, Tyr picked an apple and a book with a sprawling epic of a Dwarven entrepreneur. Then he sequestered himself in the upper section of the temple. The detritus had been removed from the rooms. Later they would to serve as bedrooms, once appropriate furnishing had been procured.

Tyr’s feet itched to travel, perhaps to visit Svartalfheim or to see how Vanaheim fared. Yet he knew, the Dwarves needed him and he did not wish to delay their work. Perhaps he would take a walk at night. For now, reading would have to do.

Right after getting to the part where the Dwarf found an abandoned mine shaft in his cellar, Tyr heard footsteps.

By now Tyr could recognize Kratos easily. Not by the sound of his steps, but by the sinking feeling that appeared in Tyr’s stomach as he heard them.

It felt like every bad news he ever received. It felt like disappointment after your hopes were lifted. It felt like remembering all your worries, all at once.

It was irrational, but apparently not even drinking together helped to alleviate this feeling. Maddeningly, Tyr could say what it was about Kratos that made set Tyr off.

“Tyr,” greeted Kratos.

“Kratos,” responded Tyr, rising from the floor with a sigh.

Then Tyr noticed the head dangling at Kratos’ hip:

“Mimir!”

“Good to see you too, lord Tyr.”

Tyr smiled. It always helped when someone else was present for conversations with Kratos. Kratos even helpfully detached Mimir, allowing Tyr to gaze at his old friend.

“Did Freya send you?”

“No.” Kratos shook his head. “I came to speak to you.”

That dampened Tyr’s mood a little. Still, Tyr politely inclined his head, waiting for Kratos to continue.

“I have heard about what you are doing here.”

With the same almost shyness of the first time he came to Tyr, Kratos asked:

“Can I help?”

Incredulity rose in Tyr. He asked:

“How?”

“I could escort the shipments. I fight well,” Kratos added the last part, as if Tyr did not know that himself.

“Do you wish to follow in my shadow?” Tyr asked sharply.

“The realms are not safe and you can not be in two places at once.”

“And still I will manage.” Tyr shook his head. “That is not the point. Is fighting truly all you are good at?”

Kratos furrowed his brow.

“Surely not! Kratos knows the roads of the realms no worse than you yourself, lord Tyr,” interjected Mimir, “He can make sure everything goes smoothly.”

“You were not there last time we talked, Mimir. We discussed this and you, Kratos, agreed. I said, there was no rush and to this too, you agreed. Why the change of heart?”

Tyr could read the answer in Kratos’ eyes. Doing what you know best is easy. To forge a new path, to know which path is right in the first place is hard.

Doubt, the killer of bravery, bested Kratos.

Disappointing. Kratos and Tyr may not share the same strengths, but apparently they share the same flaws.

“Let me help,” asked Kratos in a quiet voice.

“No,” vehemently refused Tyr.

“Lord Tyr, at least give it some thought,” intervened Mimir, again.

“I had given it thought. It was the first thing I considered when the agreement between the realms was made. Yet the Dwarves don’t trust you, Kratos, not yet, while the Asgardians see you as the source of all their peril.”

“I hope to gain their trust.”

That argument was fair enough. Tyr used this strategy himself to gain favor in foreign lands. Yet Tyr doubted Kratos decided to do this for the right reasons.

What could Tyr say to convince Kratos? Tyr saw the stubborn set to his jaw. Perhaps it was Tyr himself who was wrong, too rigid and asking too much of Kratos all at once.

Tyr kept his silence. Instead of answering, he picked up the scroll and the apple beside it. He laid both on the alcove inside the wall.

“Show me how you fight,” finally said Tyr.

Tyr loosened his posture, taking a bare fisted fighting stance.

Kratos took in Tyr, then nodded, setting down Mimir in the same alcove.

Then, Kratos swung his fist and the fight began.

Chapter Text

Kratos’ fist connected with Tyr’s face, but the expected hit did not have the full force Kratos was used to. Tyr moved with the swing and as he did so, he grasped Kratos’ arm, one hand pulling at the wrist, the other pushing a little above the elbow, using the momentum of the blow to make Kratos fall forward.

Kratos rolled into this movement, as not to give an opening for Tyr to strike. Whirling around, Kratos prepared to parry the next strike, but Tyr only circled him. Tyr’s arms were not raised in a defensive stance shielding his face and chest, but instead Tyr had an open stance, his arms slightly spread and knees bent.

Kratos went for a light, quick attack, but Tyr stepped out of his range easily. They were in a small, round room which did not offer Kratos an easy way to corner Tyr. Tyr on the other hand did not seem to feel constrained: as soon as his back was to the wall, he easily evaded to the sides. As he did so, Tyr did not attempt to punch Kratos, instead opting for kicks, trying to unbalance Kratos or to bring him to the floor.

Eventually, both of them circled around the room, watching each other.

It was a puzzle, not a contest of strength. Tyr did not wish to have him. He was also not telling the whole truth behind his refusal.

What did Tyr want to see from Kratos? In the end, it did not matter. Kratos was who he was: if that failed please Tyr, then so be it.

With that in mind, Kratos rushed Tyr again.

If Baldur was quick and Thor was strong, then Tyr was neither. His hits were light, while his dodges were precise rather than fast. When Kratos thought he finally could put in more than one punch, he was proven wrong by Tyr easily leaping over him, kicking himself off the wall and using Kratos’ shoulder as support to land right behind his back.

If Kratos was younger, perhaps he would find it maddening to fight such an opponent: equal in all physical qualities to you, but possessing much more grace and excelling at a variety of techniques.

Now it was merely mesmerizing. Kratos followed Tyr, harrying him with punches and kicks and as he did so, Kratos studied Tyr’s movements. Here Kratos caught a glimpse of Elven footwork, there he saw a Reaver’s unpredictable rush. Kratos had a feeling, if knew more of the world, he would have recognized many more fighting styles.

Curiosity reared its head, but Kratos suppressed the feeling. It was not the time to ask for pointers and trying to ape Tyr’s style in the middle of a battle would be foolish.

No matter. Kratos had seen enough. Tyr’s longer arms and legs put him at an advantage when it came to range. Kratos had to wrestle Tyr down, staying as close to him as he could.

With that resolution Kratos rushed Tyr, was caught and whirled around. This time Kratos held on to Tyr’s arms and closed the distance between them, going for a headbutt. Kratos grazed Tyr again, but once again the force was not there: Tyr hauled Kratos to the side and used Kratos’ own weight to tip him over.

In the split second that Kratos realized he would fall, he let go of Tyr’s arm and instead tried to hook his arm on the neck of his opponent. It worked and Tyr landed on top of Kratos. Tyr did not do the rookie’s mistake of trying to stand up, but with a kick to the floor flipped the two of them over.

Now Tyr was below and Kratos laid on his back. Kratos tried to press Tyr down, but Tyr rose first on his knees, then stood up completely. Kratos used this opportunity to wrap his legs around Tyr, while tightening his grip on Tyr’s throat.

Predictably, Tyr tried to strike Kratos with the back of his head, but Kratos pressed his forehead on Tyr’s shoulder. In the old days, he would also be biting the opponent to demoralize them. Kratos fought down the urge. That would not faze Tyr, but risked making Kratos looking like a frenzied dog.

Next Tyr tried to disentangle himself from Kratos by doing a flip and letting himself fall right on Kratos himself. It drove all the air out of Kratos’ lungs, but Kratos doggedly held on.

Mimir was saying something, perhaps cheering him on, but Kratos could hear nothing from all the blood rushing to his head.

Tyr tore off one arm from his neck and Kratos allowed it, instead driving his fist into Tyr’s sides. Tyr reached with his arms for Kratos’ shoulder and pressed his fingers into it. Kratos felt his right arm go numb. Then Tyr rolled off Kratos and only at last second did Kratos manage to catch Tyr by his hair, yanking him back.

It felt as satisfying, as Kratos imagined it to be every time his fingers barely brushed Tyr’s hair as Tyr dodged him again.

Tyr whipped around, attempting to strike Kratos arm with the edge of his hand. Kratos now knew better to let even innocuous strikes from Tyr to go through, so he blocked it with his right arm. It still felt numb and his fingers did not obey him, but it worked well enough to defend his other working arm.

Kratos kneed Tyr into the stomach, pulling Tyr closer. Tyr was like a cat held by the scruff of its neck: easier to twist the head off than to hold on to it without getting hurt. Though a comparison with a lion may be more accurate, reflected Kratos, as Tyr used his knees to hit Kratos right in the back, making Kratos double over.

Before Kratos could draw a full breath, he brought down his head on Tyr’s face. With an intense pleasure Kratos watched the blood flow from Tyr’s nose and his soul sang for more. One punch, another and another. More blood, more pain, to crush and to break…

Later than Kratos wished, he paused, realizing that Tyr was no longer fighting back. Tyr’s piercing golden eyes gazed at Kratos and he suddenly felt naked, ashamed to be seen through.

Tyr raised his hand and grasped Kratos by the beard, pulling him down.

“Is this how you fight a friend?” whispered Tyr.

Blood hammered in Kratos’ ears. His head was still blissfully empty from the fight and he found it hard to speak.

“I do not kill my friends.” Kratos felt the thrilling taste of blood lips. “That is the difference.”

Blood dripped from Kratos’ chin on Tyr’s face. Tyr blinked. The cuts already healed, but the blood smeared his face.

“You can do better.”

Blood was even on Tyr’s eyelashes, illuminated by the golden glow of his eyes.

“Many people are out for your blood, Kratos. Not all will think of you as a friend, but I hope you can convince them otherwise.”

Tyr stared at Kratos with an intensity Kratos did not see before.

“Do you understand?”

“How many friends have you made fighting like this?” asked Kratos in return.

“A couple.”

Kratos shrugged.

“In my experience,” said Kratos, “people are more willing to talk once they are on the floor.”

“They usually are still capable of talking with their injuries?” inquired Tyr, while raising an eyebrow.

“Sometimes.”

Kratos set down his forearm on Tyr’s chest to lean over Tyr more comfortably. If Tyr found it harder to breathe, good. Faye told him, it was a grave insult in these parts to pull at another man’s beard. Tyr was lucky Kratos was a patient man.

“I was a general in an army. I know how to handle rowdy warriors who wish to challenge me.”

Kratos resisted the temptation to tug at Tyr’s own beard, emphasizing his point. Instead he pointedly trailed his fingers over Tyr’s braided beard.

Tyr raised an eyebrow. However, in his eyes sparkled more mirth than worry that Kratos would mess it up.

Tyr opened his mouth, but then a bell rung, a heavy, rumbling sound echoing through the entire temple.

“Dinner,” said Tyr.

Kratos took this as a signal to stand up. He felt a foolish sting of regret, a part of him still hoping he would get a chance to continue the fight. Perhaps later, if Tyr was so inclined.

“Will you stay, Kratos, Mimir?” asked Tyr while wiping his bloody face with a handkerchief.

“Well, I would…” started Mimir, but Kratos interrupted him:

“We will be off.”

Tyr’s gaze followed Kratos, as he watched them leave, but he did not insist. It was half disappointing and half a relief.

Kratos told himself, not to dwell on it.

Chapter Text

Qui dit amour, dit les gosses
Dit toujours et dit divorce
Qui dit proches, te dit deuils
Car les problèmes ne viennent pas seul

“Alors on danse” - Stromae

Translation:
Who says love, says kids
Says forever and then says divorce
Who says loved ones, tells you to mourn
Because problems never come alone

“So we dance” - Stromae

Vanaheim flowers were in full bloom, spreading a sweet, almost overpowering scent. Cicadas incessant shrillness on the other hand faded into the background, not able to compete by the sound of drums and laughing.

Half-Moon Festival was celebrated once again in Vanaheim. This year, it came earlier than usual, called forth by necessity. Vanaheim now had more than just Vanir mouths to feed. It was the impatient lady Sif who demanded to use the Harvest Moon rituals to hasten forth the first harvest. Tradition made Hildisvini reluctant to do so, but he agreed to the request as it would solve more than one urgent problem.

Under regular circumstances Harvest Moon Festival heralded rapid growth of all plant life, forcing everyone to work at twice the pace removing weeds and keeping paths clear. The rituals gifted by lady Freya allowed to guide the direction of the growth. It was a good time to build bridges: the plants could in a manner of days connect separate river banks with a few supporting structures. The harvest was equally abundant. 

It took everyone working from sunrise till dawn to bring in the crops. Due to humid weather, the harvest needed then to be eaten quickly, before it went to waste. Some years the rituals deliberately slowed the growth, as the overexertion could make whole fields wither and die after a harvest that taxed the plants too heavily.

All caution was tossed into the wind this year. Fields would yield crops and once they harvest was over, they would inevitably die and be burned to revitalize the area. Tyr already smelt the smoke when he came through the portal. Sweetness of flowers, rich smell of fat and meat on the bonfires and the smoke in the distance greeted Tyr. 

Everything else was a whirlwind of sensations, sounds and emotions. Wild dances starting from the morning and going into the night. Songs of Aesir and Vanir tradition, drums and pipes, flutes and horns. Food that almost brought tears to Tyr’s eyes: the sweet sockerkringlor, the soft twisted pastry an Aesir favorite that became quickly popular with the Vanir children, ham wrapped figs as the ever beloved Vanir appetizer, the magnificent Dwarven sausage rolls that went beautifully with both beer and ale, the wild boar ragu made in Aesir fashion and served with Vanir jokes aimed at their beloved leader Hildisvini…

The toasts, however, were unusually sobering. More than once Tyr braced himself for a brawl, as Aesir drank in honor of their dead and the Vanir honor of their own. Surprisingly, it was the Dwarves who held the least grudges and sang so boisterously that no one had time to reminisce for long that they age long enemies were sitting by their side. And when even that started to fail, lady Sif clapped her hands and the dancing started again. 

The few Midgardians that were invited gave the Aesir and Vanir something to bond over: their dances were entirely different from and as such the Midgardians needed to be taught from the scratch. As the Aesir and Vanir laughed at the Midgardian clumsiness, they had ample time to forget their differences.

Lady Sif, Hildisvini and Freya herself had everything well under control. Tyr could only marvel at their delicate touch. The Harvest Moon Festival was a complete success on all fronts and all that Tyr had to do was to enjoy it.

That task proved to be harder than expected. Tyr was no longer used to crowds and to rowdy celebrations, so common back in Asgard. A full day of sounds, smells, conversations and dances left him as exhausted, as a week of travel never could. With the weariness came its old companion: melancholy.

Only now, sitting among Vanir and Aesir, Dwarves and Midgardians, gods and mortals, did Tyr feel the death of Asgard sink in. A wonderful future was being built, but Asgard, the independent, the dominant, the beautiful was gone. In the long run everyone was better off, but Asgard was Tyr’s home. Now Tyr was a wanderer, not by choice, but for lack of a place he could wholeheartedly call his own. Tyr’s home, finally, became everywhere and nowhere.

“Mind if I join you?” 

Freya leaned over Tyr and sat down readily once Tyr nodded. She filled her plate with a juicy lamb rack, grilled honey carrots and the mix of roasted potatoes, some with a sweet, some with a nutty flavor, but all of them delicious.

Tyr himself was sipping on honeyed spirits for the past hour, but seeing Freya dig into food like that awakened his appetite as well. He pulled closer the tuna tartare, the last of its kind, before Freya could make short work of it too.

“You know,” said Freya thoughtfully, “I always get hungry when I see you. I blame my nightly visits when I complained about Odin and you fed me your creations.”

“I am glad you remember the food fondly, for my advice was atrocious.”

“That it was. Though it must be said, that I would not have listened if you recommended me to slice my husbands’ throat - though that was exactly what was required.”

Freya’s speech was slurred and Tyr noted with fondness the stray hairs sticking out of her braids. She danced the whole day, only stopping to join the rituals when she was needed. The dances themselves were in fact a part of the ritual, so Freya fulfilled her duty… but with the kind of glee Tyr had never seen in Asgard.

A burst of laughter from the dancing ground punctuated the silence. Tyr unwillingly glanced over, the bushes covering him from the main festivities did not allow for him to glimpse a look at the reveling crowd either.

“You have been quiet today,” noted Freya, licking her fingers after finishing the the lamb.

That much was undeniable. Still, Tyr did not want to talk about it. If there was a person who would miss Asgard the least, it would be Freya, and for a good reason.

“Have you seen Kratos?” asked Tyr instead.

Freya nodded:

“He called the wolves. The moon was not in the right position… so it needed to be herded to where we need it.” After a gulp from the skein, Freya added: “I have not seen him since.”

“I see,” murmured Tyr.

Freya searched Tyr’s face and frowned.

“What is it?”

Tyr hesitated, not quite certain if Kratos spoke to Freya about his aspirations, but also not seeing the benefit in keeping quiet on the matter.

As he thought it over, Freya swung her feet up and put them in his lap. When Tyr looked at her, she raised her eyebrow, as if telling him to get on with it.

“Recently, Kratos seeked me out,” started Tyr reluctantly, but in the end he told her of all their conversations. 

Freya absentmindedly nodded, seemingly approving of what both Tyr and Kratos said to each other, her toes wriggling in Tyr’s lap. She did not seem to be surprised by Kratos’ desire to aid the realms, but did not frown at Tyr’s reluctance in this matter either. When Tyr finished talking, she remarked:

“If you do not wish him to guard the first shipment, you have the right to refuse. Kratos will have to wait.”

“I do not know for certain what is best. Mimir thinks…”

Freya snorted. 

“Mimir is good at scheming, chasing little gains and losing sight of the bigger picture.”

“You are being unfair, Freya,” Tyr smiled even as he chided her.

“If I was fair, a lot of people would have lost their heads by now.” Freya gulped down the rest of the ale in one single swing. “If all I am to have is pettiness, I will take it.”

The current of the conversation took them into deep waters. Tyr opened his mouth, but Freya spoke before he could:

“If you merely do not like Kratos, that is fine. He is insufferable, even at his best.”

Once again, Tyr wondered what kind of man could kill Freya’s child and still have Freya talk of him, as if he was an old friend, loved and trusted despite his many failings. Even Mimir did not quite earn Freya’s forgiveness as easily, and Mimir’s mistakes were of much lesser nature.

“Have you ever been in a cave, right before it collapsed?”

Freya quirked her eyebrow:

“No, I have not.”

“First you don’t even hear or see anything. Instead you get this feeling… I would say, it’s terror, but it’s more like your body demands to run away. Then you realize that there is in fact a sound… very high pitched and quiet.”

Tyr swooped up with the spoon the last of the tartare and chewed. Then he continued:

“Later, after digging myself out, I figured out that the sound was rocks moving, ever so slightly. It was a warning I did not understand, but I felt it all the same.”

Honeyed spirits nicely burned on Tyr’s tongue, complementing the rich taste of the tartare.

“I do not dislike Kratos. Instead… I would say, that I hear that sound. I do not know if it is a warning for me… or if Kratos needs to be warned himself.”

Freya tapped a finger at her cheek in thought as she regarded Tyr.

“Do you trust him?”

“No,” immediately said Tyr, “I do, however, believe he is no danger and he wishes no harm neither to me, nor the realms.”

It was left unspoken, that a god need not to wish for harm to still bring forth death and destruction.

“You are not a fool for being cautious… or for listening to your intuition.”

“You know that I always said that half the time premonitions are pure prejudice. I still stand by that.”

That earned Tyr a nod from Freya. She shifted on the bench, finding a more comfortable position to sit, apparently preparing for a long conversation. 

“You expect the world to be as reasonable as you are. Some danger can not be foreseen, only felt.” 

“A rabbit survives because it runs, whether the danger is real or perceived. Yet I have higher aspirations than only survival.”

Freya rapped with her knuckles on the table.

“You spent years imprisoned and tortured. You expect to have same sovereignty, same magnanimous calm? You have changed… but that does not have to be a bad thing.”

“Then what do you recommend?”

Freya smiled, her voice suddenly playful:

“All our long conversations taught me that giving advice is a thankless task. Half the advice is wrong and the right advice is never taken.”

Tyr brushed with his thumb over Freya’s feet. They were cold. He pressed his thumb in the dip of her soles against the tense muscles. 

In the silence, Freya said:

“You are still the wisest person I know, Tyr. Even your mistakes are better than the ones I made.”

“My inaction…”

Freya raised her voice sharply:

“Your actions mattered. I did not go insane married to Odin, because you were there. You were wrong to tolerate him and to tell me to do the same.” Freya’s voice softened: “And still it was good that you helped me.”

“Make your old mistakes and make new ones. We can bear it… we have endured worse.”

Finally, Tyr posed the question he wanted to ask for so long.

“How did you forgive Kratos?”

It was clear to Tyr that Kratos was not a bad man. Yet there were things that would make it hard even for the best of men to earn forgiveness… and even earn the regard of someone like Freya.

“Have you met his son, Atreus?”

Tyr shook his head.

“He reminded me of Baldur, at first. In a way, he still does.” 

Freya smiled mirthlessly.

“If I killed Kratos… Atreus would not stay the same. He would follow the path of anger and revenge… Baldur had no peace, because of me. Would I lead another child to abandon themselves? When would it end?”

Freya leaned back her head, looking at the stars.

“When Baldur died I wished my heart would break and I would die alongside him. Now Yngvi is dead too. And I am still alive. Worse, I am happy.”

Freya laughed silently as she stared into the sky.

Tyr could not deny it, the stars were beautiful in Vanaheim.

Chapter Text

The rain had stopped in the evening and today not a single cloud could stop the sun’s onslaught. The leaves were shimmered with moisture, ready mischievously to drop droplets at anyone passing under the trees. Snow on the side of the roads glittered here and there, but it too was becoming rare in spring’s wake.

With all the strength of will that Skjoldr could muster, he tried not to sing. They sang enough yesterday. There were only two more men from Skjoldr’s group of Asgardian refugees, but Skjoldr quickly hit off with the Midgardians. Aside from a few jokes about his age, they did not tease him too much and were glad to hear his stories. They did ask Skjoldr to repeat himself more than once, because Skjoldr spoke better the old tongue, used by the Aesir, than the Midgardian dialect. Still, he learned quickly.

It would be so much better if only humans escorted the goods. Nothing livened up a journey better than a song. But they were not alone: Dwarves sent envoys of their own. They were in an especially foul mood after yesterday. One of them called Skjoldr’s singing “the unholy mewling of a mountain cougar bitten by a wretch” and threatened to drown him in the river if he would not let the Dwarves sleep in peace.

This was how it went the entire journey. The Dwarves kept sniping at Midgardians and were only getting in the way. More than once Skjoldr wondered why the Vanaheim harvest could not be escorted by Vanir or the Aesir. Probably all of them were busy and only the Dwarves could be spared. Still, Skjoldr did not want to hear their choice words about .

More importantly was the company in the rear of the convoy. A hulking warrior with striking red tattoos over his almost bare torso and with a glower that almost made Skjoldr swallow his own tongue each time he tried to have a conversation with him.

Loki confided him that his father only looked like he would rip off your head if you said the wrong thing. Skjoldr tried to keep these word in mind, but he had a creeping suspicion that for Loki different rules applied than for Skjoldr. Loki, the half-Giant, climbed over the wall of Asgard, waltzed into the hall of Odin and became friends with Thrud. If Thor survived Ragnarok, Loki would have charmed him too. Loki was an inspiration in whose footsteps Skjoldr would love to follow, but Skjoldr would have to break a sweat to make even a quarter of the journey did.

First step in Skjoldr’s path to glory would be persuading Loki’s father to take Skjoldr as his apprentice and teach him how to fight like Loki. No, that’s wrong. Loki had entirely different moves from Kratos. Did Loki’s mother teach him? Either way, Loki said that even among gods there was no warrior like his father and Skjoldr believed him.

Still, the one thing great warriors had in common was that they all loved to brag; and teaching is one step away from bragging. Besides, Kratos had to be bored now that Loki went off to have his own adventures, without Kratos. Skjoldr just had to grab the opportunity by its horns. Once Kratos saw that Skjoldr had the makings of a great leader and warrior, he would help Skjoldr. And if Skjoldr could not convince Kratos of his potential, Skjoldr did not have a chance of impressing Thrud, had he?

Thankfully, Skjoldr knew how to hook Kratos. Over the past few days Skjoldr stuck to Kratos’ side and was not chased of. The key to that was telling Kratos stories of Loki... seeding the idea that if Loki bothered with Skjoldr, there had to be something special about Skjoldr himself. The first few days went by smoothly, though he had to invent some details for the stories. Skjoldr was not really there for the most interesting parts of Loki’s adventures, after all.

Now Skjoldr had to strategically consider his supplies of stories, because it was running out. Skjoldr could invent something, but he would have to be cautious about that: Kratos had been to all nine realms and not even his taciturn nature stopped him from asking uncomfortable questions about details that did not match up with his experiences.

Skjoldr tried asking Kratos about his adventures, but he was lucky if Mimir told him a tale or two, for Kratos would not open his mouth unless it was absolutely necessary.

Well, none of that mattered. Today Skjoldr would ask Kratos if he would train Skjoldr. If Kratos refused him, then Skjoldr would have the entire day to convince him otherwise. And in the evening Skjoldr would take out his sword and…

“Halt.”

The wagons stopped the moment Kratos spoke. The villagers drew closer to the convoy, nervously looking around. Everyone grew silent, except for Afkarr who dropped his bow string into the mud in the rush to ready his weapon.

In front of them was a wooden bridge, sturdy and wide. Right after the bridge the road winded to the right, up the mountain slope.

Kratos was staring into the distance, his ax drawn. Skjoldr belatedly realized that Kratos was intently listening and he tried to do the same. All noises were swallowed by the strong river current, beating against the bridge supports.

A man came from around the bend and stopped before the bridge. The stranger raised his arms.

Murmuring started among the villagers. Skjoldr knew why: they did not recognize the man, but that was enough to tell them all they had to know. Every clan had been given a chance to join the agreement with Vanaheim and the Dwarves. Whoever did not join could only be a Raider or a bandit.

The first one to speak was the bald dwarf with the ugly scar on his head, Durlin.

“Lost? If so, then let us send you and your friends on your way. We are in a hurry, you see.”

The man nodded, but he did not seem to be in a hurry. He had a well-kept beard with many ornaments. His clothes were patched up, but beautifully embroidered.

He had a plain sword at his waist.

“Peace, travelers. I am Eirikr the Valiant. I and my people come to trade.”

More strangers poured out from behind the road bend joining the man who was their leader. They looked haggard and most of them equipped with bows and wooden clubs. A hunter’s choice.

Skjoldr strained to look deeper into the forest and perhaps to catch a glimpse of more people hiding in ambush. After Fimbulwinter the forest here had as many dead trees as living ones, leaving many the trees without foliage obstructing the sight. Still, Skjoldr saw no sign of hidden enemies. To Skjoldrs left, there was a slope downhill. No one in their right in mind would attack from lower ground. To the right the cart was blocking the view of the upper side of the road. Someone may be hiding up there, but Skjoldr saw no one, no matter how much he squinted.

While Skjoldr watched the woods, enough men gathered on the stranger’s as on Skjoldr’s side. They did not have animals or carts with them, but massive backpacks. The strangers were putting down their heavy burden, groaning and massaging their shoulders. The trees swayed in the wind, their own slender bodies creaking sympathetically.

“Ain’t no trading here. All trading has been done up at Tyr’s Temple. Now get going.”

Durlin was rude, but no one reprimanded him. The Dwarves and the humans in the convoy stilled again, not talking and only watching. Even the river flow stilled, the water suddenly growing quiet.

“Please. It is a hard road and we walked for too long already. Let us show our wares. If nothing is to your liking, we will move on.”

Skjoldr made a step forward, but a heavy hand landed on his shoulder, stopping him in his track.

“Leave. Take your men, hiding in the bushes and leave. You will find nothing but death here.”

The low voice of Kratos sent shivers down Skjoldr’s spine. How many more of them were there? Kratos would kill them all, surely, but blood would flow on both sides. It took so little to die, a single strike could be the end for any of them, except for the god walking among them. Skjoldr heard a low rumble, as if the earth itself was groaning, fearing the bloodshed.

The leader of the strangers raised his hand and made a step back.

Wild howls started all around him and with them the barrage of heavy stones. One hit the shield Kratos had raised over Skjoldr’s head, another painfully struck Skjoldr’s arm and the third hit the side of the wagon, leaving a deep dent in the hard oak wood.

Kratos leapt over the cart, bisecting the first warrior to skid down to the road. Skjoldr saw a dozen of enemies descend, some already dead before they hit the ground, felled by arrows.

Skjoldr could not remember when he drew his sword, but when a man rammed him from the side, Skjoldr reflexively slashed at him once, twice and then the grip of the man slackened, as he fell to the ground dead.

More followed: the fiercest fight was at the uphill slope, but Skjoldr found himself cornered from two sides by two more Raiders. Skjoldr did not dare attacking first, but the two hesitated. The man with a high stag mask rushed forward, not to Skjoldr, but to the cart, grabbing a sack at the top of it. Skjoldr lunged at him and the other enemy, a woman with a wolf mask swung at him with her ax. Pain blazed in his leg, but that was alright: Skjoldr pierced the man through the chest with his sword. Skjoldr screamed, and he himself did not know if from the pain or in triumph over his second kill.

Skjoldr’s scream was overshadowed by the roar of earth itself. It was foolish to turn away from the enemy for any reason, but Skjoldr’s head whipped around by itself, just in time to see trees fall down. Skjoldr ducked, his first thought that Raiders sawed the trees in advance. But no: next he heard rocks tumbling down, people shouting out in pain and then earth slammed into the wagon to which Skjoldr clung, hard enough to tip it over.

For a heartbeat Skjoldr vividly imagined being squashed like an insect below the wagon, his bones breaking. Still, he could not release his iron grip to which he held on to the cart.

Then Skjoldr was knocked off his feet and dragged downwards by the moving earth. The sword fell out of his hands and he saw the wolf-woman trying to grasp the cart to steady herself, but being swept away just like Skjoldr.

He was now off the road, the earth beneath him a temperamental steed, kicking him up and down and moving downward at speeds that made his insides freeze with fear. The dust rose up, blinding Skjoldr’s eyes and making it heard to breathe. Branches and bushes whipped his face and rocks hit his body.

Above him sharp voice yelled something in Dwarven, the ox pulling the wagon bellowed. Was the wagon barreling down right after Skjoldr? He could not tell, as the earth moved loud as thunder.

In panic, Skjoldr clawed at the dirt, trying not to be dragged under the flow of the earth. To Skjoldr’s right something barreled downhill with a loud crashing sound. It could not be the other wagon. How would they feed their people, if the wagons with harvest were lost?

That thought flew right out of Skjoldr’s head as he felt himself falling. He opened his mouth to scream, only to swallow a mouthful of water when he fell into a rapid river. Dirt and rocks rained down on him, but Skjoldr was too busy to keep himself afloat to care.

The current slammed Skjoldr into the rocky shore and before Skjoldr could hold on to it, carried him further downstream. Skjoldr coughed and desperately tried to keep his head above water.

The river curved and threw Skjoldr right against a fallen tree. This time Skjoldr was prepared and held on, even though the strike drove all air from his lungs.

The water sped around him, roaring fiercely, but it could not tear away Skjoldr. Blinking away the water, Skjoldr saw that the tree he clung to was stuck between the two river banks. The one closest to him even had a small outcropping where Skjoldr could find refuge.

Skjoldr had to weave between branches and even dive into the water to avoid a particularly nasty big bough, but he made it to the river bank. His arms were trembling when he pulled himself up, exhausted. Once on the shore, Skjoldr winced at the pain from his leg. Even while lying down he felt the sting of pain from his wound. Could he climb with only one functional leg? Could he even walk?

With a loud splash, a massive boulder fell into the river and Skjoldr watched as it even got carried away a few yards, before it sunk to the bottom of the river. If something like that fell on his head, he would be dead for sure.

Something else caught his eye. A the top of the crevice there was a massive tangle of trees, on the precipice of falling into the river. There was something odd about how the trees fell, though…

Rapidly Skjoldr sat up. It was one of the wagons! It got stuck in the trees. If it fell, there would be no saving the goods.

Skjoldr was on the opposite side of the riverbank. He would have to hope that the tree would not decide to give way as Skjoldr used it to get over to the other side. From there on he would have to try and climb the rocky wall. Skjoldr’s wounded leg already complained at this sight.

One of the trees fell near the wagon. Skjoldr sighed and awkwardly scooted over to the edge of the bank. No point in being chicken. He survived the avalanche, he could survive a little water.

Someone shouted from the other river bank. Then more trees started to fall. Skjoldr’s heart almost stopped, but the wagon did not follow them. Instead Skjoldr spied two chains attached to the wagon and the one holding the chains was no other than Kratos himself on a stone outcropping further up the mountain.

Then someone grabbed Skjoldr by the hair and put a knife at his throat.

“Stand up!” hissed the wolf-woman.

Her mask was askew and she was drenched, but unlike Skjoldr she only looked angrier and more dangerous.

Skjoldr slowly rose to his feet and as he did so, he reached for his knife. It was gone.

The woman put her arm around Skjoldr’s neck and set the knife between the gaps of Skjoldr’s leather jerkin. She started dragging him away. Skjoldr could not help but to stumble after her, his mind blank. It did not feel real. He had to follow or be killed. No, he would die either way. Raiders ate people. He had to fight, rather than to be lead to slaughter like a lamb.

With a loud crack a tree broke, sliding into the ravine. Both Skjoldr and the Raider jumped at the sound.

It was one of the trees by the wagon. The wagon too slipped and now was hanging on by a single wheel. Around the wagon scurried humans, trying to help dragging it up.

Even from this far, Skjoldr could see the focus on Kratos’ face. He could no doubt easily fling away the wagon, but pulling it back, without making it lose any precious cargo seemed to be much harder.

Then, as if Kratos could hear the wordless plea to save him, Kratos looked in the direction of Skjoldr. Their gazes locked for a heartbeat. “Help me,” thought Skjoldr.

The moment passed. Kratos barked orders to the humans near the cart, they dispersed and, ever so slowly, pulled the cart up.

With a sinking heart Skjoldr realized that even if Kratos truly saw him, he would not save him. This wagon, the remains of the harvest, had to be brought to humans of Midgard. They would not survive without it.

Skjoldr stayed quiet, no longer struggling against the wolf-woman. Just before they reached the bend of the ravine, Skjoldr saw the chains wrapping around the wagon and lifting it up to safety.

Chapter Text

Kratos slowed down once more. It was not because of the wagon that he was pulling - the weight barely bothered him - but because of the wagon ahead.

The wagon in front of Kratos was pulled by four men. Even by midday they did not figure out how to walk step in step and the harness was too small for them all. It had to be done this way, however. The ox was dead and even the half-empty wagon had to be loaded with the wounded making it too difficult to be pulled by two men.

The axle was creaking on every turn and Kratos wondered if the repairs would hold. Yesterday everyone was exhausted and the repairs on the wagons had to be finished in the morning. The Dwarves slapped a piece of metal on the axle, hammered it down with nails and said it would hold until they reached the next village.

A Midgardian at the back of the wagon said something in their dialect and Mimir translated:

“The friendly fellow asks if you are tired and need help. ”

“Does he?”

“Yes, he does!” said Mimir barely concealing laughter, “I will tell him to exchange one of the lads up front if he is getting bored.”

Mimir had to speak loudly to be heard over the scraping of wood over bare rocks. He was no longer hanging at Kratos waist, but instead at the back of the wagon. Two more human walked behind the wagon, ready to help pushing the wagon or guiding Kratos through the tighter spots.

Kratos wished they would walk with everyone else in front of them. They spoke the new tongue from which Kratos could only reliably understand “left” or “right”. In the end the main instructions still came from Mimir and the information from humans came with a delay or instead they pestered him with inane questions.

Not in the mood for conversation, Kratos tried to focus on pulling the sled, but even here he was stifled by the slow pace of the front wagon.

Anger simmered below Kratos skin. Kratos had been careless. He noticed the ambush but not the avalanche. He allowed the familiar distract him from the unfamiliar. Once Atreus returns and asks about his friend, all Kratos will be able to say is that Kratos had not been watchful enough.

The signs were all there: the downpour of rain, the strong river flow, the dead trees, the mountain path where they carelessly paused. They should have barreled forward, sending the wagons ahead. Kratos had felt that something was wrong, but he allowed himself to think that it was the ambush that filled him with apprehension. A foolish error. Kratos should have known better.

Now he was not even certain if Skjoldr was dead or alive. A rocky river bank was not a good place to search for tracks. Even the few blood drops were not enough for Kratos to find the Raider and her captive. Kratos had to turn back soon. It was still dangerous to leave the convoy for long. They needed Kratos. Kratos could not go off alone, even for a friend of Atreus.

That was what Kratos decided yesterday. Today the doubts gnawed at his heart.

“I still don’t understand, brother,” said Mimir out of nowhere, as they eased into a more traversable dirt road, “why did Byggvir and Beyla ask for help with the translation? I am by no means an expert on Elven language and still we made good progress on the Consul’s journal in past days. It couldn’t be much harder for two Elves.”

Kratos grunted. He was not an expert at languages, but if Mimir said something was odd, then he was likely right. There was a reason why the two Elves asked Mimir to help them with the translation of the Consul’s journal. All Kratos could think back then, that he wished Atreus was here. He would have loved to learn the Elven language from Mimir and he would be a much better help to Mimir than Kratos.

All his thoughts kept coming back to Atreus. Kratos missed his son. If they were together, then Kratos could have guarded the wagons and Atreus could have fetched Skjoldr. Kratos could not be in two places at once and especially now he could have used someone reliable and strong at his side. Did Atreus think the same sometimes? It was selfish, but Kratos wished Atreus missed him too. Maybe he would visit Kratos more if he did.

Surprisingly, they made good time. Kratos hoped the four men at the front were not putting in all their energy into the first leg of the journey.

“Lunch break!” bellowed Durlin.

Kratos was still not sure if this assignment meant that Durlin was still in disfavor among the Svartalfheim Dwarves or if the opposite was the case.

Durlin managed the ragtag group well enough. The appearance that the Midgardian humans banded together against the Dwarves was deceptive: the rifts between the refugees who returned to Midgard from their haven in Asgard did not find a warm welcome among the ones who remained. The villages that stayed behind were not in harmony either. It was the first time in many years that they had contact with each other. For a long time the terms “enemy” and “stranger” were one and the same. Trust was hard to build.

If a representative of one village took lead now, that would upset the balance between the villages. The Dwarves on the other hand were a neutral party. Durlin’s leadership was universally disliked and still widely accepted.

Kratos removed the harness and gave the wagon a few pushes, to check if it was standing solidly and would not glide off the road. Then he nodded to the humans at the rear of the wagon and they rushed to put in the logs, to make sure the wagon would not slide off the road. It did not rain today, but the roads were still dirty and wet. Not even the bright sun was enough to dry the earth.

Durlin barked orders as he walked to the rear of the convoy. Kratos himself withdrew to the back of the wagon, fetching Mimir from his sentry duty.

“Think ye can motivate the fellows to stay with us for a bit longer?” Durlin lowered his voice.

Every village sent their people to protect the convoy. They would not only stay until they reached their own village, but until the full journey has been finished, to avoid bleeding manpower. Before the journey, the group swore an oath to stay together until the delivery was made to all villages.

“Their word should be motivation enough.”

“Yeah, well, yesterday’s attack spooked them. Two men, from the village we visiting next, want to stay in their home village, guard their people. Still plenty of bandits around.”

Kratos had no respect for oathbreakers, but he could understand the worry for their close ones. He looked over the humans setting up camp. This kind of short break did not warrant a fire, especially with Raiders around. The group gathered in a circle and ate. Some went over to the cart with the wounded to chat and to check up on their friends.

The names of half of them were unknown to Kratos. Who of them belonged to the village they would reach today? Suddenly it felt like a failing on Kratos’ side. Back when he was a general he paid attention to his men. He knew them. Even the language barrier was no excuse; the new tongue of the humans was similar enough to old Norse that he could understand at least half of what the humans were talking about. The bigger issue was that Kratos had little patience for idle chatter at the best of times. It seemed, he would have to find it.

“What are their names?”

Instead of answering, Durlin stretched out his neck and yelled:

“Teiti, Kyllan, you lazy bastards, fetch some water! Been sitting on your ass whole morning and still looking forward to sit some more.” Durlin interspersed his speech with some more insults, Kratos did not quite catch.

Still, it was easier to understand the Dwarves speaking the Midgardian dialect than to understand the Midgardians speaking it. Perhaps the volume helped, even if listening to the Dwarves shout the whole day gave Kratos a headache.

Teiti and Kyllan jumped from the front wagon with wide grins on their faces. Kratos had a hunch they were harassing their captive, the man who introduced himself as the leader of the group who wished to trade, Eirikr the Valiant. There was little valiance in an ambush and even less in how readily he surrendered.

He would be held for ransom in the next village they would reach. If no ransom was paid, he would work as a slave. Good riddance either way.

Kratos went over to the cart with the wounded. He lifted up the captive and set him down where everyone else was having launch. This Eirikr would need to eat and for that he needed his arms untied. He tensed up as Kratos approached him, but he seemed to be calmer than yesterday. Even a shadow of a bird passing by could make him flinch.

It was good that he regained his equilibrium. Panicked captives made stupid decisions and there was no need to make everyone any more agitated than they already were. Kratos stayed close, knowing that his presence would be a better deterrent against running away than the bindings themselves.

Teiti and Kyllan returned and in good humor. Their hair was wet and in the hurry to get back they spilled water all over the trail and their shoes.

One bucket was given to the wounded in the cart, from the second everyone else refilled their waterskins. Kratos drank too, though he refused the dried meat. This evening they would eat proper food and Kratos did not need sustenance in same way mortals did.

Instead Kratos focused on observing the two young men Durlin spoke about. They ate. The mood was still somber from the day before and the cheer of the two men quickly faded.

More of their attackers were dead than of their own, still the mood was one after a lost battle. Grief simmered in the air, but more prevalent was anger.

“So, do tell us, how many women and children have you slaughtered yet? Must be the first time you fought against warriors to fail so miserably,” taunted Teiti. He was short and blond. He reminded Kratos of a cock strutting around in his little kingdom of hens.

Eirikr acted as if he heard nothing, but Kratos was not fooled. Eirikr swallowed almost without chewing, knowing his meal could be cut short soon.

As expected, next Teiti jumped to his feet and shoved Eirikr.

“Ignoring us, huh? Too good to talk?”

Yesterday Eirikr spoke rather readily, but incoherently. Still dazed from a stray boulder hitting his head, he bled a lot. The pain did not stop him from telling of a Dwarven king’s tomb they raided, about the curse that followed. He spoke that the king demanded the gold they stole back. He said the king was a monster, but a benevolent king nonetheless, willing to feed them if they paid tribute.

Kratos did not care how much of this story was the true or not.

“I am no bandit,” said Eirikr, his hand clenched around the bread and his gaze trained at the ground.

A dirty footprint at Eirikr’s shoulder did not stand out much with how dirty his garments were after the avalanche.

Teiti’s face flushed with the embarrassment of the strong when the weak do not submit to them. He raised his leg for another kick.

“Stop.”

Teiti raised his angry gaze at Kratos.

“Why are you defending this pile of wolf-food?”

“It will be your turn soon to pull the cart. Rest.”

Judging by the scowl, Teiti did not take the friendly advice readily. Still, his friend Kyllan pulled at his clothes and he sat down grudgingly.

Everyone watched this short exchange. They were waiting, Kratos realized, for guidance. Kratos knew what they needed to hear.

Everything came down to violence and blood. Violence as protection, violence as a form of love. Violence as punishment and as a reward.

Kratos had no other gifts to give.

“You were weak yesterday, all of you. Angry at this man?” Kratos gestured at the captive. “Be angry at yourself.”

Was this fair? No, but it would do for the purpose of what Kratos had to say.

“I can teach you how to fight. And how to watch for enemies.”

Kratos hoped they understood him well enough. They straightened up, some attentive and others eager. They understood the main point. “Fight” — in both the new and the old language was spoken the same.

Some things never changed.

Chapter Text

Children of the Light,
Do not rush to the golden dome,
A blink, a day, a year,
Inevitably, we return
Once time is right
From where we came from.
(a poem recorded in the Consul’s journal, author unknown)

They arrived at dusk to the small settlement, barely deserving to be called a village. It was set at a good, defensible spot, but the building space was limited. The houses hugged a cliff wall to one side and a small brook separated the village from the meadows. The dark fir forest in the distance, but was close enough for foraging, but not for a covert ambush.

The villagers greeted them with wide eyes and slack jaws. Kratos gritted his teeth as he pulled the sled in, half expecting the villagers to ask him to show some other trick. If adults took a minute to adjust to the sight, the children were much quicker at the uptake. Most of them were old enough not to throw themselves in front of the sled, but they could not resist catching a ride by holding on to the sides of the sled, squealing like pigs.

At least the Dwarves did not to start with their spiel about the gifts they brought and how at an affordable price the Dwarves would be able to offer a steady supply of hoes, shovels and weapons. Perhaps that would come during the dinner.

Unloading of the wagons went by quickly. Only point of contention was the where to bring the wounded. While during the journey Kratos had to listen to incessant whining in front of him, now everyone claimed to be only slightly hurt and not requiring bed rest. No one wanted to miss out on the welcoming feast.

In the end, the only person who would have to stay away from the celebration was their captive, who was locked in an empty shed.

The festive dinner started with a toast to the fallen. The somber mood did not last long, as the retelling of the events of the avalanche lead to a predictable amount of bragging over the prowess of the guards.

The villagers were alarmed to hear of bandits so close to their village. Their worries, however, quickly assuaged by their guests who increased the count of dead Raiders with retelling of the ambush.

Once the guests’ hunger and their hosts’ curiosity were sated, the dancing started. Even some of the wounded abandoned the benches and lined up for the dances, followed with envious gazes of the ones with injuries to their legs.

Some of the unwilling wallflowers consoled themselves by stepping up to play whatever musical instruments that could be found, others retired for the evening, too tired from the journey.

What the melody of the improvised musical performance lacked, the stomping of the dancers’ feet made up in rhythm. Even the Dwarves messing up the steps caused more laughter than annoyance.

A young woman came up to Kratos, blocking the view of the dancers. Bright ribbons were woven into her hair and the blue necklaces she wore stood with stark contrast with her red dress. She rapidly said something, blushing as she did so.

Was she asking him to dance?

“No.” Kratos fell back on his default answer.

The girl blinked and the blush on her cheeks intensified. She stepped back, almost stumbled over another person and fled to her group of her friends in the corner. They embraced her, giggling and glancing at Kratos.

“She asked you to dance, brother,” helpfully said Mimir.

“I know,” said Kratos.

A new song started. Loud clapping accompanied it. The ones waiting for their turn and the dancers themselves joined in to sing as well, even if they were so out of breath they barely could gasp out a few sentences before they had to stop.

Kratos caught himself tapping to the rhythm of the melody. Even the ale tasted better and better the more he drank of it.

“Brother,” spoke up Mimir, “can we get some fresh air?”

Kratos took the time to finish his cup and stood up. His seat was at the very back of the longhouse and even keeping to the walls he kept grazing the soft fabrics of the dancers’ clothes, as they twirled around.

The heavy door plaintively creaked as Kratos opened and closed it behind him. The quiet of the night ringed in Kratos ears. Kratos shifted from one foot to the other, uncertain what to do once outside. If Mimir wanted to talk in private, he took his time with starting the conversation.

In the end habit took over. Kratos did a round around the houses, mapping the hamlet. The only structure of note, Kratos could see in the dim light, turned out to be a small unmanned tower by the village gates. Kratos climbed up and the stairs creaked under his weight. At the top was a small stool which Kratos did not use. Instead he remained standing by the wall, looking over the meadows illuminated by moonlight.

Mimir stayed quiet.

“Do you want to read Consul’s journal?” said Kratos for the lack of any other ideas what could cheer Mimir up.

“Yeah, brother,” sighed Mimir with what seemed to be relief.

Kratos sat down on the stool after all and pulled out the journal. The cover was stained in mud, but at least the text was still in readable condition after the avalanche.

They took their usual positions: Mimir on Kratos’ lap, the journal in front of him and the light shining on the journal from the side. Kratos flipped over to where they stopped, a section with Elven poems.

The selection of texts in the Consul’s journal was eclectic. There were poems, personal diary entries, historical research and political treatises, all of them utterly blasphemous to both Dark and Light Elves.

It was a riveting read, according to Mimir. Kratos failed to find appreciation for the poems, but Mimir admitted that his translations were more functional than literary. It did not stop Mimir from reading out his favorites to Kratos — of which there were many.

Kratos turned one page, another and then for a long time came no request to turn to the next page.

“What’s wrong?” asked Kratos.

“Nothing you can help with, brother,” said Mimir dejectedly.

Kratos raised Mimir to his own eye level. He tried to find the words to say that through past years Mimir listened to every complaint, every worry that Kratos was burdened with, while tolerating Kratos ill temper with good humor. Mimir was the most steadfast friend Kratos could ask for in the dark, long Fimbulwinter and the least Kratos could do was to return the favor.

The words did not come to him. So instead Kratos said:

“Do you miss Sigrun?”

A wistful sigh followed. Encouraged, Kratos continued:

“I am glad to have you with me. But…”

“It’s not that,” interrupted Mimir. “It’s just… you know, I’m dead? Well Sigrun is very much alive.”

Kratos nodded slowly.

“I try not to think of it, brother,” confided Mimir, “but it is hard not to.”

“Do you think it bothers her?”

“It bothers me! And someday, it will bother her. It should. And even if it doesn’t…” Mimir trailed off.

It was rare to see Mimir at a loss for words. Several times he opened his mouth could not say it out loud. Finally, Mimir spoke again:

“In the hall… when watching the lads and lasses dance, it occurred to me how they were sweating buckets. Dancing hard, weren’t they? Then I noticed that everyone, even the ones just sitting got sweat over their brows. Even you. And I, could not feel a thing. No heat, no warmth. Here, outside: is it cold, Kratos?”

The wind brought a night chill, but Kratos felt little cold even at the worst of times.

“It is colder than in the longhall.”

“See? If not for you, I would not be able to tell. But last time we were in Muspelheim, must have been only a few months ago, it was unbearably hot.” Mimir’s voice grew in agitation. “I know I am dead, but you’d think I’d notice losing ability to feel cold or hot. What’s next?”

“Could Freya help?”

“She tricked my soul and my body to stay together. No, brother, such tricks never last. Freya persuaded the world Baldur could not be harmed… but only the dead are beyond death itself. Unlike Baldur, I am not even alive. I may have years, decades, centuries to talk and to think… but I will keep losing pieces of what I can feel.”

“But maybe you are right. Maybe we can ask Freya how long I have. Or what will I lose next?” Mimir’s voice broke at the last words, not able to keep his composure any longer.

Wind rose, rustling grass in the meadows.

Kratos tightened his grip on the rope holding up Mimir. Once again, he did not know what to say and could only be here with Mimir, sharing his pain in silence.

The door of the longhouse opened, letting out the sounds of carousing. A group of men stumbled out, shoving each other and laughing.

“Hey, Kratos!” hollered one of them, “you promised to show us how to fight!”

Another man added a comment, which Kratos did not understand, but the group burst out in laughter again.

Kratos leapt from the tower and as he landed, struck with the Draupnir spear the ground. The following flash of light made the group gasp.

“First lesson: drunks make poor fighters.”

With no further warning, Kratos attacked. Using the blunt end of the spear he attempted to sweep them off their feet. Two of the group where quick enough to evade in time, the rest fell over.

Without hesitation, those who remained standing dashed to encircle Kratos. Kratos allowed it to happen, rolling his shoulders to warm up. The two young men seemed to be friends, familiar enough to make a coordinated attack on Kratos: one made a feint which Kratos blocked with the spear, the other tried to kick Kratos shins, assuming Kratos to be distracted.

Kratos stepped out of the way of the attack, whirled around the spear and hit the man across the arm. Normally, Kratos would strike across legs, as there was smaller chance of lingering injury, but they had a long haul in front of them tomorrow. If the village could not give them an ox, the convoy would need full strength of the youth’s legs.

Cursing, the remainder of the group rose to their feet and all together lunged at Kratos, assuming strength in numbers could help them overcome Kratos.

They were wrong.

Kratos stood his ground and holding the spear with two hands shoved the entire group back, almost sending them flying back. Kratos felt a smile ghost his lips.

Wild howls rose from behind Kratos. Kratos whirled around, before he understood that whatever was raising the racket was coming from far away from the village.

In one heartbeat Kratos climbed the tower. With his hand Kratos covered the light attached to his hip, as not to give away his position and to let his eyes adjust to the darkness. The unnatural cacophony continued from the side of the forest. A distraction before an ambush?

Kratos looked around, but around him were meadows and empty roads. More than that, his intuition told him this was something else. Kratos forced himself to calm down and to listen. The sounds were made by human throats, but imitating very well the howl of wolves and the roaring of deer. It had to be Raiders, but giving a warning to their prey was not their usual tactic.

A light appeared between the trees. It came closer and Kratos saw two men accompanying a woman. She stopped and in the flickering light saw that she drew a bow, launching a single arrow. Shortly, a soft thump followed, from the arrow lodging itself in the wooden wall enclosing the village.

The howling faded. The woman stood illuminated by the torch for a couple heartbeats longer, but she too turned to leave. Kratos felt tempted to throw his spear, but at this distance he would not hit her. Not fatally, at least.

Instead Kratos jumped over the palisade and landed in the shallow brook right outside the village walls. It did not take him long to find and to pull out the arrow. A piece of bright, blue fabric with golden embroidery was tied around the arrow shaft.

It had drops of blood on it.

Kratos ground his teeth.

He made his way to the village gates which were lifted just in time for Kratos to pass through. Some idiot tried go out, but Kratos growled at him to stay back. Running after the Raiders in the dark would be folly.

The arrow was passed around and examined. Only a few of them would recognize in the dim light this piece of fabric as Skjoldr’s torn tunic, but they did not have to.

This was a message: “We have your people”. At best it was an offer to exchange of hostages. At worst it was a trap.

People murmured, discussing what it meant and what to do. Kratos did not bother listening, as his mind was made up. The Raiders dared to taunt Kratos, make demands of him and his people? They did not know, that one does not bargain with gods.

Kratos would not tolerate it. He will kill them all.

Chapter Text

“We will not sit here like dogs waiting for an order,” someone hissed, trying to be quiet but failing.

“Yes, dogs would be preferable to you lot.” The second man neither lowered the volume of his voice, nor did he try to hide his contempt.

“Pah! You prefer animals in all things.”

Skjoldr moaned, barely awake, but already knowing that night’s rest was over. The stone beneath him was cold and hard, his leg throbbed with pain and the loud voices reminded him that pain was the least of his problems.

“Don’t like my commands? Then go. Explain yourself to the lord.”

“Maybe we will, damn you!”

“Oh, and the boy will stay.”

Skjoldr squinted, trying to figure out who was arguing. The two figures standing at the wide mouth of the cave were not enough to block out the bright morning light blinding Skjoldr.

“We need him!”

The man raised his voice and Skjoldr recognized him. How could he not? This was the new leader of the group that first presented themselves at traders right before the avalanche struck. He kept yapping all day long, Skjoldr was surprised his voice still held up.

“We captured him. He is ours, whether to be used as a slave, hostage or meat provisions.”

“Be reasonable…”

“Oh, but I am.”

This man Skjoldr recognized as well. Bjorn, the bear-man with a stature befitting his namesake. This was the first time Skjoldr saw him speak as much as he did now.

“Our hostage, our trade. You want your failure of a leader back? Then stay out of the way.”

“It was you who ruined our plan in the first place!”

Before Skjoldr could hear any more, someone nudged his wounded leg to get his attention. Skjoldr flinched and then hissed. His leg hurt more than yesterday.

A familiar wolf-mask grinned at Skjoldr from above.

“We are moving soon. Eat.”

The woman threw a piece of charred meat at him. Skjoldr tried to catch it with his teeth, but instead it just hit his nose and fell down.

The wolf-woman let out a braying laugh that ended as abruptly as it started. She stayed to watch Skjoldr pick it up with his bound hands and raise to his nose, sniffing it.

Skjoldr did not know what human meat smelled like, but he could at least tell what fresh venison smelled and tasted like. A small bite gave Skjoldr the confirmation he needed.

When Skjoldr looked at the mouth of the cave, the two men were gone. Was Skjoldr really going to be eaten? Hopefully it was only a threat, thought Skjoldr as he was chewing.

The meat was cold. Skjoldr scooted over closer to the smoldering campfire which barely gave off any warmth. No one added wood to it, as they would have to pack up soon and leave the cave underneath which the group slept tonight.

It was not good spot: a crack ran in between the walls up to the sky. It would not protect you from rain, but in budding spring it gave shelter from the wind and let the smoke of the campfires rise through the gap.

The wolf-woman sat opposite of Skjoldr. Despite her urging for Skjoldr to hurry up, she did not move. Skjoldr did not know if she was waiting for something or was simply resting.

The mask covered only half the woman’s face, but its shadow hid her thin mouth. In the first days Skjoldr thought hunger gleaming in her eyes. Now he was not so sure.

“Thanks,” said Skjoldr, in between the bites, in case she was expecting gratitude from him.

The woman was still staring at him from behind her mask. Chunks of dry meat were getting stuck in Skjoldr’s throat from her intense gaze, but he persevered. He knew better than to try and save the food for later. Yesterday he got a couple heavy slaps for that from the wolf-woman who then took the meat for herself.

The Raiders took his belt and his shirt, giving as replacement some threadbare rag. Skjoldr was not all that surprised. It was a good, bright blue fabric with golden embroidery. Skjoldr had it ever since he was a kid, but was only allowed to wear it once he grew into it.

“Time to pack up!” loudly announced the man with a sparse red beard. What he lacked in chin hair, he made up with a loud booming voice that did not seem to fit with his small stature.

It was Solver, the new trader leader.

The men without masks got up on their feet without grumbling. The masked bandits continued their quiet discussions a bit further away.

The trader leader now made his way towards Skjoldr, who forgot to eat as he watched Solver approach. This was Skjoldr’s chance to talk to him and to find out more!

“The hostage still in one piece?”

The man did not even look at Skjoldr, instead directing his question towards the wolf-woman.

“If you mean my captive, then yes.” The wolf-woman did not bother standing up, lounging on the rocks and picking her nails.

“Just hold up your end of the bargain,” groused the man.

“I will. Don’t mistake me for one of your men, who need you barking up their ass to get anything done.” The wolf-woman smiled unpleasantly, showing her sharply filed teeth.

“You!…” Red blotches of outrage appeared on the man’s cheeks. “I argued enough with your leader this morning. I won’t waste time on a bitch like you.”

The red-head turned his back to the wolf-woman. That was a mistake Skjoldr himself would not have made.

With one swift motion the wolf-woman jumped on the red-head’s back, toppling him over.

“You are only alive, because the Lord told us you belong to him. Do not think you have the right to command us,” hissed the wolf-woman, kneeling over the lying figure.

“Lay off, Kolla.”

A big man with a bear mask spoke up. Bjorn, called Skjoldr him in his head. Bear.

The wolf-woman rose, but did not remove her leg from the man’s back. In fact, she pushed him down again when he tried to rise.

“I commanded everyone to stay their hand. What excuse do you have for this?” Bjorn made a step forward.

The wolf-woman, Kolla, stayed silent for a while and then said:

“None.”

She removed her foot.

The trader leader coughed into the floor and rose awkwardly. His face was now as red as his hair.

While this was going on, Skjoldr moved from seat near the cave wall closer to the cave exit. He did not have a chance to attempt flee, but he would be a fool not to get into position. If this trader leader started demanded a rematch or punishment of this Kolla woman, maybe Skjoldr would have a chance…

The red-haired trader spit on the floor, glared hatefully at the Kolla and moved on to bark more orders at his people.

Skjoldr watched him with disbelief. With this kind of forgiving attitude this guy was not going to stay a leader for long.

Bjorn turned away as well, squashing Skjoldr’s last hopes for a distraction.

Kolla returned to the campfire where Skjoldr was sitting. Surprisingly, the chastisement did not affect her much. Not even the wolf-mask could hide her grin.

Skjoldr swallowed his disappointment.

“You really showed him!” It was not hard to catch someone unaware, while their back was turned to you, but flattery could get you anywhere.

“And what did I show him?” Kolla purred the question, as if she was laying a trap for Skjoldr.

“That… he is weak and should know respect for a warrior like you?”

“Almost. The lesson is: weak men speak only when his betters tell him to speak.”

That shut up Skjoldr.

The Raiders packed swiftly and left nothing behind. Traders spent more time quietly talking among each other than packing. The scene just now unsettled them, making them even more wary of the Raiders. It reminded Skjoldr of sheep after a dog barked at them. The herd was one step away from bolting from the source of danger.

It gave Skjoldr hope. Any conflict was a chance.

The crowd of Raiders and traders moved out into the open. The sun had no right to be so blinding, as it was not even that dark in the cave. Still, Skjoldr had to blink away tears to see properly.

Not that there was much to see: a fir forest, bushes and a lot of scowling people. Kolla stopped next to Skjoldr. Was she scowling?

“You know, I think I could walk today,” confided her Skjoldr. “I mean, I am pretty heavy, right?”

It was brave talk: Skjoldr’s leg would not hold out for whole day. But maybe that would give him an opportunity to move more freely.

Kolla raised her arm, either telling him to keep quiet or preparing to hit Skjoldr for mouthing off without permission. Skjoldr would never find out, because he blinked and then her head was flying into the air, blood spraying over Skjoldr’s face.

A blink of an eye and the fighting started. This was what Skjoldr waited for: a distraction. Yet, Skjoldr could not move his legs, as heavy as lead.

Skjoldr tasted the salty human blood on his lips. Kolla’s head was on her shoulders and then it was not. Like a doll she fell over and blood spurted from her stump of a neck. He wanted to vomit.

It’s not even your first fight, thought Skjoldr desperately. Move!

Instead, Skjoldr’s knees buckled. Raiders rushed forward, others drew back, while Skjoldr was kneeling before the dead, unmoving body.

A halo of blood was spreading from where Kolla’s head used to be.

It was good that she died. She was an enemy. Skjoldr was just surprised. The shaking would stop any moment now.

Someone groaned and fell right behind Skjoldr. Skjoldr looked at the body in front of him, covered in furs. There was an ax on her waist. Skjoldr had just to take it from her.

With trembling hands, Skjoldr turned around the body. Her skin was still warm, hot even, and it turned Skjoldr’s stomach. Something dead had no right to feel so alive.

For a heartbeat, Skjoldr was overcome with a combination of disgust, grief and fear. Yet he had time for none of it.

Skjoldr tried detaching the ax, but then he thought better of it. He needed to get his hands free. The ax was sharp and Skjoldr cut himself as he tried to saw the rope tying up his wrists.

Blood fell on the ax, blood stained the rope. Weapons, unlike humans, had no feelings. The ax could not feel angry, nor could they try to take vengeance.

I did not kill her, thought Skjoldr. The ax twisted beneath his hands, as Skjoldr little by little cut away at the thick knot binding his hands.

A scream and then another body fell, right in front of Skjoldr. The victor remained standing and with relief Skjoldr saw that the man had no Raider mask, only a shaggy blond beard.

Then, with a chill running down his spine, Skjoldr remembered the traders, who did not wear masks either.

A roar and the man whirled around to defend himself from an attack. Behind him was a man whose bulk only made bigger by his bear cloak, his claws bloody. It was Bjorn, whose hulking form looked only more menacing in battle. He lifted up his arm (his paw, supplied Skjoldr’s mind helpfully) and struck the smaller man, who barely reflected the hit with his sword.

Fresh pain bloomed in Skjoldr’s hand as he finally finished sawing off his bindings and almost cut through his wrist. His hands were slippery with blood and the ax caught, as Skjoldr bent down, pulling at it.

Then Skjoldr’s gaze fell upon the rope attached to the waist. Skjoldr pulled and it easily detached. A lasso, prepared to catch deer or loose captives.

It was not a good weapon, but then again Skjoldr was not trained with an ax either.

Skjoldr looked up and saw now that Bjorn was crowded by three men. The bear-man’s back was towards Skjoldr.

Before Skjoldr could think twice, he rose and cast the lasso over the head of the bear-man. It went over the man’s head and Skjoldr hastily pulled, tightening the noose.

The bear-man’s hand whipped around, catching the rope with his hand, before Skjoldr could do anything else. Then, his head turned to Skjoldr.

As soon as Skjoldr glimpsed into the man’s bloodshot eyes, Skjoldr felt he was overly hasty in calling him still human.

They were three paces away from each other. Skjoldr felt the pangs of pain in his injured leg, reminding him that even if he wanted to, he would not run far.

Thankfully, this moment of distraction was enough for the others to attack the bear-man. He parried at least one attack, but Skjoldr also heard his growl of pain.

Skjoldr jerked the rope, but the bear-man still held on to the rope with one hand. With the other he slashed at the rope. The taut rope did not give way.

That gave courage to Skjoldr. He saw what he had to do. Not to kill and not even to restraint. His part was to distract the bear-man, giving an opportunity to warriors against him.

Skjoldr backed off, blinking away the tears from the blinding sun. Skjoldr almost fell, as his foot caught on something, but even then Skjoldr did not dare to look away from the bear-man he was tentatively holding down.

The bear man made a leap forward, slashing at them with his claws at his attackers. The rope burned in Skjoldr’s hands, sliding out of them. In this game of tug the bear-man was definitely winning.

Desperately, Skjoldr gave another sharp tug, making the bear-man jerk. A low growl came from the man. Skjoldr squinted and saw one of the attackers reading his spear. Another tug!

The growl rose in volume. Just as Skjoldr celebrated, Bjorn leapt over the corpse pile and landed in front of Skjoldr, who could only hold the lax rope and gape.

In a blink of the eye the bear-man raised his arm with sharp claws glinting in the sun and Skjoldr knew with clarity that the moment the arm came down, Skjoldr would be dead.

Skjoldr did not freeze like before. He did not stumble trying to dodge. Skjoldr bared his teeth and grasped the rope still hanging from bear-man’s neck, putting his whole weight into pulling it down.

There was only one thought pounding in his head: if I die, I will not let you kill me so easily. If I die, I will be as much of a nuisance as I can be. If I die, I will go down biting and screaming. You will not have the dignity of a clean kill. If I die, then…

His body knew better what to do than Skjoldr himself. His knee landed in the bear-man’s stomach, with one free arm he clawed at the face of the man. He was close enough to see the bloodshot eyes, feel the hot breath on his face.

Pain pierced Skjoldr’s back and he howled. It hurt, but worse was the understanding that Skjoldr’s time was running out. Skjoldr tugged again and felt the bear-man falling down on him, crushing him with his wait.

Still pulling at the noose, still kicking with his legs, Skjoldr realized that the bear-man was not breathing.

Crawling back, Skjodr saw the spear wounds in the man’s back. His body jerked, as a spear was removed by the warrior who felled him. He grinned at Skjoldr, then charged into a skirmish with an antlered Raider and two more plain faced men.

Skjoldr looked around. The Raiders did either not notice the defeat of their leader or simply did not care. The carnage went on.

But shouldn’t a battle end when the leader was dead?

Then, Skjoldr saw Kratos, surrounded by enemies. The first pang of fear for Kratos turned into admiration. Then the admiration turned into shock that his opponents were not fleeing yet.

Everything Kratos touched he killed. He cut a man’s head off with an ax, deflected the next attack with a spear and threw blades on chains to pull the archer closer to him, after which he lashed at him with flaming chains, burning him to crisp. The Raiders managed to land a few of their own blows on Kratos, while he was dealing with their comrades, but Kratos paid as much attention to the wounds as one pay attention to mud in a fight like this.

It was no time to stare, but Skjoldr could not help himself. This was a god, as volatile and dangerous as nature itself. A mortal like Skjoldr, should be getting out of the way. Maybe that was why even his allies did not meddle.

Even so, the battle went on. Kratos drew foes to himself like a torch draws moths to it. The moths burned to death in his flame, but that did not stop them. For as long as the light was there, moths would fly in this dance of burning wings.

It was as if all at once Skjoldr saw the whole battlefield laid out. The blood on Skjoldr’s lips, the clanging of weapons, the suffocating smell of death all came together in one picture. Here was Kolla who just yesterday joked the traders were sheep. Her throat was cut. Here was the bear-man, who disemboweled a man, and now laid on the ground, dead as a pig himself.

And here stood Skjoldr, who killed and would be killed in turn, long before this battle ended. A strong gust of wind blew, driving goosebumps over Skjoldr’s skin.

Then he heard a ferocious roar that turned into a piercing screech, drowning out sounds of battle.

A shadow fell shortly over them and something massive landed above the mouth of the cave, sending small rocks down on their heads.

Perched over the entrance of the cave, a dragon glowered at the combatants. It’s bleached-white head was as big as a man and Skjoldr could not see its full body — only the spread out wings, blotting out the sun.

Everyone stopped. Then a cry:

“My lord, you returned!”

A Raider fell on his knees and after him every other Raider followed, giving obeisance.

The cold feeling of fear solidified into terror. This dragon was on the side of the Raiders? They could not win against this gargantuan horror.

“Rest your weapons. No more blood needs to be shed.”

At first Skjoldr thought it was the dragon who spoke, but then he saw a figure step between the ridges of the dragon’s head.

“If justice is what you seek, it will be served today.”

A hushed whispers ran through the ranks like a wave.

“Tyr!”

Chapter Text

A wave of noise went through the crowd. Then it faded away, leaving only enraptured silence.

The dragon shook out its forelegs, sending stones to patter down. He was standing on top of the mountain rocks, looming above all of them, almost seeming part of the mountain himself. Kratos recognized the bone white crest and the scars on its paws from chains that imprisoned it for centuries.

The chains that Kratos himself broke.

Kratos adjusted the grip on the spear in his hand.

Tyr jumped down to stand in front of the dragon’s massive maw and swept his gaze over the crowd. He seemed unperturbed the heavy gazes of combatants, covered in blood, whether their own or of their enemies.

“I am today at the bequest of Fafnir…”

“Lord Fafnir!” loudly corrected a man.

Kratos did not recognize him and he did not wear Raider attire. One of those “traders” then, more bold than strong.

“Lord Fafnir,” amiably agreed Tyr, “who asked for the my judgement...”

The next few words Kratos did not know. Tyr spoke in the new tongue well known to the people of this land, enunciating clearly and slowly.

Regardless of what was said, a murmur rose through the crowd.

“What does this have to do with us? We did nothing. They attacked us!” exclaimed Teiti. His blond hair was matted with blood from the wound on his forehead. Kratos did not have the opportunity to teach him as he promised and was glad the young man survived .

Several others shout out in support of Teiti’s voice. The dragon growled, a lone voice drowning out the human voices. Tyr raised his hand and the protest on both sides quieted down.

“I will hear out every shore.”

Kratos frowned. No, he translated it wrong. It must have been: “I will hear out every side.”

Tyr said a few more short sentences which Kratos did not understand. Despite himself, Kratos felt his temper rise. He was the only one not in full grasp of the new tongue while matters of vital importance were discussed. The parting sentences, though, he understood.

“For now: rest. Then I shall listen and judge.”

No one argued. The crowd started to move, assembling into smaller groups.

Kratos threw the spear which sailed right past the ear of a Raider who was about to disappear into the bushes.

“And no one leaves,” growled Kratos.

Everyone stopped. Only once Kratos summoned the spear back, did his enemies and allies alike move again.

***

Kratos hated how loud everything was after battle. The wounded moaning, the dead being sorted and everyone, absolutely everyone, shouting to bring this, to do that.

It did not make things better that far too many Raiders were running around. Kratos did not come here to guard them like a watchdog.

In the end Kratos sat at the edge of the trees where he had a good overview and started washing off the blood of his skin and the armor.

Mimir tried talking to him about what was coming and Kratos barely managed not to snap at him to stay quiet. In the end, Mimir stopped talking as well, reading from Kratos’ silence that Mimir was not helping.

Unfortunately, Mimir was not the only person who wanted to talk.

The leader of the village, Alfhildr, a wizened old woman with a bow slung across her back, came to Kratos. Her inquisitive gaze rankled Kratos who was still covered in blood, still coming down from the battle rage and still so, so angry.

“What is there to judge? This was an attack against gods, against us, against everything.”

Kratos wholeheartedly agreed, so he kept quiet.

Not hearing a response, after a while Alfhildr continued:

“When pressed into a corner, everyone will invent grievances to make every side equally at fault. Yet we did nothing wrong.”

Using wet cloth Kratos methodically wiped his hands, his arms, his chest free of blood. His stony face betrayed no emotion.

“Gods are not easily fooled,” finally said Kratos.

The old woman pursed her lips. That was not the answer she wished to hear.

“Tyr came, because of the dragon. I came, because the realms need to be united. Whole.” It was difficult to form the words in the new language. The last word he used came from the language gods and giants used.

There was more Kratos could have said. Yet he was not sure if Alfhildr understood him, understood his burning desire to defend them all, understood Tyr’s thirst for justice, understood the web between Kratos and Tyr that made Kratos wary of going against Tyr, even if Kratos could not imagine the dragon having anything that would mitigate the Raiders guilt.

Yet it was wrong to let the villagers remain under the misapprehension they were alone and out matched once again. It was a long winter they survived and only now they started to hope and trust.

“I’m here for you.” said Kratos and Alfhildr’s eyes widened.

Immediately Kratos regretted saying this. It was the truth, but a promise is easy to give and hard to keep. He didn’t know what Tyr was planning, nor did Kratos know what he himself was going to do.

Alfhildr bowed slightly and removed herself. Kratos followed her with his gaze. Only much later, did he drop the blood soaked cloth on the ground.

***

“Kratos.”

“Tyr.”

Then they regarded each other. Kratos frowned in concentration, while Tyr’s lips twisted into a mirthless smile.

“Here we go again,” it seemed to say, “fighting our battles the same way as before and learning nothing from our failures.”

Something about that expression made Kratos want to snarl, but he did not let it show.

“The villagers want to know what is going on.”

“They will hear it from me, once the wounded are treated.”

Tyr carefully watched Kratos’ reaction and added:

“If it is you who wants to know more, just say so. I can tell.”

Tersely Kratos nodded.

“Just yesterday Fafnir arrived at the my temple, demanding justice… more specifically, for stolen treasure to be returned to him. It took a while, but it became clear that Fafnir did not blame us, but some tribes in Midgard.”

That gave Kratos pause.

“We captured a man during the raid,” Kratos said slowly, “he spoke of a tomb his people raided, of a monstrous king that demanded tribute in return.”

“Lord Fafnir, people here call him," remarked Tyr.

“Still. What does this have to do with us?”

“According to Fafnir, he could not recover his gold from the thieves. They claimed that they were robbed in turn.”

“You mean to say… when our wagons passed through, both the Raiders thought we were transporting… gold? All through Midgard?”

The notion was ludicrous to the point of laughter.

Tyr politely inclined his head:

“A foolish notion to us, but a reasonable lead when you have a furious dragon at your back, demanding results.”

Kratos snorted.

“You are rather quick to believe the dragon too. Who says he did not take his gold back himself?”

“I believe nothing yet, which I said to Fafnir himself.”

“Yet here you are,” remarked Kratos.

“Yet here I am,” agreed Tyr.

Kratos thought and while he thought he regarded Tyr. He was wearing the same subdued clothes as he did in the temple. Not here as a holy judge, barely here as a god. Just… what? A counterpart to Kratos? The one Kratos would not attack without listening first?

Why are you here, wanted to ask Kratos. Why are you here, when you refuse the center role, when you say you are unworthy, foolish, not good enough. Yet here you are, interfering. The judge, choosing what is right.

Why did that make Kratos so angry? It was Kratos who asked for a guiding hand, a voice of wisdom. All he had to do now was to listen… and that was beyond him.

“I don’t know the laws of Dwarves, gods or men of Midgard. I don’t speak well the mortal tongue, but I know them better than you.”

“Which of them?” cut him off Tyr.

Kratos glowered at Tyr.

“You did make friends over this journey. However, you still see and enemy and think of them as a pests to be rid off.”

Tyr gestured with his arm towards the Raiders, sitting on the ground, eating and murmuring among each other.

“This is what I worried about. This is what you are doing. Do you not see yourself that you are doing nothing new, making no change? This attack you planned… it makes things the way they were. It creates nothing new. Do you not see it?”

Into Tyr’s voice crept a note of pleading. It sounded like a well rehearsed argument… that never worked on the people Tyr tried to persuade, yet remained so close to his heart he could not let go of it.

“All this lot knows is how to kill.”

“Then teach them something new! Give me time to figure out what happened with Fafnir’s treasure… and make sure that these poor people survive until then.”

One of these “poor people” chewed on jerky. Kratos could bet it was human flesh.

“Fine,” finally said Kratos, “I will stay… and I will watch over this peace of yours. Don’t take too long with your judgment.”

“I will do as I must.”

Kratos turned to leave.

“Then so will I.”

Chapter Text

Another sweep and loud curses filled the air from men who thrown to the ground. Kratos drew back his chains and said:

“Again.”

No one did as much as sigh. As one-sided the fights were between villagers and a god, it was an opportunity mortals could only beg for.

Skjoldr was ready to beg. Even his broken leg was not enough to make him wish any less to be among the people trained by Kratos himself. Sure, Skjoldr lived in the shadow of gods all his life, but it was the life of being lucky if you could hold a conversation with them. Fighting a god? Forget about it. And learning directly from a god? That was the stuff of legends.

Things were changing now… and Skjoldr was sitting like a lump on a log, burning holes into the combatants with his gaze. Everyone his age was in the ring and Skjoldr only had kids war younger than him for company.

“Lord Kratos!” Skjoldr couldn’t help but to call out between fights. “Can you show how to fight with a lasso, against a big opponent, like a troll or a…”

“Stop bragging, Bearkiller!” shouted one of the guys in the ring.

Everyone laughed and Skjoldr reddened.

“It was a fluke!” Skjoldr defended himself. “There were four other guys with me beating on him. What should I do next time, if I’m alone?”

“Run,” suggested the brat next to Skjoldr.

Skjoldr thought about shoving him, but it was below his honor as a warrior, blooded in battle.

“Running is right. If the enemy follows, lay traps. If there is unstable ground, lead them there. Dead trees, rocks… make them fall.”

One moment there were chains wrapped around his forearms, then there was a spear in his arms which he used to sweep his trainees of their feet. Some jumped in time, others didn’t.

Skjoldr grinned, but then hastily adapted a solemn face when Kratos leveled a look at the assembled crowd. Kratos did not appreciate jokes during the training bouts. Actually, Skjoldr had never seen him laugh.

“And above all, don’t fight alone. You are many.”

Then he hit the earth with the butt of his spear and the sound of it was as loud and clear as a most beautiful ring of a bell.

Skjoldr felt his heart soar at those simple words. Yes! Yes, they were fighting together. Skjoldr did everything right, throwing himself into combat with a bad leg, killing one man with many others at his side… Was it honorable? Skjoldr would say no… but if Kratos said this was how it is supposed to be done? Well, then it was alright after all. Strength that was out of Skjoldr’s reach alone, but shoulder to shoulder with others…

It was then that the alderwoman of the village strolled their way, followed by thralls. It was still bizarre to watch Raiders carrying things for an elderly woman whom they could kill in one hit… well, maybe two, if what he heard about her fighting skills was true.

The tallest of the thralls had a shaggy brown mane and a badly stitched scar going from his mouth to the ear. When he bowed to put down the tablets with food, he stumbled, almost falling, before he caught himself. A lame leg? Well, at least now he looked less fierce to Skjoldr.

It was the cue for everyone to put down their weapons and to gather round to eat. As the crowd around Kratos dispersed, Skjoldr sidled up to Kratos.

“So, what will you do when they try to kill the villagers in their sleep?”

Kratos did not look like he planned to answer that question. Eventually out of his mouth came one word:

“Guess.”

“Well, okay, dumb question. What will the villagers do when we are gone and these beasts are still here?”

Both Skjoldr and Kratos looked at the Raiders. They ate separately and only at dawn and at sunset, so now they just huddled together, waiting for when they would escort their mistress back. One freckled thrall with droopy cheeks was standing aside from all others, looking more wary of the Raiders than the villagers.

“Like, this guy,”—Skjoldr pointed towards him—“maybe he is just dumb as rocks. First he tried to rob a dragon, then he had to serve the dragon, then did this diversion when the Raiders attacked us… Alright, maybe he is done making dumb choices. Maybe he and his buddies will get used to being thralls. But the others? No way.”

Skjoldr waited for an answer, but Kratos remained as still as a statue, watching the villagers joke and feast while their thralls remained a bothersome shadow.

“What should we then do?” Kratos asked softly.

At first Skjoldr thought he heard it wrong. Then he saw Kratos’ face expression: calm as usual and not hesitant in the least. No, Kratos was not wondering if he chose wrong, he was expecting for Skjoldr to come up with some good ideas.

“Well, I mean… I would…” Skjoldr trailed off.

The easy answer was that they should have been killed. Yet if Kratos did not choose to do so, he must have had his reasons. It’s just that Skjoldr could not think of a single one.

Then he tried again:

“Well, they need manacles!”

“Do these people have the iron to make restraints that would hold them?” Kratos nodded in the direction of the Raiders.

Skjoldr glanced at them again and shook his head.

Kratos said nothing else. Skjoldr opened his mouth again, but then the alderwoman strode towards them, bringing food to Kratos personally. Unwillingly, Skjoldr made space for her and his time talking to Kratos was over.

Skjoldr consoled himself that now he had time to think of something clever to say to Kratos the next time. After all, if Kratos had an answer, then with some effort Skjoldr could get to it too.

Right?