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DREAMCATCHER
121 Weeks
For Atreus, sleep had been hard to come by in the throes of an unforgiving Fimbulvetr . It had been almost two and a half years, and yet he felt as if a millennium had passed since then. From the constant training and hunting and running from an enraged and grieving Freya, he exhausted himself without end. One of his only comforts was curling up with Fenrir after a tiresome day. A solid, warm bulk at his back by the hearth of their home, perhaps rarely regaled with a story from his father’s youth. From his time before- in another place, far, far away from here. A land that he’d- in Mimir’s words- decimated with his own bare hands.
He’d noticed that recently, these past few months, his father had evaded a peaceful slumber as well. Though Atreus’ deprivation was due to restlessness and an intense, panicking feeling of dread that rushed to him every time he closed his eyes, his father’s was due to abrupt, violent nightmares. They were both so tired, and Atreus feared it meant something final. It might get them killed. This horrid, great winter had taken a mighty toll on them all.
Tonight, he is curled up on top of his bed with Fenrir laid behind him, acting as a living pillow with a snuffly nose pressed into his bare, freckled knee. Though it was most definitely far below freezing outside, the insulation of his childhood home, the clinging wolf at his back, and the roaring hearth his father had fed before settling into bed kept him more than toasty enough to let him exist in less than just his armor and pelts at all hours of the day. He’d dressed himself in the comfortable pants and heavy tunic over an undershirt he’d all sewn and patched together himself, something he wore more and more often when they’d returned from a hard day’s work.
In his calloused hand he clutched a near-finished arrow, piles of unrefined carved sticks, sharpened arrowheads, painted feathers, and tightly wound fiber rope sitting beside him waiting to be put together into arrows. He found that if he was awake with nothing to do, and he did not dare think of going outside in search of the knowledge of Tyr at such an hour, he would do menial tasks instead, sometimes house chores. He didn’t consider them menial, however- crafting arrows and stitching clothes and armor or braiding Fenrir’s fur or Mimir’s beard (even sometimes father’s, when permitted) was always quite relaxing.
He leaned forward over the lip of his bed to dip the sharpened stone arrowhead into the scorching, ashy coals of the hearth to temper and adhere the stone to the sludge-like glue slathered over the notch made into the wooden shaft. He dragged his fingers across the straight-cut feather ridge at the back of the arrow, flicking a few chipped pieces of paint off the delicate hairs.
Most of the time, he would paint the stalks of the feather tips a bright, angry red. He knew that the paint would weigh the feather down, but it didn’t prevent his arrows from flying true. He had a well-maintained stock of feathers from birds of prey he’d hunted for their dinners, and while most of them were beautifully dull colors of grey, brown, and white, there were a few colors that mostly sported deep red hues- like the color of his hair.
He pulled the arrow back from the fire and inspected it, smiling. He’d been crafting his own arrows for years now, but it still made him a little bit proud of himself every time. Fenrir gave a low whine and a huff, shuffling closer to him. Atreus placed the arrow with the other finished ones and carded his fingers through the wolf’s scruff, scratching behind his ears. He cupped Fenrir’s snout and kissed his wet nose, grinning and turning his head when the wolf’s tongue shot out to lick his cheek.
“Hush, Fen,” Atreus mumbled, petting his scruffed fur. “Don’t wake Speki and Svanna, or they’ll be jealous I let you up here. You know you’re not supposed to be on my bed.” He eyed the two sleeping wolves curled up on the other side of the hearth over the bear-pelt rugs. He’d managed to convince his father to let their wolves sleep inside during the night because of how cold it got outside. It took much prodding and the saddest, most miserable face he could muster to persuade him, and it worked! He wouldn’t have to worry about walking out in the morning to find their three wolves as icicles in the makeshift barrel-kennels he had built for them.
Fen let out another low whine and nipped playfully at his trousers with the front of his teeth. Typically all three of them slept on the floor over the pelt, but when Atreus was especially restless and fearful, Fen seemed to know exactly what he needed. A friend to hug and clutch and pet manically when he was too afraid to seek out any other kind of comfort from the panic when it overtook him.
He just felt like he was running out of time. It was a matter of when and not if anymore.
Sleep pulled at him, he felt so exhausted, but part of him just couldn’t bring himself to lay down fully. He chided himself for not even trying, but he just knew he wasn’t going to rest well anyway. Nightmares or horrible feelings would interrupt him- that awful vision of Thor arriving on their doorstep plagued him a few times a month. So often that he believed, every time, that it was real. It ate away at him, not knowing when or if it would happen.
He sighed, collecting his crafting materials from his bed and placing them in their respective spots underneath the frame, tucking the finished arrows into his quiver and hanging the strap over his bedpost. He reclined against Fenrir once more, curling his knees close to his chest so the scorching heat of the hearth didn’t irritate his bare shins.
It was just him, his wolf, and the sounds of the razor-sharp winds outside over the crackling fire below him. Mimir and his father slumbered peacefully, though Mimir didn’t really need sleep he still enjoyed shutting his mind off for a while. Atreus never sought to bother him whilst he rested.
There was a grunt, though, and a shift from his father’s bed. An abrupt creak in the aged wood- another grunt. His father’s head whipped around, eyes screwed tightly shut. Atreus placed a hand on Fen’s scruff as the wolf grumbled suspiciously. Speki and Svanna awoke as well, raising their ruffled heads to look at their master.
Atreus pushed himself off his bed and stood, creeping over to his father’s bedside. He’d never had the opportunity to pull him out of the beginning of a terror, usually only catching the end of it before he awoke to Mimir’s shouting of his father to wake up before he hurt himself or someone else. Most of the time, it would end in his father yelling and calling his mother’s axe to his fist before he would freeze in place and snap back into reality. He’d whip his head from side to side, searching for an invisible enemy. It broke something within him… his father didn’t feel safe, even in his dreams.
Atreus sat himself down on the bed carefully, and leaned over his giant of a father, placing a hand on his twitching shoulder. He shook him gently, hoping to rouse him without startle.
“Father, please wake, it’s only a nightmare!” He said urgently but quietly, hoping not to wake Mimir. His other hand caught his father’s forearm as it flailed over, nearly bowling the teenager over with the force of his swing. He gripped his wrist, then his hand- his own hardly bigger than his father’s palms.
“Father-” the man let out a sudden roar, shooting upright, the hand Atreus clutched in his own wrapping around his throat in a near-crushing grip. The gasp he let out was strangled and pathetic, blunt fingernails scrabbling at his scarred wrist, scratching it up and begging internally for his father to gather his bearings before he killed him.
“Father!” Atreus wrenched out, his throat constricted and strained as he fought to breathe. He kicked his legs too, bracing his bare feet against his father’s waist and pushing with all of the strength left in him. He managed to worm his thumb under in a poor attempt to pry his fingers off, but it proved quite difficult with the way his vision swayed and flickered.
“KRATOS!” Mimir’s voice boomed over the roar in his ears, and suddenly the pressure around his throat was gone. He collapsed backwards to the floor with the force of a crumbling mountain, squeezing his eyes shut as he prayed for relief. He gasped, almost choking on air as he curled around himself, coughing. Speki, Svanna, and Fenrir crowded him, growling and whining up at his father. Atreus reached out with a hand, gaining the three wolves’ attention. He shook his head, asking them to stand down, and Fenrir had immediately laid beside him and nosed at his sore, more than likely bruised neck. Atreus flinched against the sudden, white-hot sting of pain and pushed the wolf’s wet nose away. Fenrir let out a cooing whine and tucked his head over Atreus’ body, shielding him instead.
Inhale, Atreus told himself, exhale, he pressed his forehead into the warm wooden planks that made up the floor. Panic began to subside… it was only an accident, and his father was a naturally violent man. He couldn’t blame him, he wouldn’t hurt him again, it was okay. Father would never hurt him on purpose. Father never had hurt him on purpose. It was going to be okay-
“Atreus?” His father’s deep, crackly, more often than not now soft voice. Though tonight it was shaky, almost a whisper, as his hands reached out to touch but hesitated before they made contact.
The archer pushed himself up on his palms, Fenrir immediately invading his space and sitting tall in front of him, giving him something to lean on if necessary. It’s going to be okay, Atreus reminded himself.
“Are you okay?” He asked his father, who sat, ragged and hunched over his bedside, sick with worry and ravaged by guilt, no doubt. His father shut his eyes tightly and grimaced.
“I am not of concern at the moment, son.” Seeing as Atreus never did and never would have problems with his father being affectionate, his warm, large palms cradled his jaw, thumb tracing over his scarred cheek. Atreus leaned into his touch, even if those were the hands that could have murdered him not moments ago. He wasn’t afraid. He wasn’t going to let himself be afraid of his father. He knew better than to think that now.
It was an accident, a loud voice whispered harshly in his mind. Atreus shut his eyes for a moment to let himself breathe. He knew that already.
“Aye, lad. Are you alright?” Mimir piped up from his nook, his Bifrost eyes starkly glowing in the dim light. Atreus swallowed around the persistent, stinging ache and the pained rattle from his trembling lungs. He was fine.
“I’m fine.” He muttered, pulling himself up to sit beside him, bolstering his weight upon his father’s knee as if he were a toddler again, allowing his trembling legs to carry him up and over a few feet to his bedspread. He caught the way Father fought himself not to move away from Atreus instinctually, and took his arm to keep him close. They were bare, the raised, chained scars broad to the light, and the scratches he’d inflicted only moments ago were healed. Atreus let his fingers follow over the lines as he hugged his father’s branch-like arm close to his chest and rested his head on his bicep. He will trap him in his hold if necessary. It’s not as if his father hasn’t done the very same thing to him before, his hands were just bigger, and could wrap fully around his own wiry arms with just one. A clever tactic, he’d probably say.
“You’ve been plagued by nightmares for a while, a few days during the week- every week, for the past three months. What’s going on?” Atreus knew his father preferred it when he spoke plainly.
“Exaggerated anxieties, nothing more.” He admits curtly, turning to face him. Look him in the eye. Atreus cannot tell if he is lying, and in that moment? He hates it. However, he knows persistent prying is not the language his father is fond of. Typically, Atreus would use it to coerce him into answers, but this was more delicate. He didn’t want to upset him further.
“Why were you awake at such an hour? You are a warrior, and you are young. You need more rest than most.” His father continues on, evading the rest of the conversation. Atreus, exasperated, rolls his eyes. He is fully aware of their history of mutually failed honesty. A part of him was exhausted by the constant need for him to take the first steps, but if it meant progress… well, it would be worth it.
“Everytime I try to sleep I… feel so afraid. I don’t understand why. Sometimes, it’s dull enough to avoid because I’m so tired but… the worst ones are visions. The same one I told you about, over and over.” He explains, mumbling into the taut skin of his father’s pale, tattooed arm. This is one thing he’s mentioned to his father before. “A great storm, Thor’s approach… and then the ravens. It’s all so loud, it’s too much. The call of the birds, the thunder, the wind and rain…” Atreus felt a sudden breeze of cold and then a violent shiver shoot down his spine just thinking about it. He sighed, sinking against his father. He clings a little tighter, chasing the feeling of safety he so craved. It was hard to feel secure in his own home when even the trees protected and marked by the stave screeched in terror every night about the biting frost of fimbulvetr, the violent wind, the angry snow.
“Why did you not tell me?” He asks after a significant silence had passed between them, not daring to move again after Atreus tightens his grip stubbornly to keep him in place.
“Why do you not tell me?” The teenager retorts, huffing petulantly. He didn’t really want to answer that. A mixture of pride, shame, and fear, mostly. Fear that his father may think him weak for being terrorized by such vague visions of the possible future. How would Thor even get past the stave anyway? He wouldn’t. But a scenario wouldn’t repeat itself over and over in his mind if it wasn’t trying to tell him something important. Which is why the vision both made his fingers tremble and his palms sweat as well as make his fists tighten so hard his knuckles would crack and snap in irritation.
“Because they are merely nightmares, my son. Nothing to concern yourself with. But you must promise to never try and wake me yourself again, not so close.” He hunches himself to meet Atreus’ gaze at his son’s level. “I could have easily killed you, Atreus. Promise me.” The teenager stares intently into his fierce golden eyes, blazing with something he couldn’t describe. He nods curtly, then tries to harden his own voice as best he can.
“Fine… then next time, you have to talk to me instead of ignoring it.” He agreed, furrowing his brow. His father was silent for a few moments before he chortled, an amused twinkle in his old eyes. He nodded, accepting his terms.
“Very well. Now release me, child. I must tend to your neck.” Atreus smiles, finally releasing his father’s arm as he sits cross-legged on his parents’ bed.
“I am no child!” He argues, choosing to ignore the break in his voice as he folded his arms across his chest. Fenrir let out a soft bark, planting his large head squarely in Atreus’ lap, snout poking into his stomach. He did his best to still look stern while giving his whiny wolf attention. His father doesn’t respond, merely giving him that amused look he does when he is teasing him. He returns to the bed with a jar of floral-smelling medicine, a bruise cream Atreus had mixed himself. Taught from his mother, and the books of different herbs and their uses stored away in their rickety shelves.
“You’re only thirteen winters, lad, you’re most definitely still a child.” Mimir chimes in, much to the young archer’s dismay as he sends the Smartest Man Alive a stormy glare. He trained his attention back onto his father, preparing for the cold sting of poultice to grace his skin.
Atreus found it easy to heal lacerations and wounds that were open and bleeding with magic. But internal injuries, bruises and broken bones? It was much more difficult, and he’d no idea where to even begin. Part of him dearly wished he could ask Freya, but she hated them, and he had no idea who else to turn to. Surely not Sindri, since Dwarven magic was so different from gods or giants. His abilities seemed to be growing faster than he could manage or even discover them, and it was making him paranoid that something terrible would happen one day and be his doing.
He grimaced as his father slathered the cool, soothing healing balm over the skin of his neck, resisting the urge to curl in on himself and make a mess. He tilted his chin up when a jaw-cracking yawn escaped him, blinking sluggishly as the sudden surge of adrenaline crashed straight into the ground.
“What if I was a dreamcatcher? Or a… nightmare-catcher.” Atreus wonders awkwardly aloud, his own childish want to sleep in the same bed as his father just as he did when his mother was still alive taking over his sense of dignity. Perhaps he just wanted to feel safe again. Enough so to embarrass himself without warrant. Regardless, he soldiered on, and nodded sagely to himself. Maybe he could make his father laugh as an excuse for his embarrassment when he inevitably tells him to stop being a child and to go sleep in his own bed.
“I think I’d make a pretty good dreamcatcher.” He informs his father matter-of-factly as he wipes excess cream from his bruised skin with gentle, calloused fingers.
“Would you.” It’s not a question, but it sure feels like one. His father sets the poultice on the bedside table and looks at him- really looks at him, a quirked, furry brow and his normal frown hidden behind an unruly yet groomed beard. Perhaps he could see right through Atreus’ facade, and his whole demeanor softens.
Man, I’ve got to get better at hiding this kind of stuff.
“Go on, then.” His father said, gesturing vaguely to the twisted and messy furs. Atreus hides his pleased smile as he rolls to mother’s side of the bed and burrows himself under, curling up into a ball, hidden up to his eyes under warm, soft pelts. Fenrir whines at the foot of the bed, sitting like a good boy with a wriggling, happy tail. Speki and Svanna are already settled back near the fire- not nearly as spoiled (but almost just as much) as Fen. The wolf makes it known that he wanted to jump up onto the bed, but Atreus knows his father would never allow it.
“Sorry boy, but you can’t come up here. Go lay down on mine, okay? It’s fine, I promise.” He whispers from his cocoon, unwilling to leave the protection he covered himself in. Fenrir is as stubborn as his father, though, and always willing to defy the odds for his own comfort. He hates that even his wolves can read right through him.
The wolf hopped up onto the bed and settled down at Atreus’ feet, curling his paws under himself and resting his snout on the lumps that are the archer’s legs.
“Fen,” Atreus chides, giggling. “What did I just say?” He hunkers under the blankets as his father approaches the bed, arms folded with a disapproving scowl on his face, directed at his beloved companion.
“You know the rule, wolf. Down.” He points down to the floor, and while usually Fenrir will listen without hesitation, this time he tilts his head with a floppy ear and instead shuffles closer to Atreus, digging his nose into the furs. Father lets out a displeased grunt, but he pauses to study the wolf, and sighs.
“Very well. I will make an exception, for tonight only.” His father says, pointing a finger at Fenrir. Atreus laughs into the blankets, playfully hiding from his father’s gaze when he turns his flameless ire on him for such direct, mischievous disobedience. “Close your eyes, son. Go to sleep. I will be here.” He swept his fingers through Atreus’ fiery hair, thumb lingering on his temple as it strokes a repeated pattern- soothing in a familiar way. He’d done this many times when he was younger, and even in the past few years.
“I will be here too,” Atreus mumbles sleepily, eyes slipping shut as he blindly, sluggishly reaches for his father’s forearm and rests there. “For you.”
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