Chapter Text
There were two figures in front of his homestead when Kratos returned from gathering firewood. Despite the late-spring haze, he recognised them immediately.
“Father,” Atreus said in greeting, eyes like storm clouds. “We have good news. You’re going to be a grandfather.”
Kratos wasn’t sure how to react. He had known his son long enough to hear the awkward hesitation in the young man’s voice and he searched his son’s and daughter-in-law’s faces for the catch. Beside the young god, his wife squeezed his elbow supportively. Her proud face was as unreadable as ever, probably because she had foreseen everything about this encounter already.
“Oh, congratulations! Both of you!” Mimir said from Kratos’ belt.
Atreus’ serious expression broke into a fond smile. “Thank you, Mimir.”
Kratos frowned at Angrboða. “I thought you had no womb. You were able to find one?”
“Not exactly,” Angrboða said, delicately. Her dark eyes flicked to Atreus.
Atreus raised an eyebrow. “It isn’t her.”
There was a long pause while Kratos stood silently, his arms crossed. “I don’t understand.”
“Well, Angrboða isn’t infertile, she just doesn’t have parts to carry a child, only to give child to another. And I can shape-shift, so…” Atreus made an awkward hand gesture. “How much do you need me to explain?”
“You’re to carry the child?” Kratos asked him, the question coming out unexpectedly sharp.
Atreus sighed, running a thumb over his stubble.
“Try not focus on the specifics,” Angrboða said, smiling softly.
“The good lady is right,” Mimir cut in. “In a year’s time, who will remember the way the child was carried into this world?”
Kratos shook his head, refusing to be thrown off the scent. “You will maintain this… skin-changing long enough to carry the child to term? Such a thing is possible?”
“It is possible,” Atreus said. “It isn’t without a little risk, but it’s definitely possible.”
“What are the risks?” Kratos asked.
“The risks are minimal,” Atreus repeated.
Kratos gritted his teeth. “What are they?”
“I don’t see how it’s any of your business,” Atreus growled, mulishly.
Kratos didn’t realise he had taken a step forward until he felt Angrboða’s hand on his chest, easing him back. She looked between them. “Aside from the same health risks of any pregnancy, he can’t shape-shift or use magic until the child is born.”
“Or the child will die?” Mimir asked.
“No… we’ll both die,” Atreus admitted. He squeezed his hands around the fence post. “I won’t be able to sort out my essence from the child’s if I attempt it, and my spirit will split.”
“Like old milk,” Angrboða suggested, helpfully.
Atreus gave a surprised laugh, but Kratos didn’t see the humour in it.
“This is a terrible idea,” Kratos said. “I forbid it.”
Atreus rolled his eyes. “It’s a little late for that, father. I didn’t come here to discuss family planning.”
Kratos startled. He glanced up and down his son’s figure. Atreus had grown a lot in the last few years, and stood tall and steady, with sleek muscle which gave him an otter-like grace. He looked normal. Healthy. But already, somewhere under his pelts and scale armour, he was carrying another tiny life.
Under the weight of his father’s eyes, Atreus shifted back slightly.
“There’s bad news, too,” Angrboða said.
As far as Kratos was concerned, he had already heard the bad news. “About the child?”
“Let me guess… there are those that already quarrel with it?” Mimir asked.
“Yeah, well, not everyone will be as… happy as father is to hear about it,” Atreus said, dryly. “I mean, we’ve already been attacked regularly since we were married.”
“Which is why you shouldn’t have given up your magic,” Kratos said.
“I didn’t have a choice!” Atreus snapped. “You know it would be the same if Angrboða was the one pregnant, right? Nobody can use magic carrying a child.”
“You are a better combatant than her,” Kratos said. “You would be better able to protect her.”
“It’s impossible anyway! She can’t shape-shift, I can!” Atreus jabbed a thumb into his chest. He gritted his teeth, and a muscle in his jaw jumped as he visibly forced himself to calm. He took a step back. “Look, I didn’t come out all this way to fight with you, father.”
“Then what did you come here for?” Kratos asked.
Atreus took a deep breath. “We can’t stay in Jötunheim. Nobody knows the child is coming yet, but once they do, it will get more dangerous. So we have to throw everyone off the scent.”
“Split up,” Angrboða said, with a slight nod of her head. “Keep on the move. Leave no trace.”
“Split up?” Kratos echoed, looking between the married couple.
Atreus bowed his head a little. “I’m asking… for a favour. I need… will you grant me protection, father?”
Kratos was surprised. Not by the request, but the idea that Atreus had thought he had to ask. “I will.”
*
Before she left, Angrboða took her father-in-law aside and pressed a small fabric bag into his large hands. “Here, you will need this.”
Kratos opened the drawstrings. “Magic twine?”
“You will know when to use it. And remember to watch for my waxwings,” Angrboða said. She bowed. “Thank you, father, for helping us.”
“Hmm,” Kratos said. From her tone, he was never sure if she was being genuine or if there was some hidden joke he wasn’t privy to. “How does this end?”
“You would do well not to trust prophecies,” Angrboða said. “They can be very misleading. Besides, you of all people know they aren’t set in stone.”
Kratos frowned at her and wondered if she truly thought that, or if it was something she had said only to ease his worries. As far as he knew, Angrboða believed fully in prophecy and saw them as immutable guides, but if so, why not share her foresight? Unless the prophecy foretold misfortune -- but if so, why did she meekly follow it? Kratos would never understand womenfolk.
“Travel well, father,” Angrboða said, wrapping her hands around his. Kratos gave a light squeeze of her cool fingers back. “You too, daughter.”
*
In early summer, the forest of Midgard were ripe with life. Every bush was heavy with berries and the vegetation rustled with unseen animals. Creeks glinted with white as the water rushed over dark rocks. Deer passed silently through the vibrant grass, stopping to flick long ears at the travellers.
Kratos kept a watchful eye on his son, but the younger man didn’t seem any different. He was just as nimble when they climbed the mountains, watched the undergrowth just as keenly when they hunted.
If anything, Kratos was surprised at how calm and capable Atreus proved himself to be. He had become a clever negotiator, and Kratos found himself agreeing far more often than not.
When they caught them, they skinned and hung rabbits, deer and boar from the branches of the forest, smoking strips of flesh in a home-made smoke-house. Most of the time they ate nuts and berries, and bought bread from the rare towns that they passed. Other travellers spoke of foreign Midgardian wars and mortal kings squabbling over succession. Atreus listened with interest but Kratos only grunted and waved them onward.
Once or twice a week, one of his distant wife’s thin-boned waxwings would land on Atreus’ shoulder and whisper in his ear. Sometimes, he would repeat the messages to Kratos. Other times he kept them to himself.
For months, his son’s body did not seem to change. Or perhaps Kratos was trying not to notice Atreus loosening his belt and carrying his bow over his shoulder rather than across his chest.
Fog swept in as the evenings winds grew fiercer. Silver hemmed the cloud-banks, and dew glowed like pearls in the cool mornings. The sun began to break further through the balding canopies. There was, everywhere, a sense of things drawing to a close.
*
“Watch out! Behind you!” Mimir cried.
Kratos flipped his axe out and swung before he saw what he was swinging at. The blade connected with a teeth-jarring slam against the shield of the frost giant. Metal squealed.
With a grunt of effort, Kratos forced the giant he was fighting to lurch back a few steps. The giant was about a foot taller than Kratos himself, with narrower shoulders and a long, feather-sewn braid which swung heavily behind him.
“Gotcha now, little minx,” someone snarled across the clearing, and there was the scuffle of breaking branches.
“Atreus!” Kratos yelled, but only caught a glimpse of his son behind overtaken by a larger man before he had to return his attention to the giant swinging for his head.
“Let - go of me!” Atreus gasped, fighting the tight arms around him.
“And release such a fertile young broodmare? I heard you can whelp for anything in the nine realms,” the larger man kept a firm grip on Atreus’ struggling body. “But you prefer it if they have hooves.”
Atreus howled and tried to launch himself forward, eyes burning blue. He still wasn’t strong enough to break free from the man’s grip, but the first white-orange sparks of a transformation were shedding from his skin.
“Atreus, no!” Kratos cried.
“Don’t let him shift, Ulvik!” Kratos’ attacker commanded sharply. Kratos swung viciously at him, and he ducked back.
Ulvik grappled with the young man like he was trying to keep a cat in a bag. “Tch! It’s harder than it looks, Hreiðarr--”
The bright shavings of magic made the young god’s hair look like fur and his long human hands like curling claws. His furious eyes burned with their own light. Atreus lurched downwards, pulling the knife out of his boot and burying it in Ulvik’s upper thigh.
“Bitch!” Ulvik snarled, momentarily losing his grip. Atreus slipped out of his hands, but Ulvik pulled the handle of his weapon down from his back.
The heavy, spiked end of the mace slammed into Atreus’ stomach with so much force that he was lifted off his feet.
“No!!” Kratos bellowed.
Hreiðarr slammed into Kratos with his shield, but Kratos wrapped his fingers around the side, throwing it off balance. He brought the blade of the axe down like a guillotine. It split his skull like a melon.
“No -- brother!” Ulvik yelled, but managed to dodge the axe sailing for his head. He slipped to one side, unsteady on his wounded his leg.
Ulvik managed to yank Atreus up from the wet leaves by the collar of his jacket. “Stop, you big Greek bastard,” Ulvik said, pressing his knife into the young man’s skin so hard that it drew a thin line of blood.
Reluctantly, Kratos stopped approaching. His grip shifted on his axe. “Release him,” Kratos growled.
“Do you think I’m an idiot?” Ulvik asked, voice shaky with adrenaline. He had to support Atreus with one arm, because the young man kept sagging forward. Blood soaked through Atreus’ fingers where he clutched the front of his padded gambeson. His blue eyes were unfocused.
“Release him,” Kratos repeated.
“Put down your weapons, or I’ll slit his throat,” Ulvik snarled. “Now, or I -- AH!”
Atreus had sunk his teeth into Ulvik’s hand, forcing him to drop the knife. In the next second, the axe blade buried into Ulvik’s temple and he went limp, slumping onto Atreus’ back.
“Atreus,” Kratos scrambled forward, pulling him free. “Atreus, show me your stomach.”
Atreus tried to rise onto his knees, but collapsed into his father’s hands. His whole body was shuddering and both palms were dirty with bright blood. He pulled Kratos’ hands away from him, trying to rise again onto his knees.
“Atreus, let me see,” Kratos said. He tried to pull at the belt restricting the young man’s blood-soaked padded armour.
“I’m fine,” Atreus gasped, “I’m fine, don’t touch -- ” He let out a painful, rattling cough.
“Atreus, just breathe,” Kratos said, fighting to keep his voice level. He lifted Atreus by the underarms, like he used to do when the boy was a toddler, to allow his lungs full room to inflate. “Atreus, calm down. Just focus on breathing.”
Atreus struggled to breathe, gripping his father’s shoulders desperately as his diaphragm spasmed with hacking coughs. His fingers dug into Kratos’ skin.
Eventually, Atreus’ breathing returned to normal, but he still shivered gently. Kratos set him down on a patch of earth clear of leaves.
“I’m fine,” Atreus said, voice firmer. Blood darkened the front of his padded jacket. “He missed the child.”
“Let me see,” Kratos insisted, calmly.
Atreus grimaced, but unbuckled his belt and the strap of his quiver, rolling up his fur pelt and the padded gambeson underneath. He lay back down, flat, for his father to inspect. Despite the cool temperature, his skin sparkled with sweat.
The broken skin was a mottled stripe of bruising, but Kratos forced himself to look beyond his fear. The spikes of the mace had struck the bottom of Atreus’ ribcage, not his belly. He still bled steadily, and already, colour was rising under his pale skin.
“I’ve had worse,” Atreus said. “Without my magic, it will take a little longer to heal, that’s all.”
“You should have allowed yourself to be subdued,” Kratos said. “I would have rescued you.”
“Would you have ever let yourself be captured?” Atreus scoffed.
Kratos ignored the rhetorical question, eyes narrowed. “That was angrier than I’ve seen you in a long time.”
Atreus lifted himself onto his elbows. “Yeah, well, you know… hormones.”
That wasn’t the truth, and Kratos knew it. But in his long life, he had gained a sense of when his prying would do more damage than good.
Now that his son’s body was presented before him, for the first time since he had fallen pregnant, Kratos couldn’t help but trace the swelling of his stomach with his eyes. It had been nearly five months already. Summer was over. Atreus was bigger, a band of thick fat rested over his hips and there was a definite slope to his stomach. Even under his padded armour, it would be difficult to hide for much longer.
“The blow hit your ribs, but it still might have hurt the child,” Kratos said, drawing his eyes away.
“The puppy wasn’t very happy about it, but they’re fine,” Atreus said.
“You can talk to them?” Kratos asked. “You can feel that they’re alive and well?”
“You can, too,” Atreus said. He took one of Kratos’ hands and pressed it to the unbruised underside of his belly.
Kratos went stiff. The taut skin was very warm under his calloused fingers and he touched very lightly. He wait patiently for a long moment. “I’m not getting…”
“You need to poke them, they can’t feel you there,” Atreus said, taking his father’s wrist and pushing his hand more firmly against his belly. “If the know you’re there, they’ll want to hit you. Ha. I guess they got your temper.”
Kratos gave him a flat look -- but felt something brush through the flesh under his hands. He stared disbelievingly down at the skin between his fingers, and felt another kick against him.
“[By Mount Olympus…],” Kratos muttered, the ancient Greek slipping out. “You’re really with child…”
“No, father, this has all been an elaborate prank,” Atreus said, dryly. He pulled his trousers back up, re-buckling his belt under the swell of his belly.
“I’m glad that your child is well, brother,” Mimir cut in, brightly. “Do you think, if you put my cheek against your stomach…?”
“Sorry. I think I’ve been manhandled enough for one day,” Atreus said. He spread a palmful of salve over his broken skin and quickly wrapped it in white linen so he could pull his dirty gambeson back down.
Kratos held out a hand and Atreus let himself be pulled to his feet. Kratos kept a firm grip on him, but let go when it was clear Atreus could stand on his own.
“I’m not enjoying having no power,” Atreus muttered, tiredly.
“Who does?” Mimir smiled.
Atreus brushed down his knees a little sheepishly. “Sorry, Mimir. I guess no amount of magiclessness comes close to having no arms and legs at all. How do you manage?”
“Ah, just remember life can always be worse, lad,” Mimir said. “That’s what keeps me so upbeat.”
“We have to keep moving,” Kratos said. “It isn’t safe here.”
*
It was a cold blue night. The first truly cold night of early autumn. Atreus slept curled up under heavy furs, breathing softly. As he slept, the frown lines had eased from his face. He looked far younger.
Kratos set Mimir’s head down on the tree stump before him. His breath ghosted across his beard. The cold of these northern lands never failed to make him feel unwelcome.
“What made Atreus so angry?” Kratos asked the head.
Mimir hesitated. “I’m sure it wasn’t pleasant to be called a broodmare,” Mimir suggested.
“I know it’s more than that,” Kratos said.
“I don’t know if it’s my place to say it,” Mimir said. “Besides, I know better than anyone that some things are worth staying ignorant about.”
“Mimir,” Kratos said, firmly. “Don’t make me ask again.”
Mimir bit the end of his tongue, his white eyes glowing softly. “It was… the comment about hooves. There was once a lesser prophecy, really little more than a divine rumour, about Loki having… sexual relations with a horse.”
Kratos breathed in sharply. A hard ball of anger formed in his throat. “Explain. Now.”
“Of all the times you ask for a story…” Mimir sighed. “The tale goes the gods made a wager against a mystic builder that he would be unable to finish fortifying Asgard before season’s end. In order to ensure that the Aesir would win their bet, Odin and the other gods had Loki sabotage the builder’s work, and faced death if he didn’t. You see, the builder had a magnificent horse who provided most of the labour…”
“He was forced to lie with it,” Kratos said.
“Yes,” Mimir admitted, heavily. “I suppose there’s no sugar coating it. Perhaps he could have found another way to sabotage the mystic builder… but there probably wasn’t one. Loki succeeded by shifting into a mare and… seducing the builder’s giant stallion.”
Kratos’ eyebrows knitted together. There was a cold, grim feeling in his chest. “And then?”
“Nine months later,” Mimir said. “The child was born from the union of a god and a beast, a grey, eight-legged horse – Sleipnir, who became the steed of Odin.”
“His steed?” Kratos asked, voice rising.
“Sleipnir had not the mind of a man,” Mimir said. “So the tale goes. It had Loki’s speed and agility, but was no smarter than a animal. It could not speak.”
Kratos shook his head, heavily. “If Odin were alive, this would have come to pass.”
“Perhaps,” Mimir said. “Though there was no guarantee.”
Kratos ran a hand over his face. Everything felt heavy. It was a horrible truth, worse now that he knew it would have likely been possible. Atreus might be a man, but unlike most men, he could also have a child forced upon him. He hadn’t even considered it a possible fear to have.
Had Odin had this all planned out? Kratos knew the lengths other men would go to, to have a steed as powerful as Sleipnir must be. Were their others hunting for them, with the same goal in mind?
Kratos thought of that abomination, that eight-legged, animal of a grandchild, whelped shivering and alone in the forest long after the death of Atreus’ father and mother. The mindless, many-legged foal, blood of his blood, shining caul clinging to wet grey coat. Would his son have had Angrboða to take care of him, after that? Or would she, too, have been swallowed by the world’s endless violence?
Kratos watched the deep night undergrowth. A black-eared fox crept silently through the leaves, tail raised as if in greeting. Birds landed on dark branches. Spiders spun silver webs, glowing softly in the moonlight like cracks in black glass.
*
Salt-water spray dashed across the smooth decking. Sea was already crusting in the fur of Kratos’ pelts like frost and the air tasted heavy with brine. Seagulls dove for fish across the grey horizon.
Kratos was not used to so many mortals. He didn’t fear them, but they unnerved him with their fragility. It was the same vague anxiety an elephant might have in a glassblower’s workshop. They pushed past him, yelled at each other, laughed loudly, brawled in the lower decks when they were drunk. It reminded Kratos too much of Sparta -- but the memory was so distant now it was hard to be hurt by it.
He approached Atreus, who was playing a card game by himself at one of the tables. Kratos sat down heavily opposite him. “You should be wearing your armour.”
“We’re among mortals,” Atreus said. “I might not have my magic but there’s still nothing a mortal blade can do against me.”
“There is no excuse for laxness,” Kratos rumbled.
“Fine. Find me a scale armour which I can pull around my stomach and I’ll wear it,” Atreus said, setting cards down. “I’m roughly the size and width of a boar right now.”
Kratos looked over at him. His son wore a thick deep-green woollen shawl, which made him blend in well with some of the mortal grandmothers they were travelling with. “It doesn’t bother you? Being male and pregnant?”
“You are about seven months late on asking that question,” Atreus said. He looked over his cards and changed some of their positions. “It doesn’t bother me. I don’t mind being a man, but the distinction between man and woman doesn’t mean anything to me. Man, woman, human, frog, lizard, wolf, dung-beetle. The separation is an illusion.”
“I see,” Kratos said, although he actually wasn’t sure what Atreus meant by that.
“Does it bother you?” Atreus asked, eyebrow raised.
“It is none of my business.”
“Ha. Deflection,” Atreus said, but there wasn’t any accusation in his voice. “If we’re asking overdue questions: What was my mother like? When she was pregnant with me?”
“She was strong,” Kratos said.
“Stronger than you?”
“In some things, she has always been stronger than me,” Kratos said.
“Hmm. When did you become so cryptic, father?”
“Ask a better question,” Kratos advised him.
Atreus ran a hand over his hair. “Were you already bald when you were my age? No offence, but I don’t want to lose my hair.”
Kratos grunted and stood up from the table. “I will look into resizing your armour.”
Atreus smirked, returning to his cards. Beneath them, the sea rocked the boat. A sailor cursed Njǫrd under their breath as the ship righted itself.