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Chapter Text

His hand stilled over the massive ornate door to his shared home, a concerning pounding sound coming from within giving him pause. It had taken him the better part of the day to travel back from Valhalla, the journey welcomely silent as both he and Mimir had ruminated on the experience, but he’d managed to forget Freya had been angry at his intrusion into the Realm of the dead and knew her capable of storing away her anger for use at a later time. They’d never sparred inside Sindri’s house, but Kratos was at a loss for what the rhythmic pounding could be if not Freya flogging a training dummy likely fashioned to resemble his face.

Her smile during their first conversation outside the doors of Valhalla, warm and genuine, sprung to his mind, as it had since it had first been gifted him, and he used that memory to give him the courage to push the door open. He’d been accurate in his determination that Freya’s fists had been the cause of the pounding, but her target was a mound of flour and water on the dining table she stood over. She paid his entrance no attention, not stopping her work though there was no doubt in his mind she knew he was there. 

Setting his weapons on the rack by the door and removing his armor to hang on the wall, he then turned back to face her, catching her eye before she looked quickly back down to the lump of dough in front of her. 

He approached the table slowly, cautiously, her knuckles cratering the yielding victim. “Are you angry with this bread?” he asked and her hands paused. She let out a heavy exhalation that blew a cloud of flour his direction. “You are still angry with me.” 

“I don't seem to be able to stay mad at you for any significant period of time. That in itself is infuriating,” she griped, pounding down rhythmically again, harder than necessary and he began to feel sorry for the yeasted punching bag. Hearing no real malice in her voice despite her posturing, he relaxed and took a seat at the table opposite her.

“So you are angry that you are not angry with me.”

She lifted her eyes to glare up at him without lifting her head, “It makes perfect sense.”

“Of course,” he conceded, happy to fall into amiable verbal sparring, this outcome much preferred over what he feared he’d encounter when outside the house.

“Where is Mimir?” Though her words and tone were kind, her hands continued to pummel the dough that was beginning to flatten defeatedly into the table.

“Outside. Brooding on a branch at his request.”

“Hmmm,” she hummed in acknowledgement but offered nothing more, the sound of her hands slapping the hapless dough filling the silence. She stopped for a moment, her voice soft, “I hope they are able to find their way back to each other when Sigrun returns.”

“I do as well. They care deeply for each other. If they are unable to be happy together I fear there is little hope for the rest of us.”

 She huffed out a laugh in response, “Bizarre realms we live in when the love story involving a reanimated severed head is more inspiring than the goddess of love.”

“I had forgotten that is one of your many duties.”

“That's telling isn't it?” Freya asked lightly, the dough beginning to stick to her fingers as it finally gave up the battle and lost all remaining cohesion. What remained now was merely a puddle that began pooling across the table.

“I did not mean-”

“-I'm just being self-deprecating, you don't have anything to apologize for. Not for that at least.” She looked up at him to give him a smile as sarcastic as her voice. “It's a cruel irony that a goddess of love should have no great loves. I'm at least not the goddess of marriage.”

“Nor the goddess of bread,” he said wryly and she looked up from the mess in front of her to attempt a glare that immediately failed as she was met with the tiniest disarming smile. 

Shaking her head in amusement she couldn’t help but return his smile, “Ass. You go on a journey of redemption and you come back snarky.”

Her attention turned back to her victim, whispering words in the old tongue unfamiliar to him and the bread came back from a gelatinous blob to a domed mound of dough. 

When her spell had finished he offered to let her in on what he regretted not involving her in from the start, “I would like to share with you what I experienced in Valhalla. Tomorrow. If you are here.”

She sat down at the table, her hands running lightly across the top of the dough and down the side opposite her, pulling it towards her. 

“I'd love that. I'll be here. I have a few days to myself while Hildisvini and Sif take over.”

Watching her hands move and shape the dough gently, he reflected on what he knew now to be the cause of her anger, certain that Mimir knew it much sooner than he. Kratos had seen it clearly for what it was, but chose to try and ignore it. Fear for his safety, hurt for not being involved in his ‘personal’ journey, disappointment in his recklessness. All of which was only possible if she cared for him and not just merely found him useful as he had asserted foolishly earlier. Mimir had not let him escape that and, as he often was in hindsight, he was grateful for the honesty from his steadfast friend. 

He continued watching her, picking their conversation back up, “Your ability to share power effortlessly is enviable.”

She grunted, “Helps that I don't really want it in the first place.”

“I have observed reluctant leaders to be among the best leaders. Mimir spoke of your early days as Queen of Asgard. Of the culture you sought to foster. That you made lives better.”

“It's hard to think of that as an achievement when I now know my people were being slaughtered while I attended musical performances.”

“You did not know. There should be no shame in that.”

“And yet…” she made a vague dismissive gesture with her hands, pieces of dough still stuck to her fingers coming free to scatter across the table.

“Unlike your bread there is no undoing what we have done or was done to us. There is only learning from our mistakes and not repeating them. I have seen you do that without needing a God of War to put you through an arduous trial in the land of the dead.”

“Thank you,” she whispered sincerely before tilting her head at him, her face lighting up with bemusement, “Do you and Mimir speak of me often?”

“No, as you are normally with us. But we did in Valhalla. Mimir posited that I had chosen to travel to Valhalla to avoid you. It was not the reason I had gone but it may have contributed to my willingness to go.” 

She reached for her side where she normally kept a small knife, remembering as her hands touched the fabric she was completely out of her armor and wore no belt. Before she could make to stand, he stood and walked to the cabinet that held their cooking supplies, finding a knife and wiping it clean before handing it over to her. She thanked him with a warm smile and began intricately scoring the loaf that was now ready to be baked. 

Sitting back down he was momentarily struck with a lightheadedness that he didn’t need Mimir to tell him was caused by her. He’d be in trouble the next time they sparred if she knew she could fell him if she simply smiled at him. 

He tried to gather his thoughts, to continue his earlier statement, but the words took so long to come to him he feared they would be nonsense by time they came out. Briefly he wondered if she’d inadvertently enchanted him when she cast her spell on the bread, somehow turning his mind into an unformed blob while the dough had come back together. 

Swallowing thickly he then cleared his throat, startling her and causing the knife to miss her next score and she shot him an exasperated look before fixing her mistake. 

“Freya…one thing that was clear before this journey is how much trust you have in me to ask me to share this power with you. And now after my experience I cannot help but still feel unworthy of your trust. Perhaps I always will.” 

He stood up again to grab a thin wooden paddle, handing it over to her so he could receive his reward, no guilt in his selfish motivations for assisting her. 

Keeping her eyes on him, she slid the loaf onto the wood, “There are many reasons why I trust you, but first among them is because you understand the weight of it, that you don't take it for granted. I can't stop you from continuing to try to earn the trust you already have from me, but I can appreciate that you treat it with such care. You treat me with care.” She held his gaze for a moment longer before turning to take her reanimated bread to the oven.

“I understand that would be especially meaningful to you. I would not purposely betray your trust, but accidentally-”

“-like forcing your way into a realm I oversee without telling me?” She interrupted good-naturedly, her back to him while she slid the bread off the wooden paddle and into the oven. 

“Yes, like that. I am sorry for my part in Sigrun's injuries and her need to now atone with Valhalla. What happened with Mimir… it may have been a mistake to break Valhalla’s rules but I still do not see myself ever making a different choice.”

“You've had to make a lot of horrible decisions for the right reasons since coming to these realms.”

Whether it was from the heat of the oven or her seemingly effortless compassion, the source of the calming warmth that spread through him didn’t matter in the moment. He willingly embraced it. “Yes, it is as if every realm has had their own trials for me.”

“I think I could say the same as well,” she spoke softly, her back still to him. Unwilling to wait any longer for her bread to finish, she again spoke in the old tongue, speeding up the process while he watched on. She twirled the wooden paddle around in her hand as he had seen her do with her swords before plunging it into the oven to take her bread out. 

“Mimir also spoke at length of his courtship with Sigrun. It appears that will be his enduring trial,” he said as she brought the miraculously edible bread back to the table and set it between them. 

“Despite my own experience I believe love to be a worthy trial.” Instead of coming back to the table she walked behind him to the washbasin, perpetually clean with her magic, tossing an amused question back at him, “Do you two also speak often of your love lives?” 

“He has given me much, often unsolicited, advice on courting.” 

She turned from the washbasin to laugh lightly, asking, “You have someone you wish to woo?” Looking around for a clean towel he held one up and she walked towards him, but instead of handing it to her he reached out to dry her hands with it. She allowed him to trap her hands between his, the fabric enveloping her wet hands as he rubbed her fingers dry, aided by the warmth of his own hands. “If it's a Valkyrie I believe you're obligated to tell me who,” she continued lightly, “And if it's Gunnr I can tell you with certainty you're not her type.” 

Though her hands were now dry, he kept hold of them, both their eyes fixed on their joined hands, skin separated only by the thin layer of fabric.

“No, Freya,” he answered quietly and her eyes snapped to meet his, her lips parting slightly in surprise, keeping her outward response expertly measured as she searched his face for a sign she’d misinterpreted. He never worried for a moment that she wouldn’t understand the subtext, the woman frighteningly keen. “If you would allow me… it may take me years or decades to do so…” he trailed off, losing what little courage he had gathered to stumble into this foolish endeavor.

“I'm not going anywhere,” she answered softly, smiling down at him, graciously allowing the huge moment to stay small. “Except to bed. Do you need anything to help you sleep?”

“No, thank you. I believe I will sleep soundly tonight.” He’d dream of her, of that he was certain. 

“Good, you deserve it.”

“Goodnight, Goddess of love,” he squeezed her hands gently between his before letting her free.

She waved her index finger in his face, asserting, “And bread.”

“If you say so,” he quipped and was rewarded not just with her laugh but a rude hand gesture before she turned to head to her room.

“Freya…” he called, stopping her. He tore a piece of the bread and held it up for her to take with her. “There is something I shared with Mimir about you that I should have shared with you first. I value you; our friendship that has been hard fought; your partnership. I am looking forward to serving at your side and learning from you.”

“I value you as well. I could do this without you, but I didn't want to.”

“Mimir told me as much, but it is good to hear from you.”

He watched her brow furrow at that as she took a bite of the bread before speaking, “You know, I do have one condition if you are intent on wooing me. Mimir may give you good advice, but promise me you won’t use his words on me. He and I have come a long way, but that is… a step too far.”

“I promise. My words will be my own.” He smiled at her, realizing in the moment that it was a cheap and easy way to receive one in response and deciding then that he’d have to train his face to settle more naturally into the expression. 

Before turning to leave she picked a small piece of the bread free and tossed it at him, bouncing it off his forehead, “Goodnight, God of hope.”

Chapter Text

Shared Solitude

The council chamber had emptied in a storm of voices, disagreements clashing louder than steel against steel. The doors had finally shut behind the last of them, but the tension still clung to the air like thick smoke. Freya lingered at the long table, one hand braced against her brow, her fingertips massaging her temples in an effort to rid herself of the headache that was politics. The room smelled of burnt oil and ink, parchment scattered across the floor where short tempers had overturned them.

She’d leave the mess for tomorrow’s version of herself to deal with.

When she emerged at last, her shoulders were straight, though her eyes were heavy with fatigue. Kratos waited outside the chamber, leaning against the doorframe, arms folded across his chest. She caught sight of him and lifted a brow, voice light despite the heaviness in her face, “I thought you'd left.”

He merely tilted his head in question and held up a bottle, “I did, but only to procure a necessary bottle of wine. Would you join me?”

Immediately she felt a “no” well up inside her. She was tired, frayed, irritable and wanted only the comfortable solitude of her private chambers. But he had come back for her with this token of care when no one else had.

She nodded her head in agreement and swore she saw a flash of relief on his stoic face. 

They left the chamber side by side. The night was cool as they walked the path through the center of what was becoming the hub of Vanaheim, his boots striking a steady low rhythm on the stone while her bare feet tapped a higher pitch. At first, Freya expected him to speak. Perhaps a stern judgment of her decisions that led to the fiery council session, perhaps another suggestion for battle or compromise. But he said nothing. He only walked beside her.

Past the town gates, the sky opened wider, freeing her of the lingering claustrophobia of the rancorous council hall. Lanterns lit the paths through the village, drunken voices carrying faintly from the new town hall, but Kratos led her in the opposite direction, toward the edge of the forest. She followed, too weary to question, too trusting to need to. The farther they walked, the quieter the world became. Just the rustling whisper of leaves, the snap of a twig underfoot, the slow rhythm of her own breath returning to her.

At last, the trees parted to reveal a secluded lake. The water mirrored the moonlight, its surface silver and still. She walked up and stopped at the edge, taken by the calm. The council’s clamor seemed impossibly far away.

Kratos stopped a few paces behind her, waiting. His voice was low, nearly lost to the night. “I found this place. It is… quiet. Something I thought you could use some of.”

She glanced back at him, the corners of her mouth softening, “I’d almost forgotten this place. It's been…forever since I've come here. I remember it's quiet. I often found it unsettling, but now- it's exactly what I needed. And certainly a long pull from that bottle.”

He gave a grunt, which she had come to know could mean anything from agreement to amusement. His mouth shifted, just barely, betraying the smallest smile.

She stepped further into the water, letting her feet submerge in the cool water, her reflection trembling beneath the surface though she felt the steadiness return to her. Freya closed her eyes and drew a long breath, letting the stiffness in her back and shoulders finally dissolve. 

The soft unmistakable pop of a bottle uncorking behind her was the only disruption she'd welcome in this serene moment.

---

Harvest Festival

The square in Vanaheim brimmed with life: lanterns strung high, smoke from cookfires curling into the cool air, the sound of flutes and laughter carrying on the wind. For the first time in hundreds of years, the Harvest Festival returned. Freya stood at its heart,, her voice warm as she greeted her people, a bright smile held fast like armor.

But beneath the brightness, every song rang hollow. Her mother’s laughter no longer threaded through these nights. Her brother’s voice no longer lifted in drunken hymns. Her father's booming voice regaling the revelers with tall tales from his latest adventure into far off lands missing. The festival had once been hers as a daughter, as a sister, as a family member. Now it was hers alone, the last of her blood.

Still, the celebration flowed with unusual ease. The hearth-fires all roared, the food stalls were sturdier and cleaner than yesterday, the hall swept and readied as though no dust had ever settled there. Even the timing of the musicians was precise, each note falling into place as though the night itself had been choreographed and rehearsed.

One Vanir elder clasped her hands and said with a smile, “It feels as though the festival never left us.” Another villager praised the repairs to the wooden platforms. A young Aesir girl beamed, cheeks full of roasted apples, and told her the fires had been lit before dawn, ready for the feast.

Freya’s smile never faltered, but her mind was occupied by a mystery in need of solving. She had been drowning in preparations for weeks, yet so much of these invisible labors hadn’t been hers.

When she finally slipped away behind a row of tents to catch her breath, she saw him. Kratos was bent over a pile of wood near the cookfires, armor dusted with ash, his hands stacking bundles with the same deliberate precision he used for any task, no matter how inconsequential. 

She leaned against a post, arms crossing, and let out a sharp laugh. “Ah ha. The saboteur is revealed. I should have known it was you.”

He straightened, met her gaze, and said simply, “There was work to do and I did it.”

Her lips parted, the laughter catching in her throat. She studied him, seeing the day again in a different light- the swept square, the steady fires, the careful repairs. All of it carried by his hand, unseen. Her chosen family present when her blood family could not be. 

“You’ve done more than I even asked of myself,” she said quietly.

He shook his head. “You carry enough. This weight I could take.”

Her smile grew faint, softened by something she hadn’t expected to feel tonight. “You realize,” she murmured, “that is dangerously close to affection.”

“I did warn you,” he said softly, hearkening back to his promise to woo her. 

“That you did. I suppose I’m still learning to spot your methods, but I’m not sure why I’m surprised they’re unconventional.” 

“Then may I carry on?” 

She smiled widely in response to his ambiguous question, the lingering heaviness of the Festival withering away. “You may, God of Festivals.” 

---

Odin the Dummy

The new sparring yard stretched wide at the edge of the village grounds, the earth freshly leveled and the perimeter marked with stones. Wooden frames lined the ring, each one stuffed with straw and bound with rope.

Freya walked the row slowly, her bow loose in her hand, her eyes sharp as she studied each figure. She stopped halfway down the line when her gaze landed on one dummy in particular. Its head bore a crooked eyepatch, and perched on top was a ridiculous little fur hat tilted askew.

For a heartbeat she simply stared. Then laughter burst from her, sudden and unguarded, echoing across the yard. 

“Did you-?” she managed to ask, her question cut short as she laughed again as a crow landed on the dummy’s head.

Kratos’s steps sounded behind her, steady, deliberate. “I did.”

She turned toward him, eyes sparkling, still grinning. “You made me an Odin to shoot at?”

“To murder unceasingly. I assume that if I am unsatisfied with only having the opportunity to kill him once, you must want the same tenfold.”

Her laughter came again, lighter this time, chasing the sting of bitter memories from her. Even saying his name out loud hadn't brought forth the bile that typically rose in her throat as it had in times past. 

She turned on her heel, counted twenty paces, lifted her bow in one swift motion, drew, and let the arrow fly. It cut across the air and drove straight through the straw head, splintering the eyepatch in two and knocking the fur hat clean off.

She lowered her bow, satisfaction blooming across her face, her breath catching between mirth and joyful release. “I didn't even know I needed that.”

Kratos folded his arms, voice even, “Then it served its purpose.”

Her smile softened as she looked back at the ruined dummy, its head sagging pathetically to the side. For the first time in longer than she could name, the image of Odin didn’t carry only pain. It carried laughter too, fierce and freeing.

She glanced at Kratos again, and this time her voice was quieter, “You knew it would.”

He didn’t answer, but reached into his belt and pulled out an unmarred eyepatch and held it out for her. 

“To murder unceasingly,” she repeated with a smile as she took the token from him and set out to reset the dummy.

---

Flattery

The fire burned low in the hall of Sindri’s home, its glow casting long shadows across the stone floor. Freya sat cross-legged before the hearth, combing through herbs laid out on a cloth. Kratos watched from his place nearby, the silence stretched thin but not uncomfortable.

He found his eyes lingering. The firelight caught the line of her jaw, the tilt of her smile as she sorted the bundles, the calm steadiness she carried even in small tasks. 

“I can feel you boring a hole through my head. Do you have words you need to speak?” She asked without looking up from her work.

The words, certainly not the ones she would ever guess at, gathered in his chest and poured out before he could stop them.

“I was observing your face,” he said at last, his voice breaking the quiet. “It is strong and… symmetrical.”

Her hands stilled and her head lifted to look at him. For a moment she simply blinked at him, as though waiting to hear if he would add something more or clarify his statement, but he appeared satisfied that he had said everything he needed to. Then the corner of her mouth twitched, and before long laughter spilled out of her, rich and unrestrained. She leaned back on her hands, head tilted, shoulders shaking.

“Oh, Kratos,” she managed between breaths, “strong and symmetrical? That is your attempt at flattery?”

His brow furrowed. “It is a compliment.”

Her laughter doubled, warm and unguarded. She pressed the heel of her hand under her eyes to wipe the gathering moisture. “Norns, I don’t think I’ve laughed this hard in years.”

Kratos shifted, uncertain, the line of his jaw tight. “It was meant sincerely.”

She lowered her hand, her eyes bright with mirth, though gentler now. “And that is why it works. You couldn’t flatter if you tried. Which makes it honest. And I appreciate honesty.”

His gaze held hers, steady, though the faintest crease of embarrassment touched his expression. Freya reached across the space between them, brushed her fingers briefly against his arm, the act an effective balm to soothe any wound she inadvertently inflicted with her laughter. “Strong and symmetrical,” she repeated softly, amusement lingering in her voice. “I’ll treasure it.”

The fire popped in the hearth. Kratos said nothing more, but he relished her echoing laughter, its sound filling the hall with a warmth words couldn’t.

---

Warm Hearth

The winter mornings in Midgard carried a damp chill, the kind that crept into stone and bone and lingered even after sunrise. Yet Freya woke to warmth each morning. The shared hearth in her chamber burned steadily, flames already coaxed to life before her eyes opened. Kratos occupied the room next to hers, sharing the same hearth and so she needn’t wonder who kept her chamber warm.

The only mystery that needed solving was who was the lovely maid of this quaint inn that was leaving a fresh pot of water and a bowl of flowers and herbs outside her door each morning for her bath.

One morning, she rose earlier than usual and caught the culprit. Kratos stood in the corridor with a bundle of logs in his arms, his shoulders still dusted with dew from the forest and her cauldron of fresh water sloshing gently on the floor by his feet. He stilled when the door opened, the wood balanced against his chest while a spring of herbs crushed slightly in his hand from the surprise of being caught.

Freya leaned on the frame, lips curving into a quiet smile. “And here I thought I had a new nursemaid.”

His answer came after a pause. “You enjoy a warm bath on cold winter mornings.” A pragmatic statement of fact.

Her eyes lingered on him, on the way he held himself at the boundary of her space. “And yet you will not step inside to make your task easier.”

“It is your space,” he said.

She considered him for a moment, then stepped back and opened the door wider. “Then consider this your open invitation to always come inside if you are bearing gifts for my bath.”

He entered without sound, moving with care as he laid the logs by the hearth and hung the cauldron of water over the fire to warm for her bath. When he knelt to tend the embers, his mountainous frame seemed almost reverent in the quiet space. The fire roared more intensely under his hand, reaching up to lick the bottom of the water cauldron.

Freya watched him from the center of the room, her chest warmed by more than the flame. He moved as though he belonged in the space, as though he had always been meant to be there, and she allowed herself the indulgence of imagining more mornings just like this one.

When he straightened, she let a small smile play on her lips. “Careful, Kratos. If you keep this up, I may grow accustomed to this doting.”

His gaze flicked to hers, steady and unflinching, “Then I will see to it that you do.”

Her laugh rose soft, caught between amusement and something deeper, as the fire crackled and spread its light through the chamber.

---

Valkyrie Token

The evening was quiet, Sindri's hall empty but for the crackle of the hearth. Freya returned from her duties later than usual, her shoulders heavy with the day’s weight. Another day of political squabbles, another day of feeling small and ineffective in solving the pettiness of selfish men. She moved to the table, intending to sort through her notes and tomes, but stopped short.

A small carving rested there. It was her- wings spread in full flight, feathers etched with painstaking care. Every line was sharp, deliberate, as though each cut of the blade had been weighed before it was made. She lifted it carefully into her hand, the smooth wood still warm from its creator.

For a long moment, she simply studied it. The form was unmistakable: her Valkyrie shape, captured mid-ascent. Fierce, unyielding. Effective.

She turned at the sound of boots against stone. Kratos had entered the room without announcement, though his steps were never anything but deliberate. He met her gaze, his face unreadable, his eyes steady.

“You made this?” she asked.

He nodded his head once.

Her thumb traced along the wings, following the fine lines. “This is how you see me?”

“As you are,” he said. His voice was low, steady, as though the words themselves carried weight enough to anchor him. 

Something caught in her throat. She looked back at the carving, but her vision blurred before she could study it further. A quiet laugh slipped from her, brittle but warm. “Strong and symmetrical I might have expected. But this…”

He stood motionless, waiting.

“This is no small thing, Kratos.”

“It is merely truth,” he said. “Made visible. And you are no small thing.”

She curled her fingers around the carving, the wood pressing firm into her palm. Her voice softened, “Then I will keep it close.”

The silence lingered, broken only by the fire’s crackle. At last, Freya lifted her eyes to him again, a spark of mischief returning to her, her eyes still gleaming with unshed tears. “Though next time you try to ‘woo’ me, perhaps you could carve me with better hair. These wings are flawless, but the braid? Questionable.”

For a heartbeat, she thought he might not react. Then the corner of his mouth shifted, the smallest betrayal of a smile.

Freya laughed, lighter now, and set the falcon on the table where the firelight gilded its wings. “Thank you. I love it. Even if my hair is tragic.”

--

Garden of Hope

The village lay quiet in the warming morning sunlight, rooftops steaming faintly from last night’s rain. Freya knelt in the dark soil at the edge of the square, her hands stained with earth as she pressed tender shoots into place, taking advantage of the rain-soaked soil. The garden would be small at first, but she had chosen the herbs carefully: feverfew, comfrey, lamb’s cress, thyme. The sort of plants that could keep sickness from spreading, that could mean the difference between life and death when healers were few.

Kratos approached without a word, carrying a bundle of stakes and a coil of twine. His shadow stretched long across the soil, falling over her work.

Without looking up, Freya said dryly, “If you mean to trample my seedlings, I’ll hex you where you stand.”

“I would not dare.” He set the bundle down beside her and crouched to drive the first stake into the ground.

They worked in companionable silence for a time, Freya setting the plants, Kratos marking neat rows with string pulled taut, the only sounds the hushed chorus of rustling dirt and a meandering melody hummed idly by Freya. Kratos’ movements were precise, deliberate, each line of the garden as clean as the edges of a shield wall.

At last, he straightened from his work, glancing at the dirt on his scarred hands and listened to her continue to hum along happily as she dug into the earth. “I do not understand,” he said finally. “This task is labor and I see its necessity. But you find… joy in it.”

Freya sat back on her heels, ineffectively brushing soil from her fingers, and studied him. His brow was faintly furrowed, the way it often was when he couldn’t reconcile action with feeling. A trait she’d find endearing if she let herself dwell on it too long or deep.

“It isn’t the labor,” she said gently, “It’s what the labor means.” She lifted one of the tender shoots, its roots cradled in her palm. “Every seed is a wager on the future. You never know if it will take root, but you plant anyway. You wait and trust the earth to answer.”

Kratos was quiet, his gaze fixed on the fragile green sprout held in her hand. His hand closed around the stake he had just set in place, fingers curling and uncurling as though weighing the thought.

“In Sparta,” he said at last, “there was no waiting. Only what could be taken in the moment. Hope was not permitted. It was weakness.”

Freya turned to him, her expression softening. “And now? Do you still hold that to be true?”

He pressed one last stake into the soft soil, taking his time to answer her. “Now I wait and I trust. And I hope it will endure.”

Her throat tightened. She reached out, brushing a streak of dirt from his wrist but only streaked more dirt across his skin. “That's all any of us can do.”

They fell back into their work, side by side. Freya dropped another seedling into a shallow hole, covering it loosely. Kratos did the same, but his large fingers pushed too much soil down at once, nearly burying and crushing the sprout.

“Gentle,” she chided, reaching over to rescue the little stem. “You’re treating it like an enemy draugr, not a plant.”

He grunted. “It will grow stronger if it survives me.”

She laughed again and shook her head, amused. “You are hopeless.”

His gaze stayed on the fragile shoots that quivered in the light breeze, voice steady. “No. No longer hopeless.”

Freya fell silent for a moment, her smile softening as she looked back at him. Again she reached out and placed her hand on his wrist, marking his skin with more dirt, “No I suppose not.”