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He dropped the torch and staggered forwards a few shaky steps before he vanished between. He lurched forwards a few more wavering steps before collapsing onto his knees, his vision blurry and Sindri felt a cold bite at him that had nothing to do with the temperature.

He opened his mouth to draw in a breath but the thin, pitiful wail of an injured beast filled the air. The will to move, to do anything at all vanished as quickly as it had arrived and he knelt in the snow, unaware and uncaring as to where he was.

There was nothing there, nothing to cling to and no one to fill the awful, oppressive silence that collapsed in on him with crushing intensity as Sindri welcomed the nothingness with a scream.

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The woods sung around her as Freya headed from her home in search of supplies for her spell craft; they’d lingered for a while in the house tucked in the realm between realms, keeping it clean and lived in for Sindri if he ever returned but after three months, Freya had suggested that their continued presence was only pushing Sindri from his home and so they’d returned to their own lives. Birgir had accepted her return home graciously and she’d invited him to make a home of his own in her woods, it meant he could keep Chaurli company when she needed to undertake her new role as the leader of the council. She and Kratos would regularly visit one another, she would take him tea and check in on the wolves and in turn, Kratos would sometimes appear on her step with freshly caught rabbit or perfectly cured meat.

A palpable wrongness suddenly crashed in on her as she crossed some kind of unseen boundary and the woods seemed to fall silent; Freya felt her breath quicken and was instantly on edge with her sword in her hand. Whilst a lot of threats had been dealt with post Ragnarők, there were still raiders who would wander into her woods looking to harm the creatures both magical and mundane that made her forest their home.

There was a choking scream and someone gagged on their final breath, burbling the last of their life. Changing her sword for her bow, Freya kept her footfalls as soft as possible as she tried to pinpoint any sounds for the woods themselves had grown distressingly quiet, as if the trees themselves had drawn in a held breath of anticipation. She soon came across a raider in a pool of blood with a short sword lodged in his chest, his sightless eyes fixed on the sky and Freya stepped over his corpse; someone out there seemed to be holding their own and she intended to help them.

Triumphant shouts filled the air and Freya quickened her pace as she tried to hone in on the sound which ricocheted off the trees; three raiders had a much smaller figure surrounded and whoever it was snarled and spat Dwarvish curses at them. She hoped, beyond all sensible hope, that it was any other Dwarf than who she knew it to be but as she descended on the raiders in a clamour of bright orange wings and sword slashes, she caught a flash of gold combined with teal and knew it was Sindri that they’d managed to corner.

Any thought as to why he was there left her mind as she focused on the raiders who had him surrounded; she launched herself at the nearest one, slicing his throat and he fell to the ground clutching his neck as he choked on his own blood. The second she swept to the ground, plunging her sword into his chest as the third made a desperate dash for freedom and Freya switched her sword for her bow, tracking her movements and loosing a single arrow which struck her between the shoulders, killing her instantly.

She whirled on the spot, her wings whipping out behind her as she checked the area and she only dismissed them when she was sure that they were all gone; Freya glanced to where she had spotted her friend, expecting him to have vanished between once he’d been released where he would be safe.

He had not.

The dwarf sat with his knees up where she had first spotted him near the trunk of a dead oak tree; his skin was pallid, holding a sheen of sweat and his eyes were squeezed tightly shut in a rictus of pain, vibrant red blood drooled between his fingers which held his side. She crossed to him, crouched at his side and reached to pull his hands from the wound so she could see if it was treatable; his eyes snapped open and he snarled at her, a wounded animal with the full capacity to bite. Pulling back, Freya raised both hands to show she meant him no harm.

Brown eyes watched her full of mistrust as Sindri forced himself to his feet, face contorted into a pained grimace as he did so. “You won’t get far like that,” Freya told him, trying to keep her tone calm and remaining on one knee so that she was closer to his height. Ignoring her, he lurched forwards a step and Freya spotted another fresh wound on his thigh.

He cut a truly pathetic figure in a very different way to how he had in the past; there was no pride there any more, his armour was smeared with dirt and blood, his tunic had been torn. Picking herself up, Freya watched as Sindri staggered another few steps until his leg caved and he fell with a little grunt of pain. “Whether you accept my help or not means little to me,” Freya said as she started to walk, “You know where my house is should you feel capable of acting like an adult.” Even without looking at him, she knew he had vanished into the realm between realms from the way the sounds of the woodland changed and she let out a sigh.

Leaving him to make his own decision, Freya headed back home and spent some time making sure the things she would need would be to hand to help Sindri should he accept her offer. The depth of the pallor to his skin suggested an older unhealed wound rather than the new ones and Freya was struggling to push the image of his empty brown eyes from her mind. Should she have forced her care on him? Restrained him to make him accept her aid? Hadn’t she done that before? Forcing Balder to accept her love and in doing so, robbing him of his ability to feel anything at all.

She startled as Chaurli rumbled something, alerting her that someone was there only seconds before an armoured person collapsed against the door; she opened it carefully, ready to support the dwarf’s weight as he fell into the opening.

Before she noticed anything else about him, Freya caught the scent of rot which she had not spotted in the woods before and she knew she’d have to find whatever wound was causing that before she treated the newer injuries. Carrying him to her bed, Freya laid him down as carefully as she could and started to look him over. His armour was badly damaged, the pale golden metal smeared with grime and ash and blood, Brok’s and his own. The sleeves of his tunic were torn, likely when he’d ripped off his gloves and the bottom was ragged and dirty. His breeches had been cut open in places and both them and his boots were covered in mud and faded by use. It all paled in comparison to the state of his hair and beard which were both free of their bindings, matted and badly knotted; there was nothing of the man she had once known in him now and Freya felt a sharp stab of pained regret well in her.

Her deft hands sought the straps on his armour as he remained unconscious before her; piece by piece she removed the beautifully designed gear and set it aside. The scent of decay, of infected flesh became more apparent as she removed the plates over his left arm; an old injury festered there and Freya knew that no magic would instantly heal it.

The cadence of his breathing changed and Freya lifted her hands from where the wound was on his upper arm as he shifted. “Leave it,” he ground out, his voice was coarse and Freya wondered if she was the only person he’d spoken to since Brok’s funeral. “Just treat the new ones.”

“I’m going to treat all of them,” she corrected as she moved to fetch some water and the herbs she’d need to draw the infection from his arm. Outside of the rot, Sindri stank of sweat, dirt and stale blood and Freya wondered if he'd bolt at the idea of a bath. “I’ll need your tunic off,” she instructed as she mixed the herbs she needed as the water boiled.

If he had any issues disrobing before her, it didn’t show as the disgustingly grimy garment was yanked over his head. Having been a healer for a long time, Freya had thought herself immune to many things but she drew in a breath as the physical manifestation of his grief became clear; she could see every single one of his ribs even through his body hair. He wasn’t eating beyond what was needed to barely keep himself alive.

The wound across his abdomen was large and vicious but blessedly not as deep as she feared and would not prove terminal if treated with a few stitches; she worked to clean it without any input from the dwarf. “How did those raiders find you?” She asked as she squeezed her cloth and dampened it again so as to go back to her work cleaning it.

“What does it matter?”

He had a point and Freya dropped the subject as it was clear that he had no interest in talking about it, when she got up to change the water, Freya made sure to grab his tunic and tossed it into another pot before liberally dumping dried rose petals into the lightly bubbling water; it likely wouldn’t help much with the damp, bloody, sweaty smell but she felt the urge to try so as to show him that she cared in some small way even if she suspected he wouldn’t realise it yet. “Are you hungry?” She asked as she went about fetching the materials she’d laid out for stitching earlier.

“No.”

“Tea then?”

“No.”

Letting out a sigh at his clipped replies, Freya crossed back to him and was soon focusing on the work she had to do, sewing closed his injury as dull brown eyes watched her; they hadn’t just lost Brok on the day that he’d died, Sindri had followed him and only this sad echo of the friendly, funny, helpful dwarf remained, anchored to life by nothing but grief. Wrapping linen around his far too narrow form when she was done, Freya took time to hang his tunic by the fire to dry before cleaning her pot and moving back to his side, “When did this happen?” She asked as she started to clean the infected wound on his arm and he shrugged, “You don’t remember or you didn’t notice it?”

“Does it matter?”

“... If you intend to continue making a living as a blacksmith, yes,” Freya’s tone held a disapproving scold as she continued in her work, “This infection could have cost you your arm, Sindri. It still could do.”

There was a thin, unamused scoff of something adjacent to laughter at that, “Does it matter?” He asked back, his tone flat. “I was hardly the one you wanted anyway.”

Having always preferred Sindri’s more delicate work herself, Freya focused on the wound for a while; this had to have been made by a raider’s sword, what had Sindri got himself into lately? Slathering the wound with some salve that would draw forth the infection, Freya bound his arm tightly with some thinner lengths of linen, “That needs some time to work,” she provided as she moved to wash her hands, to try and clean off the rotted smell that clung to them after her work. “It would be a great pity if you lost your abilities as a craftsman.”

“You have Lúnda now, I doubt you even notice the difference.”

There was a hard bitterness to his words that struck her; was he angry with them for having to rely on Lúnda’s services or self-resenting because he hadn’t been on hand to help? “Of course we have,” she tried to keep her tone a little bit playful and comparatively light, she didn’t want to fuel his resentment further than he was evidently doing himself. “I trust you’re wearing smalls, I need to see to your leg.”

“I’m not.”

She fixed him with a long look for that one, trying to ascertain if he was telling the truth or if he’d said it in an attempt to put her off treating the injury; assuming the latter, Freya tossed a blanket at him in case it were the former before heading back to the fire for more water. Logically she knew that he could leave whenever he pleased, he could hop between and there was nothing she could do to stop him but the little exhale of pain he gave as he removed his britches suggested that he needed her help. The fresh wound on his outer right thigh wasn’t as savage as the wound across his abdomen and after cleaning it, it took only a few stitches to close; she skimmed her eyes over his grubby skin and tried to ignore that something had bitten his shin in the last few months.

Intending to put his trousers in the pot his tunic had been in, Freya cast her eyes around for them only to find that Sindri had tucked them behind himself where she wouldn’t be able to easily reach them, he had obviously worked out that she had intended to clean those too and put them there to avoid her doing it. Wrapping some more linen around his leg, Freya tied it off and took a step back, “There.”

As Sindri pulled his trousers back on, Freya cleaned up and excused herself outside to check her fish traps so she could take a moment to herself; it was hard for her to see a friend so utterly demolished by his grief and she stood on the dock with her hands on her hips to try and centre herself again. It wasn’t an exaggeration to say he stank, the scents of neglect clung to him and it was painfully apparent that he was doing the barest minimum to stay alive.

Other than to pull his trousers back on, Sindri hadn’t moved when she entered and he had no comment for her as she moved past him to prepare the fish for cooking over her fire; he barely seemed aware of her at all. Crossing back to his side, Freya held out a hand and like a dutiful, scolded child, Sindri presented his wounded arm to her. Stripping off the poultice, Freya cleaned and redressed the injury for him. “Your tunic should be dry soon,” she offered as she pushed away from his side again. “You’re welcome to stay the night if you wish.”

She knew he wouldn’t, that her offer wouldn’t be accepted with the kindness she’d intended it to have but she hoped it would cut through his present fugue. “There was a second fish in my trap, at least share a meal with me before you leave.”

“I’m not hungry.”

She’d expected that and accepted it as his reply as she passed him back his tunic when she was sure it was dry, it still smelt a little musty but it was a marked improvement on how it had smelt when she’d taken it from him. She let him pull on his armour as she cooked her own meal, watching as each carefully constructed piece hid a little more of his trauma away.

He picked himself up, expression pained and pensive as though he was debating with himself, “Thank you,” he said the words with a hint of it being nothing more than an obligation and not something he meant but Freya took some small comfort in the fact that he’d chosen to say it.

Bundling some food items into a bag, Freya caught hold of Sindri’s wrist as he opened the door and he looked down at her hand with one eyebrow arched; he looked exhausted, the bags under his eyes were dark and starkly pronounced which made him seem haggard and old. “Whilst I wish it had been under better circumstances, I am glad to have seen you.”

“Uh-huh,” he rolled his eyes, tone cynical as he obviously didn’t believe her and she made sure he took the bag before he headed outside, limping off his bad leg and favouring his side. He took a few more steps before he flexed his shoulders back and vanished; he was hurt but he was alive and Freya had some small hope for Sindri and the friendship they had once shared.

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Being a god did not make Kratos immune to training and that morning he had taken to working with the Draupnir Spear; there was always a note of pain that accompanied using the spear, a blunt voice in his head that he would always remember telling him that his footwork was poor and a pledge to lay the weapon down when it’s job was done. He glanced up as a hawk screeched overhead and the brightly coloured bird warped into Freya as she landed; he did not really enjoy tea but her company was a welcome distraction from his present thoughts of a lost friend.

One of so many.

“Have you heard from Atreus lately?”

She always led with the same question, always checked on his son and Kratos appreciated her concern. “Yes, he is well, he asks after your health,” Kratos provided as he led her to the house where Mimir was waiting on his usual perch.

“You can assure him that I’m well.”

Once they were inside, Freya set about making tea as he found the cups they would use; after setting these out ready, Kratos found himself rotating the ring that formed his spear on his finger as he considered his next words. “He asks after the dwarf often,” Kratos muttered. “Lúnda has yet to see him and I cannot avoid the question for much longer.”

Moving to serve the tea before sitting at the table, Freya was quiet for a long time, her expression was distant and contemplative. “He is not eating,” she said at length as she wrapped her hands around her cup.

She’d seen the dwarf but from her words, he was not in any fit state and he watched her for a time, trying to fathom what was wrong.  “Ah, well, that you’ve seen him is good news at least!” Mimir exclaimed, his tone a mix of relief and concern. “Outside of that, is he well?” Kratos knew there was some history between Brok and Mimir but he had never managed to get the whole story from either one and with Brok’s passing, he suspected he never would.

There was a gusty sigh from Freya that Kratos knew meant that he was not and she shook her head to confirm it. “He is still deep in mourning,” she confided, her eyes concerned, she was worried for the dwarf and that suggested he had not been in the best physical shape. “I came across him in my woods. He had been ambushed by raiders and injured in the process,” she shifted her gaze to Kratos and he realised that it was something more than that, something worse. “There was an old wound on his arm -” She curled her right hand around her upper left arm in demonstration, “- that he had left to fester, had I not found and treated it, he would have lost the limb.”

Brok had warned them that Sindri had atrocious selfcare back when Atreus had wanted to reunite them, told them that his brother would forget to eat or drink when distracted but letting a wound fester was not to the same level; a festering wound hurt, it wasn’t something one could ignore. “The smell -” Freya scrunched up her nose in the same way Atreus would when confronted by something unpleasant and to see it from a hardened warrior made Kratos aware of how bad it would have been, “- alerted me to the problem when I saw him. His armour is dented and bloody, his hair and beard are wild, unkempt and matted, it’s like seeing a different man.”

He could tell Atreus none of this.

The boy had been made to face the consequences of going to war when one of their friends had laid dead on a blacksmiths counter and another had cut them from his life as savagely as the knife to strike the killing blow, he did not need to know the depths despair could drive a person to. “When was this?” He asked, maybe the dwarf still lingered around Midgard and Kratos could try to locate him.

“Five days ago, I gave him what food I could spare,” she shook her head again and it was clear that the state the dwarf was in had deeply affected her. “I doubt he’ll eat it, he is seeking oblivion.”

“If that is the case, there is nothing that you could have done for him.”

He had intended for the comment to bring her some comfort, to let her know that if the dwarf did die then it wouldn’t be her fault but as she glowered at him, Kratos realised that he had misjudged what she wanted to hear. “He came for help, Kratos,” she told him, her eyes harder than he was used to. “I refuse to believe that he is beyond all hope yet.”

Taking her words to heart, Kratos bid her farewell when they had shared tea before heading out to fetch wood for his fire; the axe sung in his hand as it sliced through the wood but snagged on the way back out, it required the touch of a blacksmith and he knew only the one he would trust with it now the pair who created it were beyond his reach.

Finding Lúnda had been simple enough, she and Freyr’s band of freedom fighters had returned to Vanaheim to help the Asgardian refugees and continue his work after brief stints away on other tasks. “Well, hey there,” Lúnda’s voice greeted as he approached her work station. “Just when I was feelin’ the need for a tall glass of milk,” she never changed, always greeted him in a flirty manner but Kratos quickly spotted a length of pale blue fabric wrapped around her upper right arm with the brand Brok had used when he and his brother had been apart stitched in silver on it. There was room to complete the brand with Sindri’s half and Kratos recognised it as Lúnda’s way of accepting that she might not see her friend again. “What can I do you for?” Removing the axe, Kratos laid it on the workbench and she was soon looking it over without touching it. “Well there’s our girl,” she crooned as she lent over it. “Still as dog gone gorgeous as the day the boys made her.”

“The blade needs work.”

The smith nodded her agreement but she looked pensive, “Ain’t anythin’ I can do for her mind you,” she pushed back from the bench. “Ain’t anythin’ any livin’ smith can do for her. Well …” She trailed off, her one good eye furtive as she rested her hand on the band around her arm. “Unless you can go on and track down someone what made her.”

It was predictable that only someone who had made the axe could repair the present damage that it had sustained, Lúnda had certainly improved the axe before but she’d never undertaken any deeper repairs on it; he let out a disapproving grunt despite understanding this and picked the axe up, setting it back in its place. “Sorry I can’t be of more use to ya. I’m Huldra adjacent, I ain’t that level of genius.”

“No one is, not any more.”

The look shot his way from the dwarf was bitterer than anything she had ever turned on him before and it wasn’t lost on Kratos that he had managed to annoy two women in the last hour. “Now, I like you handsome, more then a lady should but there ain’t no way Sindri up and lost his talent,” her tone was surprisingly frank, she genuinely believed that. “You go on and find him, he’s the only one who can fix up your girl. He ain’t dead,” she didn’t say it but Kratos knew that the yet had only just been caught before it left her lips, there had been room on her armband for a reason. “If you find him -” She trailed off and her hand moved to rest on her armband for a few seconds, “- Can you go on and let him know we’re all waitin’ for him to come on back? When he’s ready.” She looked up at him and the emotion was clear in her eyes as she did so; she was being entirely sincere and would be waiting for her friend when he was ready to see them all again. He inclined his head and pushed away from her workbench, considering his next move but knowing there was only one place that Sindri would be.

The temple was how he remembered it, a sad testament to better days and he pushed open the doors as if they weighed nothing; the forge smouldered, a glowing orange ember of light in the largely dark temple but the sound of a hammer was absent which set him on edge in a way that he couldn’t quite fathom. This temple had been a space he associated with Brok and seeing it devoid of any life was another stark reminder of his loss.

The scents of stale blood, of ash, of rot, of neglect lingered in the air, a pungent decay of self-care that added to the palpable sense of wrongness that Kratos now felt standing in the room. He took a few steps forwards but stopped in place as a knife whistled through the air, cluttering to the floor at his side. “Get the fuck out,” the voice came out as a snarl, reminiscent of a small, cornered beast and Kratos took a step back as a way of showing that he had no ill intent as he spotted where Sindri was standing by the forge counter, his dark eyes narrowed.

Grief addled but not stupid, the dwarf kept his distance, watching his every move, gaze no longer red rimmed by shed tears but angry. There was another knife in his left hand, weighted to be thrown but Kratos knew Sindri wasn’t much of a fighter and there hadn’t been enough time for him to have learnt to the level that a thrown knife would be a threat. “I need your help,” Kratos saw no reason for dishonesty and decided to get to the point as he so often did.

The sound that came from the dwarf was a disapproving merge of a derisive scoff and a humourless laugh and Kratos raised his arm to deflect the next thrown knife which bounced harmlessly off his bracer, that was going to grow annoying. “Get out!” Sindri snapped but Kratos could see that his arm was shaking; Freya had mentioned an injury there that had rotted and it was clear that that had not yet healed despite the sturdiness of dwarves.

The moment of contemplation cost him, Sindri vanished and Kratos was instantly on the defensive even if he didn’t draw a weapon; if a dwarf ever chose to fight, they’d be terrifyingly efficient, their ability to vanish combined with a swift stab to a kidney or the liver could prove terminal. Once, he wouldn’t have felt that Sindri was capable of such things but he knew better than most that anger could be a potent, seductive emotion and that Sindri was undeniably furious at the realms as a whole.

There was a familiar metallic click behind him and Kratos tried to call the axe back to him as Sindri vanished with it. “Give me the axe!” Kratos barked, a brief panic welled in his chest as the dwarf took the second greatest gift that Faye had ever given him into the realm between realms.

Axe still in hand, Sindri appeared by the workbench and shot Kratos a look of disapproval so intense that it surprised him; if Sindri truly wanted the axe then he could take it and Kratos suspected there wasn’t anything he could do about it. “So you can damage it again?” The dwarf spat as he dropped it on the bench before himself with a surprising lack of care; he raised a hammer and hit the axe with it, sending shimmering blue light along the blade that seemed to chase away the damage that it had taken.

Without another word, Sindri let the hammer drop from his fingers and vanished without preamble.

Summoning the axe back to his hand, Kratos tilted it to examine it in the limited light and nodded approval with the work done before putting it in its usual place. He thought for a while as to what he could leave as payment and whilst he didn’t have anything to the right value on him, he reached into his pack and pulled free some wrapped jerky to leave on the countertop before heading out.

Perhaps it was pointless, perhaps Sindri was beyond all help but Kratos had seen broken men seek oblivion before and he got the sense that Sindri was not broken to that degree even as he suspected that the dwarf felt like he might be.

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There were a few advantages to being a disembodied head suspended from the belt of a god, he saw a lot of the realms and the company, whilst stoic was enjoyable enough. Company had been playing on his mind a lot since their run in with a certain grieving dwarf; Mimir had lived a long life and had seen a lot of people fall to their grief but the self-neglect on Sindri had been perfectly apparent and stark. Gone was the fussy cleanliness in favour of the complete opposite, he suspected that the dried blood on his armour was a combination of his own and Brok’s, a grim reminder of a death still far too recent to have been processed.

Of a hole still being dug due to loneliness, grief and regret.

“You have been quiet.”

The rumbling voice originated from behind him as it usually did and Mimir was quiet for a while longer, not sure how to broach what he was thinking with the usually taciturn Greek. “How long has it been since we stopped at the temple, brother?” He asked, sometimes he found tracking days could be difficult, especially if he and Kratos shifted between the realms a lot. “I make it seven?”

“Twelve.”

His reply indicated that Kratos had been keeping track and that he was also concerned for Sindri. “How much cured meat did you leave?” Mimir questioned, food was something he had long lost track of and would often miss; there was nothing so comforting and homely as a meal shared in pleasant company.

“Enough to last me five.”

Lapsing into silence, Mimir tried to work out how long this would last the average dwarf, how much more slender Sindri was than other dwarves, the impact of magic use on energy levels and the likelihood of Sindri actually bothering to eat. “He’ll have finished that then,” he concluded after a few minutes of contemplation.

“Hmm.”

The grunt was to be expected, Kratos was a man of few words but it held a tone of agreement. “Do you suppose Freya will have something edible available? Flatbreads maybe or a wee drop of honey?” If his memory served him correctly, Sindri had had something of a sweet tooth, contrasting Brok’s love of savoury foods and honey might encourage him to eat something if the jerky had not succeeded.

Their trip to see Freya had resulted in several items of food and a thick blanket spun with the wool of wild sheep in a shade of blue that both Huldra’s seemed to favour, Freya had obviously made it for Sindri; Kratos had accepted everything without a word but had diverted home to add a few items of his own to it before taking them both to the temple.

The smell was a little better than it had been when they’d last been there and a half-hearted attempt had been made to tidy up. There was a jumbled pile of gold in the corner by the door and if Mimir squinted he was quite sure that it was Sindri’s armour. “The forge is unlit,” Kratos rumbled and Mimir was suddenly aware of the fact that it was cold. “There are lit braziers.”

Kratos’ hand entered his peripheral vision as he reached for his harness, lifting him so he could see; the forge didn’t even glow, it had been unlit for a while but the space felt like it was used, lived in to a sad degree. There was a woefully thin, stained blanket tossed on the floor near the forge, it was grubby and threadbare and certainly wouldn’t have kept a person warm. There was a ratty wad of fabric bundled by the forge, likely ready to be burnt when it was next alight.

Kratos turned as the door to the temple was opened and Mimir tried not to show his own distress, to vocalise his disbelief; there had always been a degree of polish and care to Sindri Huldra but it was lacking in the figure standing just inside the door. The armour was gone and the tunic in its place was crudely made of coarse looking, badly dyed wool which fit him poorly. His hair and beard were loose and matted which made him look a lot older than Mimir had always assumed him to be. His eyes had lost any of the spark they’d once had and he watched them both with disinterested, dull lethargy. “I thought I’d made my opinion on visitors clear last time,” even his voice sounded less than it had once been, there wasn’t even a hint of anger there any more, just a note of consistent exhaustion.

There was a hole in the shoulder of his tunic, along the seam which suggested it had not been well sewn and would have been unthinkable for the dwarf they’d come to see as their family. “We brought supplies,” Kratos informed him, his tone would be blunt to the untrained ear but Mimir recognised the concern in it.

“I didn’t ask for that.”

“No, you did not,” Kratos agreed to Sindri’s flat objection as he set the bag of supplies on the counter that Brok’s body had once laid in state on, the blanket was laid beside it and Kratos rested a hand on it for a moment. “The flatbreads will last three days. There are hens eggs, do not throw that pack aside,” his tone was instructive, as if he were talking to Atreus. “The blanket is from Freya, treat it better than the last.”

Something seemed to spark in Sindri’s eyes and he flicked his gaze to the blanket, something close to fondness danced across his face; Sindri wasn’t beyond hope after all. “She asked if you had been hurt again,” she hadn’t and Mimir recognised that Kratos had asked out of his own concern; hearing that Sindri had ignored a wound to the level that it had gone to rot had evidently worried them all.

There was no reply to that and Mimir watched with a degree of distress as the brief fond ember that had lightened Sindri’s features guttered out again; there wasn’t anything that Kratos could do for Sindri but Mimir got the sense that a more gentle hand could probably reach out to him with more success. “Aye, she's right worried for you,” Mimir laid it on a little thick but he had a theory to test. “There’s honey in there to go with the flatbreads, fresh from Freya’s bees,” sure enough, the tiny ember was kindled at the mention of something Freya had sent him unbidden.

That was it, Mimir realised as Kratos put him back in his usual place; Sindri’s loss had brought bitter feelings of being used and disregarded to the fore and it would be possible to reach him again with small acts of kindness offered without thought of reward. He’d be sure to mention his conclusion to Freya when they next saw her, hopeful that she too would want to help the wayward member of their unorthodox family. He watched as Sindri vanished between, appearing mere seconds later by the bag of supplies though that wasn’t what seemed to draw his attention, as the door closed behind them, Mimir was sure he saw Sindri rub his hand clean on his tunic before he lay it on the blanket.

Chapter Text

The problem with visiting Midgard was trying to keep track of whatever band of idiots insisted on joining him when he did it; Hilde spent most of her time trying to convince him to forage for supplies they were most familiar with which was fine but Orm was being increasingly vocal about a plan to raid the abandoned temple in the lake. “Just think, all that shiny shit just sitting there,” Orm said as they made camp that evening on the shore of the lake. “Waiting for us to just take.”

“I heard there’s a deranged Dwarf living there,” Hilde replied without looking up from the brace of rabbits she was preparing, skinning them with the precision of a seasoned hunter. “Impaled one of the refugees with a knife.”

Orm snorted, “A Dwarf did?” He asked, one bushy eyebrow arched. “Pull the other fucking one, Hilde! No way a Dwarf -” he made a gesture at hip height to indicate how tall he thought dwarves were, Skjöldr hadn’t met that many himself but he was sure the two he had met were taller than that, “- impales anyone on a fucking knife.”

A bloody knife was levelled at him, “I said with,” Hilde pointed out as she flicked the knife over in her hand so she was holding the blade and mimicked throwing it to demonstrate what had likely happened.

Scoffing, Skjöldr shook his head. “Rumours say a Dwarf finished the Allfather,” he pointed out, repeating back a rumour that a lot of the refugees from Asgard had heard.

“Dreki shit,” Orm replied dismissively and Skjöldr shared a look with Hilde who rolled her eyes. “No way a tiny little thing like a Dwarf offs the Allfather!”

Giving an exaggerated shrug, Skjöldr thought of all the impossible things that he’d seen, all the unlikely things he’d heard since originally leaving Midgard and he was quite sure that a Dwarf killing Odin was entirely plausible. “Heard it from Loki,” he replied with another shrug. “Said it was a friend of his that did it.”

There was another snort from Orm who planted his hands on his hips. “You believed the little shit?” He asked, eyebrow arched again. “How the fuck does a weird ass looking Dwarf get close enough to the Allfather to do that?” This, Skjöldr considered, was unfair as Orm himself looked weirder than any Dwarf he’d ever met; Orm was broad of shoulders, bushy of hair and eyebrows but lacking in a beard and far squatter than any other Midgardian that Skjöldr had ever met.

Having finished preparing the rabbits, Hilde set the skewers over the fire to cook and sat back from the fire, swiping her hands clean on a cloth. “Not met many dwarves, have you Orm?” She asked, Skjöldr was fairly sure she had once mentioned that her father had had dealings with Dwarves in the past as he traded pelts as part of his craft as a hunter. “Some of them can turn invisible.”

“Dreki shit!”

Fixing Orm with an ice blue gaze that had stopped many men in their tracks, Hilde shook her head. “Believe what you will, Orm. You usually do,” the hunter countered as she crossed back to her pack.

It was going to be a long trip.

~

He knew it was going to be a problem when he woke up the next morning and Orm was missing from the camp along with his weapon and gear; it didn’t take much for Hilde to find the very solid man’s tracks in the soft ground and the pair were soon heading in a far too predictable direction. “Who would you bet on?” Hilde asked as she led the way across the bridge towards Tyr’s temple.

“Between Orm the brainless and a deranged Dwarf who likely impaled someone? The Dwarf hands down.”

Chuckling at his reply, Hilde reached the door first, drawing her bow ready and Skjöldr nodded in response as he drew his sword; a bellowing scream sounded out and Skjöldr opened the door, getting out of the way quickly to give Hilde a clean shot if it was needed. Mid rage, Orm lashed out with his war hammer, swinging wildly as he bled from a knife embedded in his left thigh. “Found the Dwarf, huh?” Hilde asked with a trace of amusement despite the fact that their companion had been hurt.

“Fuck you Hilde! This little shit -”

There was a meaty thud and a scream from Orm not long after as another knife hit his leg; an arrow whistled through the air and someone let out a curse as a Dwarf in an ill fitting tunic popped into existence not far from where they were standing. Deranged wasn’t the word that Skjöldr would have applied to him when angry fit far better. “You’re Loki’s friend,” the words left Skjöldr’s mouth before he could stop them and he regretted not taking the time as the Dwarf snarled back at him; his face might have been friendly in the right circumstances but Skjöldr recognised the grief that twisted his features.

“Get the fuck out.” That, Skjöldr considered, was a perfectly fair reaction to three young Midgardians invading where he was living; there was a plate on the counter with an apple on it and it was very clear that the temple wasn’t as abandoned as Orm thought it was. “And take this shit brained dullard with you.”

That Orm was a dullard of spectacular proportions was undeniable since he had blundered into someone’s home in search of loot, so Skjöldr couldn’t really blame him for that assessment either. “Who’re you calling shit brained, asshole?!” Orm roared back, “You threw a knife at me, you fucking shit stain!”

Orm was lucky that the Dwarf had gone for the fleshy part of his thigh rather than his kneecaps which he would have deserved and where someone like Hilde would have aimed. “Stop provoking the pissed off Dwarf, Orm,” Skjöldr advised as tactfully as he could, he sheathed his sword before he eased his way between the pair, back to Orm with his hands up. Hilde’s arrow had left an impressive slice in the Dwarves tunic and the fabric around it was being dyed a dull red. “I’m sorry that this idiot tried to steal from you, let me bind your arm to apologise.”

Brown eyes dropped from a full glower to something close to neutral, the apology was apparently accepted and Skjöldr relaxed marginally with the immediate crisis averted. “Hilde, take Orm back to camp, I’m going to help our Dwarf friend here tend to his wound.”

It probably wasn’t advisable but Skjöldr turned his back on the Dwarf to watch his companions leave, Hilde bracing Orm’s greater weight against herself. Once the door had closed behind them, Skjöldr let out a relieved sigh and turned back around to find that the Dwarf had vanished. “C’mon now, I said I’d help.”

“Never said I needed that,” the Dwarf pointed out from where he appeared by the forge. He ripped the tear in the tunic wider, clearly not caring for the garment and he probed the wound with grubby fingers with no reaction to doing it. “Get the fuck out meant all of you,” he gestured towards the door with his head without looking up at Skjöldr.

“Hilde tips her arrows,” Skjöldr told him. “You’ll need to really clean that wound or it’ll fester.”

“Out, door, you,” the Dwarf gestured again with his good arm, the tips of his fingers were coated in bright red blood.

Hunting through his memories, Skjöldr tried to remember what his name was; Loki had been close to him, had called him an uncle and Skjöldr could frustratingly taste his name on the tip of his tongue. It started with an ‘S’ he was sure of it and he knew the Dwarf was a famous blacksmith alongside his brother who had died before Ragnarők. Shit, shit, shit, no, that wasn’t his name, concentrate Skjöldr before the Dwarf decided to start being belligerent again. “You’re still here.”

Skjöldr held up both hands and gave a grin, hoping that would deescalate things to be greeted by a harsh look and an arched eyebrow that was far more effective than any Orm had ever pulled. “My companion shot you, I’m trying to help.” His name was there, within reach but frustratingly just outside of his grasp. “You’re a blacksmith, you’ll need your arm, let me help you, Sindri!” The name came to him as he spoke and he blurted it out as it did.

Dark eyes narrowed, evidently trying to work out why someone he didn’t know knew his name. “Like I said, Loki is my friend. He mentioned you a lot. A lot, a lot actually.” Thinking back, Skjöldr was quite sure that Loki had mentioned the Dwarf every time he had talked about his home; Sindri meant a lot to him and Skjöldr could only imagine how upset he’d be to find out that he’d been shot.

“Get the fuck out.”

Mentioning Loki was clearly not a way to reach him and whilst he was curious about that, Skjöldr didn’t have the time to focus on whatever had happened to ruin their relationship. “I will when I’ve cleaned your arm.”

“I can clean my own arm,” the Dwarf bit back before he vanished again and Skjöldr startled; that was spectacularly annoying and at the same time, paranoia inducing.

“Sure, looks like you’ve cleaned anything in months,” Skjöldr muttered to himself before he could bite it back. “Smells like it too,” the scent of sweat had lingered since he’d entered the temple, initially he had thought it was Orm’s musk but it was clear that the Dwarf stank too. There was a clatter by the door as a piece of distractingly shiny armour rolled away from a pile of it and Skjöldr almost walked that way to see what it was.

There was the sound of metal being dropped by the forge and Skjöldr whirled around to face where the Dwarf was now standing, dropping gold pieces into the melting metal by the forge without seeming to care about what he was doing. “You’ve still not fucked off,” Sindri commented as he worked.

Over the light from the forge, Sindri looked awful, tired, old and world weary; Skjöldr could see nothing of the kind and constant uncle figure that Loki had so obviously adored. “No, you’re right,” Skjöldr agreed as he approached the forge counter and tried not to show his disgust at the smell. “I’m staying until you let me clean your arm.”

There was a heavy sigh and Sindri’s shoulders sagged. “You seem like a good kid -” Sindri said, his tone was laced with false sincerity, “- so I’ll give you some invaluable words of advice; not everyone wants to be helped.”

That was distressingly bleak and Skjöldr got the sense that Sindri intended it to be; he was content to wallow in his loss as the realms recovered around him. “I don’t know what happened to you during Ragnarők but crawling away a die in a temple is just plain sad,” he kept his tone level and largely neutral but he meant every word of it; the Dwarf was apparently some kind of master craftsman but he was wasting his talent hiding in a dilapidated temple whilst slowly wasting away without helping anyone else. “People are out there,” he gestured towards the door for emphasis. “They're building their lives back up again and you’re just here brooding and wasting away.”

He made a gesture up and down the Dwarves body, “There are easier ways to die then starving yourself.” His tunic wasn’t just poorly made but the wrong size, Skjöldr could tell from the way it didn’t sit over his shoulders properly and it gaped at the neck. Skjöldr had seen it before, he’d watched people he had known starve to death and seeing someone do it voluntarily left a foul taste in his mouth even if he didn’t know the person doing it.

“If I wanted to die, I’d have done it.”

“Right, right, the cheap tunic just screams self care from a man melting down that much gold like it’s worth nothing.”

One eyebrow arched, Sindri braced both hands on the front counter and lent forwards. “And your’s screams poverty rather than the lack of any capacity to give a shit,” he said back with a tight smile that held no warmth at all and was clearly only being used to be condescending. “Mine is cheap because I don’t give a shit how I look, yours is cheap because you’re poor.” That had been blunt, harsh and distressingly accurate and Skjöldr was temporarily struck dumb by the force of it. “Now, if you’re done bothering me, fuck off kid,” Sindri pushed away from the counter and went back to what he’d been doing.

“But your arm -”

“For fucks sake, it’s not going to drop off because your little friend shot me,” Sindri cut in, his tone was savage. “The longer you stand there, the longer it’ll be before I can sort it out.”

Sighing, Skjöldr held up both hands in defeat. “Fine, fine.” He turned on his heel after letting his hands drop but paused by the door, Sindri’s words had hurt and it was just sinking in how unfair they had been. “You’re a real asshole,” he muttered without looking back at the Dwarf. “I didn’t choose to be a refugee, to be poor but you’re choosing to be an asshole. Shit happened to you during Ragnarők? Shit happened to all of us during Ragnarők but not all of us have the luxury of hiding away!” Having no intention of hearing what Sindri had to say to that, Skjöldr slammed the temple door behind himself so as to go back to his friends and the people determined to rebuild their lives after they had been broken.

Chapter Text

She was a little ashamed to admit that she didn’t react to what Skjöldr had said as quickly as she should have done about a Dwarf living in Týr’s temple; she knew who it was but she wasn’t ready to deal with his grief just yet. Having met Brok during her time at the guild, Lúnda had quickly been introduced to Sindri and whilst she wasn’t as close to him, he’d become a friend and she was often haunted by his stumbling away after the funeral, utterly broken by his loss. No matter how much she wanted to remember him before that point, to remember the obvious joy of their shared craft or the horror in his eyes any time she and Brok started talking about anything of an overtly sexual nature, all Lúnda could see was the little stumble he had given as he sagged under the weight of his grief.

She wasn’t ready to confront that, not when she was still in her own mourning but it had been six months and she needed to know if he was still alive, if he was all right, if he was eating. Making her way to where the Midgardians had set up a market, Lúnda wound her way around the stalls and traders in search of the things she wanted; most people refused to charge her properly, claiming that they were paying her back for the work she’d done.

Taking a breath, Lúnda nodded to herself when she was sure she was done and headed back to the camp; she gave Helka some goodbye pats and then vanished into the realm between realms to make her journey to the temple on the lake. With each step, she felt worry gnaw at her; what if he had died too? What if he had warped into something else? What if he didn’t want to see her?

A thought cut through all of it, through the chaos of her self-doubt and Lúnda clenched her hand into a fist; Brok would want her to check. Sure, his relationship with Sindri had dissolved for several long decades but she remembered his joy at having fixed that and he wouldn’t have wanted Sindri to fester alone in his despair. She opened the temple door and heard the distinctive sound of a Dwarf stepping into the realm between realms as she did so.

He was alive!

“I know you’re in here,” she called out as she crossed to the counter which was presently covered in newly forged pieces of armour; her heart did a hopeful little hop, he was crafting again! There was a pile of pillows haphazardly strewn on the floor near the forge where it would be warmest and neatly folded on top of them was a thick woollen blanket that Sindri was obviously trying to keep nice. The air smelt of coal, melted metal and sweat, the standard scents of a forge and Lúnda knew she had a slightly giddy smile on her face. “Y’know I’ll find ya,” her tone was something close to playful now that she had proof that Sindri was still alive.

Her optimism was probably a little premature since she’d yet to actually see him but Skjöldr had made it sound like Sindri was on the verge of death and knowing he was still alive had made her hopeful. There was a sound on her blind side and she turned to face her friend; dark quartz eyes looked back at her, clear and bright in a way that they hadn’t been the last time she’d seen him and Lúnda grabbed him in a hug.

She expected him to pull away and when he didn’t she took time to absorb how he felt; he’d always been thin but it was far too easy for her to get her arms around him and she could feel how gaunt he was through his tunic as he hugged her back. “You ain’t eating,” she accused, still holding him tightly, her hands clutching the fine wool of his tunic.

Whilst she didn’t want to let him go, Lúnda did so slowly and held him at arm's length; Skjöldr had said he was poorly dressed but the tunic Sindri wore was well made and embellished with his usual flare. His hair and beard were free of their bindings and slightly matted but Lúnda knew in her heart that Sindri was doing better.

She hadn’t lost him too.

His fingernails were dirty but his hands were clean, she noticed as he reached to brush them against the band around her arm. “Left room on here for me too,” he observed, his voice was a little coarse but it was so good to hear it again that she nearly grabbed him in another hug.

“Not exactly,” she lied as she released her grip on his other arm and he arched an eyebrow at her. “Fine, I did, never been more glad to be wrong about a thing!”

He gestured towards the forge and Lúnda moved to sit on a stool near it; he crossed to join her, limping off his left leg, “Tatzelwurm,” he offered when he noticed that she was looking at it, “I went to fetch ore and one caught me.”

“As long as you cleaned it up right nice and proper, them varmints are nasty.”

There were small things that weren’t quite right with him; some of the stitching on his tunic was a little sloppy, contrasting with most of it which was more professionally done. He looked tired and drawn, his cheek bones were far too pronounced but he was obviously trying his best and Lúnda wasn’t going to draw his attention to any of it. “Well, I brought some stuff for ya,” she announced. “If you’ll forgive me assumin’ of course.”

Before he could answer either way, Lúnda reached into her bottomless bag and pulled out a bottle of scent commonly used on beards and very similar to the one she’d used to smell on him, she set a comb next to it. “Not that the wild look ain’t doin’ a little summit for me,” she commented with a wink. “I do love me a man with a little shagginess,” it just wasn’t a look that she would have associated with Sindri and it looked wrong on him. “Forge smoke, I didn’t bring you anything to bind it with!”

“That’s all right.”

The comb for his hair was next and the look Sindri gave it suggested that he’d tried to brush his hair before and failed. The food was accepted and stored away, Lúnda just caught a glimpse of a pot of honey on the shelf and she smiled to herself as she realised that Freya must have sent him something. “And then -” she made a show of digging through her bag with her tongue between her teeth and she didn’t miss that he lent in a little to see what she was doing, “- the best part!” She flourished with the pastries as she pulled them free.

His eyes tracked the movement and she laughed raucously as his stomach growled loudly, it only made her laugh harder as a blush coloured his cheeks; Sindri was right there! He was tucked just behind the scruffy looking Dwarf before her but was so close, Lúnda felt like she could reach out and touch him. “They pair right nice with milky tea,” she prompted, looking around for the teapot since Sindri liked tea and she refused to believe that he didn’t have one tucked away somewhere.

“I don’t have any of the things you’d need for that here.”

Whilst she was initially surprised to hear that, Lúnda held back the reaction she wanted to give as she recognised that a teapot was a luxury and Sindri had other more important immediate concerns. “Well now, that won’t do at all,” she slapped her thighs as she hopped to her feet and then planted her hands on her hips. “You wait right there, I’ll be right back,” before he could reply, she flashed him a grin and vanished.

It took her a while to gather everything she’d need to make tea and some of that was her giddiness at the idea of getting to share tea with Sindri again after so long without seeing him; he was safe, he looked like he was well and Lúnda knew that he was making an effort again even if he still had things to work on. She paused in her kitchen, leaning over her sink to brush her fingers over a broach that Brok had made for her in their time in the guild together. “He’s gonna be alright,” she told her lost friend. “I’m gonna try ‘n’ help him, ‘n’ I’m sorry that I didn’t check in on him sooner.”

Sindri was pottering around when she got back, tucking things away in an attempt to make it look tidier; the limp in his left leg was bad enough to slow him down but it didn’t seem to be bad enough to stop him going about his business. “Well now, let's get the tea on!” Lúnda announced.

She saw to that as Sindri moved to take a seat, massaging his thigh. “Did you want me to go on and take a look at that?” She asked as she waited for the water to boil, Sindri looked horrified at the idea. “No need to be shy, sugar! I’ve seen all you’ve got to offer already.”

“No you haven’t!”

“Oooohhh, you pack that way?”

Maybe that was a cruel thing to say since Sindri was only just getting back to himself again but the stuttering panic that her comment caused was both hilarious and oddly adorable; Lúnda tried for a polite chuckle but ended up roaring with laughter. To her surprise, Sindri actually pouted back at her with his arms crossed over his chest; this gesture rucked up his sleeves, revealing the nicks and burn scars that he’d acquired over the last six months and she knew that those burn scars would be there for the rest of his life. “I’m takin’ that as confirmation, I hope you know that,” she said as she poured them both some tea.

“I’m surprised that Brok didn’t already tell you.”

She was surprised to hear him mention Brok but it made her all the more hopeful about his improved mental state. “Well, I know he packed all kinds of ways,” she replied as she set a mug on the counter near him. “An’ we went through a whole thing with him tellin’ me every day!” She chuckled at the memory of her wildly inappropriate friend who she missed with her whole heart.

She plated up one of the pastries and passed it to Sindri who accepted it with both hands and a soft thank you. “You’re welcome, eat it slow, I ain’t sure your stomach can handle much else.”

Taking a hearty bite of her own, Lúnda tried to subtly look him over again to see if she’d missed anything with her initial assessment; the neck of his tunic had the Huldra brand incorporated into it, his eyes were still sadder than she’d known but he seemed glad that she was there from the way he would occasionally look at her, as if he was surprised she were there at all. “I ain’t sure I should ask …”

His eyes softened a little bit as she stumbled over her words; he was holding his pastry carefully in both hands. “I’m alright,” he replied before she could tie herself up in any more knots. “I’m not going to pretend that there aren’t days when I curl up and go back to sleep but today isn’t one of those.”

To hear him say that he had bad days and that he recognised them as such felt like it was really good progress for him and Lúnda gave a small smile, looking down at the pastry on her plate, “I was workin’ in Vanaheim the other day, found one of those crude little doodles, y’know the ones,” she told him and Sindri nodded in reply. “I burst right into tears. Helka, my dog got right concerned, knocked me on my tush and sat on me.”

“I found three in here,” Sindri replied, looking out over the room. “I was okay with the first one but the second one …” He trailed off, closing his eyes in an elongated blink and Lúnda reached out to squeeze his hand.

“I had to explain to Beyla why I was bawlin’ my eyes out over a penis!” She exclaimed after releasing his hand and Sindri gave an amused snort into the sip of tea he was taking. “Then I had to explain it to her husband too! From under Helka! All the time, I just knew he’d be as pleased as a dog with two peckers knowin’ I was embarrassed.”

He didn’t laugh, Lúnda wasn’t sure that he was capable of it yet but he did smile enough at the idea for the corner of his eyes to crinkle. He took a small bite of the pastry, chewing it slowly in a way that suggested he was being careful with himself. “Well, now your beard definitely needs a brush,” Lúnda pointed out, gesturing at the pastry crumbs and he brushed them free absently. “Now sugar, I wish I could stay longer but I’m elbow deep in rebuilding efforts,” she drained the rest of her tea. “That and Helka’s being clingier than a baby kraken! Giant miss wandered on off and got herself pupped.”

He moved to stand just after she did, bracing his weight on the counter due to his leg, he still had about half of his treat left but Lúnda was quietly confident that he would finish it since he’d seemed to be enjoying it. “Y’know, Durlin and the others are busy back home and it’s just little ol’ me doin’ all that work,” she hinted and Sindri gave her a look, which she replied to with a grin. “You can’t blame a girl for tryin’! I’ll pay you in pastries.”

“You wouldn’t be able to afford me,” he replied with a flash of familiar Huldra arrogance as he walked her to the door. “Thank you for coming to see me, Lúnda.”

“Sorry I waited so long,” she replied genuinely as she grabbed him in a hug as they reached the door and he returned it. “I’ll c’mon by for another visit soon.”

“I’d like that.” She let him go as he replied, gracing him with a wide, easy smile and a wave before she hopped between feeling like things might finally be on the mend.

Chapter Text

There was only so much one Dwarf could do on her own, even if the Dwarf was a guild certified blacksmith with over a hundred years of experience and Lúnda wasn’t really keeping up with demand despite the help of the Midgardians. She’d asked Durlin if he could spare anyone to help her and he’d politely asked her to fuck off in turn so Lúnda could only assume that was a no. “You should eat,” Beyla’s silk smooth voice commented as she crossed to join her, setting a steaming bowl of stew on the front counter. “You’ll hardly waste away without it but we do require our blacksmith to be at her full strength,” she gave Beyla a dirty look for the jab and the elf flashed a wicked little smile back.

Picking up the bowl, Lúnda gracelessly shovelled some into her mouth. “The despicable manners of Dwarves,” Beyla scolded to her lack of decorum as she set a bottle of ale on the counter which Lúnda reached for and took a hearty swig from so as to wash down the stew. “Did your contact back in Niðavellir have any help to spare?” Beyla moved to lean her back on the counter as she spoke.

“He tol’ me to fuck off.”

“Ahh, a no then?”

“I’m assumin’ so,” Lúnda agreed as she moved to lean next to Beyla as she ate her stew which had evidently been made by Byggvir based on the flavouring and the fact that it was edible. “I’m fine, ain’t the first time I’ve worked this hard,” Lúnda shrugged as she continued to eat whilst thinking that the last time she’d worked really hard she’d been able to ask Brok for help. Lúnda had never been afraid of hard work, she had always thrown herself into it when it came but the sheer amount of labour that she now found herself undertaking was exhausting and felt like it never ended. Some days she would wake with the dawn and not fall asleep until long after everyone else had retired to their bedrolls, on others she would make trips to Niðavellir to fetch materials which would take her away for the whole day and see her return when the moon shone stark white light on the lonely camp.

There was a gentle thud as Byggvir landed not far from where they were standing, “Lúnda, Lady Sif sent me to fetch you, someone asked for you at the settlement,” he provided and Lúnda let out a discontented groan despite herself but she ate the rest of her food and downed her ale before she left the camp.

The main settlement was a little way from where the former resistance camp had been established and Lúnda used the trip to try and get her enthusiasm back so that she could force a smile as she entered the settlement proper despite how exhausted she inevitably looked due to being up late the night before working to get ahead. This would have been fine but she'd been woken at the break of dawn by Helka rolling over onto her.

The centre of the settlement buzzed with activity and Lúnda wandered towards where Lady Sif worked to coordinate the rebuilding efforts; she had as little to do with the Asgardians as possible, the wounds they had inflicted on her people were deep and Lúnda had issues letting go of them despite herself. She greeted people with her fake smile as they spoke to her, oftentimes she did so without looking at them as she focused on where she needed to go, maybe Beyla had some more ale back at camp.

Thinking about it, hadn’t she picked up some sweet pastries that morning? She vaguely remembered stopping at the stall at the market that sold them since she was intending to thank Beyla and Byggvir for their help; after they’d headed back to Alfheim to help their people, they’d returned to Vanaheim to assist in the rebuild efforts and decided to join Lúnda at their former camp rather than joining the settlement. “You’re not really awake, are you?” A voice asked as someone fell into surprisingly easy step with her on her blind side. “I said hello three times and you’ve still not realised who I am.”

Who he was?

She met and spoke to so many people in the day that she used pet names to disguise that she didn’t always remember their names. “Sorry hon, I’m here to see Lady Sif, if you need my help you can go on over to the camp and I’ll meet you there when I’m done,” she offered with a gesture that way and without looking over at the speaker as she was very much focused on getting where she was going so she could get back home again.

Tackling the steps up to Sif’s perch at the light jog, Lúnda got about halfway up them before her brain finally caught up, wait a second! She whirled on the spot and very nearly fell back down the steps again as she came to a stop facing the figure who had spoken to her and stood where she’d left him at the bottom of the steps with his hands on his far too slender hips.

Pale gold armour which she had last seen laid on his workbench shone slightly in the dull evening light that filtered through the trees, reflecting in familiar dark quartz eyes which were warm, kind and slightly mischievous. He’d lost his gloves in favour of longer tunic sleeves which were presently rolled up to his elbow where they met his plated armour. “Why didn’t you say sommit?!” She demanded as she descended the stairs and swept Sindri into a hug which he returned.

“I said hello repeatedly,” he scolded back. His hair was loose and longer than Lúnda was used to but it looked clean and had been brushed. His beard was bound with blue and two shades of brown and it was like seeing him as he’d once been rather than the sad echo that he’d become. “If you don’t want my help -” he released her and feigned walking away and Lúnda grabbed his arm, looping her arm through his to keep him in place.

“Don’t you dare.” she scolded in good humour, steering him by his arm away from the noise of the centre of the settlement and towards somewhere where they could talk more easily without being interrupted. “I wish you’d said you was coming to visit.”

He glanced towards her from the corner of his eyes as they walked. “It’s not much of a surprise if I told you I was coming,” he pointed out with a little flare of the Sindri she had once known becoming more apparent in the way he said it. “You said I could visit and I thought that I’d come and see if there was something I could do here to help.”

It wasn’t lost on Lúnda that Sindri had now offered his help twice in what had been a very short amount of time and that he was making no effort to pull free of her grip; the smile wasn’t fake any more as Lúnda steered him through the settlement. A few people followed them with their eyes as they walked by and Lúnda ignored the looks; most of the Midgardians had grown used to her wandering around but there was now a new Dwarf with her and that was probably a little strange for them after so long.

Releasing Sindri’s arm once they were clear of the fledgling town, Lúnda crossed her arms over her chest and gave him an appraising once over. “What’s that look for?” Sindri asked back with a trace of amusement. “Did you not want me here? I can always leave again.”

“I meant the don’t you dare before,” she uncrossed her arms and gestured for Sindri to follow her the short distance through the jungle to where the camp was.

Beyla and Byggvir were packing the things she’d made that day into crates ready to be distributed out where they were needed and Helka plodded over to her with a whining grizzle that demanded to know where she’d been before she spotted Sindri and lifted her snout to give an inquisitive sniff. “Less of a no than we presumed?” Beyla’s voice asked as the two elves crossed to join them.

Beaming from ear to ear, Lúnda planted her hands on her hips and looked up at Beyla. “Sindri ain’t one of Durlin’s.”

She was cut off by a small, startled sound from Sindri as Helka pushed her nose against his hand. “Her nose is wet,” he seemed surprised by this and it occurred to her that Sindri had likely never been so close to a dog in his entire life so he wouldn’t know that dogs commonly had wet noses.

“She wants for you to pat her,” Byggvir prompted to be met by an incredibly blank look but Sindri did cautiously reach out and pat Helka on the head in much the same way a child would, uncertain of what to do. Catching his eye, Lúnda made a gesture to show him that he needed to stroke rather than pat and Sindri mimicked the gesture on the top of Helka’s head as the dog sat patiently to let him. “She’s being clingy because someone let her wander off.”

“I can’t exactly stop her!” Lúnda objected as she half watched Sindri give a little smile as his fingertips found Helka’s ear and rubbed it to prompt a contented sigh. Helka nudged at Sindri’s hand once more, got a final stroke to the top of her head and trotted back towards the forge where she curled up near the heat. “C’mon, lemme show you what I’m doin’.”

Unsurprised that it didn’t take Sindri long at all to fathom what she needed, Lúnda contented herself with the work for a while before noticing that Sindri’s hair was causing him issues; he wasn’t used to wearing it long as he worked and it would drift into his face, forcing him to stop so as to tuck it behind an ear or shake it free of his face. As cute as it was to watch, Lúnda knew it was bugging him so she crossed to hunt through one of the pockets on the pack Helka wore until she found a length of supple leather that she used on her own hair. She snagged him by the shoulder. “Here,” she passed him the length of leather and he looked at it blankly. “For your hair.”

“I need to cut it.”

Chuckling, Lúnda shook her head. “If you like it longer, keep it longer, you just need to tidy it some. Let me,” she steered him towards where she could see his hair better and took the leather back from him, holding it between her teeth as she considered what to do with his hair. A simple braid would do for now and Lúnda was soon twisting his soft, dark, shoulder length hair into a loose one which she tied off. “That’ll do for now, you should try learning other ways to do it,” she nearly made a comment about his receding hairline at the front but decided against it, some people didn’t like it when these things were pointed out.

“Or I could just cut it.”

She chuckled at his interjection. “Or you could just cut it,” she agreed, “I happen to think it suits you like that, little bit longer.”

They worked until the light got too low to see what they were doing comfortably even by the forge and Lúnda knew better than to let Sindri work through the night, Brok had used to complain about his brother doing that. “Stay,” she invited as they worked to pack away Lúnda’s tools. “I ain’t got much in the way of niceties here but you’re welcome to share what I’ve got.”

“I wouldn’t want to intrude.”

“On what? We’re in a forest,” Lúnda pointed out with a laugh at his manners. “It’ll be nice to have some company that ain’t freakishly tall for a change,” even if Sindri was tall for a Dwarf, he was still closer to her height than most. "All that lookin' up all the dang time gives a girl a proper ache in the neck!"

He was wavering, Lúnda was sure he was caught between trying to avoid becoming a burden for a friend and feeling lonely now that he was capable of being around people again, “I’ve got some’ve those sweet pastries you like,” she bribed.

That seemed to work and Sindri nodded, “I just need to fetch my things, the temple isn’t secure,” it was promising that Sindri was willing to leave the temple itself though and Lúnda took that as a good sign that he was finally ready to spend more time around people again.

Turning down her offer of help, Sindri vanished between so as to go and fetch his limited possessions and Lúnda finished cleaning up around the forge before heading to join her friends by the fire where they had been resting after a long day of work. “Your friend carries a great deal of pain,” Beyla said, blunt as usual but with a degree of gentle understanding. “I would assume your crude blue friend was a relation of his?” It was phrased like a question but Lúnda knew Beyla had heard her call Sindri by name several times since he’d arrived and everyone knew the Huldra brothers.

“His older brother.”

“I see.”

Staring into the fire for a few seconds, Lúnda glanced up. “Don’t say nuthin’, he’s tryin’ his best,” she was quick to say, the last thing she wanted was for someone who didn’t really understand the relationship Brok and Sindri had had blundering in and pushing Sindri away when he was finally reaching out. “We got so much done in the last coupla hours.”

“Yes, we noticed,” came Beyla’s flat reply, she and Byggvir usually helped with packing up and distributing the items Lúnda had made so she understood why Beyla was so unenthused.

They chatted amongst themselves for a while as they worked to put things in crates ready for the morning; Sindri reappeared at some point, he stored his gear by the forge before he moved to join them. “Lúnda quite neglected to make our introductions earlier,” Beyla said with a little side-eyed look towards Lúnda who pulled a face in reply.

“I got caught up,” Lúnda defended. “Sin, this here is Beyla and the handsome light elf right there is her husband, Byggvir. Beyla, Byggvir, this here is Sindri Huldra and he’s like a brother to me,” she introduced and the three offered greetings between themselves. “You already met the last member of the camp, Helka,” who had instantly attached herself to Sindri in a way that Lúnda hadn’t really expected and presently sat next to him. “Sometimes Hildesvini stops on by but mostly he’s helpin’ lady Sif.”

They sat around the fire for a while, sharing the sweet pastries that Lúnda had brought and chatting; Sindri seemed curious to know what they’d all been up to and listened without interrupting as they told him. Eventually, the elves called it a night and Lúnda led Sindri towards the forge, “Here,” Lúnda handed him her spare sleeping roll and he took it with thanks. “I’ll try’n not wake you tomorrow,” he gave her a look that suggested he might be up before her and they both turned in for the night.

Chapter Text

Lúnda woke up later than usual the next morning and it took her a while to blink sleep from her eyes and wake up properly. She was surprised to find that her bedmate was missing since Helka seemed to have wandered off; this wasn’t all that strange and Lúnda picked herself up, loosening her hair as she did so before spotting that Sindri was missing too. His blanket was neatly folded on top of his bedroll and both had been carefully placed out of the way so as not to get damaged by the forge which he must have lit on instinct when he woke up.

She tried not to let it but worry welled in her chest as she crossed the camp towards where Beyla was at a brisk walk. “Beyla,” she heralded, trying to keep her voice neutral but from the look of concern that entered Beyla’s pretty blue eyes, she hadn’t quite managed. “Sindri’s gone, have you seen him?”

This seemed to surprise the dark elf who shook her head. “No,” she confirmed out loud. “He seemed in good enough spirits last night.” The words made Lúnda’s heart drop into her stomach as she realised that Beyla had already jumped to the conclusion that she most feared; that someone could seem fine but carry scars so deep, so pervasive that fading away seemed the only way to escape the pain.

With each moment that passed, Lúnda felt like her heart was thudding louder in her chest as she agonised about where Sindri could be; had she encouraged him away from the comparative safety of the temple in the lake only to give him the means to more easily end his own life? This flared another ember of panic in her chest and Lúnda forced herself to breathe; how could she live with herself if she had given him the tools to help him end it all?

What would Brok say if he was still around? How disappointed would he have been with her? His brother was finally back with them and she’d let him wander off! She couldn’t be trusted with anything! Helka had wandered off and managed to get up to mischief and now Sindri had gone Hel only knew where, to do Hel only knew what and it was her fault for not keeping an eye on him when he was so vulnerable!

Why hadn’t she asked about the scar on his arm? She’d assumed it was a burn scar but it could have been a cut; she shoved that thought aside as quickly as it had come because the wound was most definitely a burn scar, she’d seen plenty of those in her life to know what they looked like and knew the slightly shiny look that they had.

A muffled but familiar bass bark sounded and Helka plodded up to join her. “Great! Now I can use you to find Sindri!” Lúnda exclaimed as she gave the dog a quick pat.

“Find me?”

She whipped around to face her friend who made his way over to join her and she was relieved that he seemed fine, he even had a little colour in his cheeks. “No one else was awake so I went to buy some eggs for breakfast, Helka decided to follow me for some reason.”

Said Helka seemed to have acquired a meat bone and she waddled her way towards the forge with it. “You went to buy eggs?” She asked back in a low voice, aware of the fact that she sounded a little husky.

“I’m assuming that you have some but I couldn’t find them and I didn’t want to wake anyone else.”

A hand rested on her shoulder just as she was about to lose her temper with him for having worried her so much. “Lúnda was worried for you,” Byggvir offered, his tone was soft as usual and helped Lúnda to calm down a bit. “Vanaheim can be a dangerous realm for the uninitiated.”

Dark brown eyes drifted over to her and Lúnda wasn’t quite sure what Sindri’s expression was. “You don’t have to tiptoe around the obvious to save my feelings,” Sindri’s voice was a bit flat and Lúnda realised he was aware of why she’d been so concerned for him. “I’m sorry that I left without saying anything but I need you all to appreciate that I need to be able to do that sometimes,” he made eye contact with each of them in turn. To her surprise, he crossed into her personal space and took both of her hands, “You need to brush your hair.”

The utter audacity of the comment nearly got him punched in the face; Lúnda pulled her hands free with a huff and stomped back to her pack so she could take her frustration out on her hair. When she’d spent a little time taking her annoyance out on her stubborn locks, Lúnda made her way back to the fire where Sindri had cooked some of the eggs and he passed her a plate. “I didn’t come here to end my own life,” he assured her in their own tongue so that the others wouldn’t understand what he was saying. “I’m sorry that I frightened you.”

The fact that Sindri understood why she’d been so worried for him brought her some comfort and she nodded back as she accepted the plate and moved to sit with the others so as to eat. Sindri moved to sit not far from her with his own food but didn’t eat anything for a while, his expression pensive. “Once,” he said after a few minutes had passed and in a language that they’d all understand. “I considered it once,” he clarified after sharing brief looks with all of them. “It was the day after I’d been attacked by raiders in Freya’s wood who were after my armour. Freya found me, she was so nice to me but all I felt was resentment. Towards her, towards the raiders and towards myself. The next day when I got up, covered in bruises, nursing an injured side … it seemed easier to just step into the lake and let the weight of my armour drag me to my death.”

Silence fell after that, Lúnda tried to give Sindri a reassuring smile but was sure it came across as more of a forced, pained grimace than anything else. “Why did you not?”

“Beyla!” Byggvir’s voice held a horrified scold at his wife’s words.

The dark elf made a gesture towards Sindri, “he is still alive, husband mine,” she pointed out as if this should be the most obvious thing in all the realms. “And he has just insinuated that he is not suicidal and has only been so the once. It is natural to be curious as to why.”

There was a small smile from Sindri at that as he looked down at his plate. “If I’d minded the question I wouldn’t have said anything,” he pointed out. “I stood on the dock listening to the screaming of the gulls and the distant skuas, with the wind burning my cheeks and recognised that I didn’t want to die. I didn’t want to live either. I didn’t really want anything so I sought a different kind of oblivion than death. I got blackout drunk and passed out under my forge counter.”

Not sure what she could say to him, Lúnda bit into her toast and eggs to find both had been perfectly cooked, Sindri had clearly learnt how to cook since he’d been on his own since Lúnda always remembered him being awful at it; he seemed perfectly content to answer questions and share a few conversations with the elves as they ate though Lúnda noticed that he only finished around half of his food.

Their tasks that day went quickly, two master blacksmiths had no issues at all getting through the work they had to do; having not worked a forge alongside Sindri in many decades, Lúnda was surprised by how easy he was to work with. “Holy shit,” Skjöldr’s awed voice cut in as she had been about to call it a day. “You’re a marvel, Lúnda, this is unreal!”

“I am a marvel,” she agreed with a grin as she pushed back from her work and lent against the front counter so she could see him better. “I had help though. Sin, c’mon and say hi to cutie pie Skjöldr.”

“We’ve met,” Sindri replied without moving from his own workstation. “His friend shot me.”

“I mean, you threw a knife at Orm first.”

“He was trying to rob me!”

“Calm on down now boys. Sindri, c’mon over and say hi nice and proper.”

There was a sigh from Sindri as he set down his hammer and crossed to join them; it wasn’t lost on Lúnda that Skjöldr’s eyes widened before they flicked up and down Sindri’s body, she knew the two had met before whilst Sindri was at one of his lowest points and he looked wildly different. The tunic that Skjöldr had called ratty, cheap and poorly made had been replaced by one which was beautifully made of expensive wool weave and eyes he had described as dead and emotionless were bright and clear. “... You sure this is the same Dwarf?” The disbelief in Skjöldr’s voice made Lúnda smile.

“Sindri Huldra, master blacksmith extraordinaire!” Lúnda announced, pushing away from the counter so she could make a suitably dramatic gesture to incorporate all of Sindri who made a dismissive gesture with one hand. “Skjöldr here is doin’ his best to help the refugees.”

“Look, I’m sorry Orm tried to steal from you.”

“I’m not sorry I threw knives at him,” Sindri countered to the apology with his hands on his hips and looking more like the Sindri she knew then Lúnda had seen him look in a while. “... I am sorry that I was rude to you," Sindri's tone was sincere as he looked up at Skjöldr. "There wasn’t any good reason for me to talk to you like that when you were trying to help me.”

“Aww, that’s nice Sin,” Lúnda grinned as she clapped a hand to his shoulder and he lurched at the suddenness of it. “Skjöldr helps us out by runnin’ supplies over to the settlement.”

“It’s a shame you let Helka get pregnant,” Sindri commented as he headed back to his work station. “You could have made her a sled to transport crates.”

“Through a forest?”

He gave her a look for that which suggested he wouldn't have made the comment if he thought that was a problem. “The route is largely cleared by foot traffic,” he pointed out to her question, “I only encountered one felled tree this morning and that really wouldn’t take long to clear.”

Squatting down so he could study Helka under the bench, Skjöldr reached over to pat her on the head and she wagged her tail. “You think Helka could pull one of those crates?” He asked, his voice muffled a bit by the bench as he continued to shower the giant hound with attention.

“No, no,” Sindri shook his head, finishing another batch of nails with barely a thought. “Helka can pull two of those crates, maybe three at a time,” he corrected. “I’m pretty sure Lúnda could ride on her back.”

Recognising this as a jab at her weight, Lúnda gave him a bit of a look and he gave a little teasing grin back. “What about a Gulon?” She mused, leaning her back against the counter so she could look at Sindri, “Freyr managed to train some.”

“In theory,” Sindri conceded as Skjöldr stood up carefully. “Do you happen to know someone who can train one?”

“Just gotta send a message,” Lúnda replied to that with a grin, they could do this and things would be better in no time at all.

Chapter Text

No one greeted her at the gate but Freya was fine with that and enjoyed the time to herself as she worked her way through the jungle of her home realm; her duty to the council too often separated her from Vanaheim and it felt good to be home. It was due to the council that it had taken her far longer than she would have liked to reply to Lúnda’s message about training a Gulon to pull a sled despite the fact that she’d been looking forwards to doing it; she and Yngvi had often kept Gulon pups as children and it would be a way for her to connect with the memory of him.

The camp was as always, far enough from the main settlement that it was quiet save for the beat of a blacksmith's hammer and the sounds the jungle brought to it. As far as Freya knew, Sindri was still in Vanaheim based on the last report she’d had from Hildesvini who had said that having him there had accelerated the work; he had confided that he didn’t think they would need his services for much longer and Freya had advised him not to repeat that to Sindri as they were fortunate to have a blacksmith of his calibre working for them for free.

The hammering stopped as she approached the forge and Lúnda tossed her hammer down on the bench. “Well, hey there, highness,” the Dwarf greeted as she lent against the counter with one elbow on it and the other hand propped on her hip. Behind Lúnda, set out of the way of the forge and high enough off the ground not to be damaged was the blanket that Freya had weaved for Sindri, it was folded neatly and that made her cautiously optimistic about his overall mental state; she’d visited him a few times in the Temple but he had always seemed a little distant and she hoped that being away from that sombre place had helped him. “What can I do you for?”

“You mentioned that you wanted to train some Gulon.”

“Ahh shoot!” Lúnda exclaimed with a little shake of her head. “I meant to send you a message but chaos hit and I plum forgot. Helka dropped her pups so we’ve been tryin’ to teach her instead.”

Dropping to a loose crouch so she could check on the dog, Freya wasn’t overly upset to hear that Lúnda had forgotten since it got her away from other things and gave her a chance to check in on Yngvi’s friends; Helka was sound asleep with three puppies nestled close to her stomach. “If you wanted to see ‘em, most of the babies managed to snag a body by the fire.”

Moving to stand, Freya headed to the campfire where she counted seven more puppies pinning a figure under their squirming bodies. “I have to move at some point,” Someone complained from the depths of the pile and Freya was quite sure it couldn’t be who she thought it was since there was no way he’d let himself be accosted by so many dirty puppies! “Yes, thank you. Eww! No, no! Not my mouth!”

Giving a little chuckle at that, Freya carefully started to relieve the Dwarf of his burden, sending six of the seven off with little pats on the backside but the seventh refused to move from his spot on Sindri’s chest. Her friend’s tunic was covered in little tan hairs and his hair was a mess of disordered strands but she was glad to see that his eyes were vibrant and alive again.

Setting the last puppy down on the floor, Sindri swatted it on the backside to send it after the others and he brushed down his trousers as he moved to stand; he’d done away with his gloves in favour of a long sleeved tunic which was presently rucked up to his elbows and showed a nasty looking old burn scar on the inside of his right arm. The armour was new and he hadn’t had it the last time Freya had seen him; it was well made and embellished with a subtle flower pattern that Freya quickly decoded, Cyclamen for resignation, diffidence and goodbye and then Rosemary for remembrance, Sindri was wearing his last goodbye to Brok for those who knew how to look for it.

“Hello Freya.”

There was so much behind the simple greeting and whilst there were so many ways that Freya could have replied in turn, so many affirmations of care and friendship that she wanted to give him, she settled instead for reaching out, pulling him close and wrapping her arms around him in a way that she never would have dared before.

He smelt of puppy, of ash and forgework, and of oud from his beard oil; the scent of sweat lingered due to his work but the grim rotted smell that he’d had that day in her woods was gone as was the scent of blood that he’d sometimes carried when she visited the temple. He was still far too skinny and was masking it with his armour but it was nowhere near as horrendously stark as it had been when he had stumbled through her door; despite how awkward their height difference made the hug, there was strength in how he held her back.

His breath shuddered and Freya realised that she wasn’t the only one overwhelmed by the emotional relief of this moment; he was safe and well and sane, and their shared relief felt like a physical force holding them together until both were certain that it was real.

Releasing him slowly, Freya offered a smile which he returned in kind, the expression was a little coy and uncertain but it was a relief to see it. “Thank you,” Sindri’s voice was soft as he spoke, laced with twinges of the emotion that they’d shared. “For treating my wounds in your forest and for the blanket. I don’t think I’ve ever actually said it.”

“I did both of those things gladly,” she assured him.

There was a squeaky but demanding bark as one of the puppies moved to sit on Sindri’s foot; from his size, he was the litter runt and the shape of his face suggested that he and his littermates were not pure Bloð Hundr like their mother. “Who is this?” Freya asked as she bent down to scoop the puppy up.

“That’s Sindri’s buddy,” Lúnda threw in as she moved to join them.

“No he’s not!”

The puppy gave Freya a look that suggested that, despite Sindri’s objection, he absolutely was and that there was no way Sindri was leaving Vanaheim without him when the time came for him to leave. “She was all done, pups were feeding and then this one appeared,” Lúnda gestured at the puppy who licked Freya’s chin. “Sindri, without missing a beat, scooped him on up and presented him to Helka.”

“He was hungry!”

“I’m sure, doesn’t explain why I found him curled up with you one morning when he was big enough to walk.”

Letting out a snort, Sindri made a dismissive gesture at her; Freya set the puppy down on the ground and couldn’t help the smile as the little one followed Sindri towards the forge as he headed that way, his tail wagging the whole time. “Things seem to be going well here,” she offered as she followed the two Dwarves back to the forge where they had both settled back into their work.

There was something right about Sindri forging again; Lúnda was a fantastic blacksmith and would have been highly venerated if the Huldra brothers hadn’t done so much as a duo. “Lúnda should be able to cope with the workload again soon,” Sindri commented. “It’s long past time for me to get back out into my shops.”

This surprised Freya and she hoped she wasn’t staring at him but she was saved this thought by the equally shocked Lúnda who dropped her hammer and stared at him openly, “I’m not suited to this sort of work,” Sindri pointed out, looking between them both and explaining himself as if that were the issue. “Nails and tools are things that any blacksmith can make.”

There it was.

The last thing Freya had needed to hear from him to know that Sindri was finally getting back to himself, the last thing that confirmed his recovery; he was frustrated because he was being underutilised. Someone of Sindri’s skill needed to have work befitting of their talents and making nails would in no way suffice. “That’s not to say that i haven’t appreciated the work,” he was quick to add when he realised that it could come across as ungrateful and he looked over at Lúnda who still seemed to be in a state of shock. “I have appreciated it but … I think I need to do a little more than this now.”

Emotions danced across Lúnda’s face, pride, fear, joy and sorrow, a tapestry of worries for a friend who had only just emerged from his grief enough to be around others; Lúnda’s face crumpled and Freya sensed that she was fighting to stop the tears that suddenly erupted from her as a noisy sob. “I’m sorry,” she spluttered through the tears, her hands coming up to hide her face. “I promised myself that I was done bawling my eyes out.” She heaved in some shuddering breaths, trying to reign in her very visceral reaction to what Sindri had said.

If he was upset or unsettled by her reaction, Sindri didn’t show it as he carefully set his hammer down and crossed to Lúnda’s side, easing her hands from her face so he could see her. “Do you need me to stay?” he asked, his tone was gentle as he kept hold of her hands.

Lúnda grabbed him in a hug which only served to highlight the stark contrast of their physicality, Sindri rake thin and tall, Lúnda short and squat. “You go on and leave when you’re ready,” Lúnda blubbered and Freya moved from the forge counter so the two could talk.

Crossing to sit at the fire, Freya added another log and spent some time playing with the puppies; maybe she could convince Kratos to take one, the surly Greek certainly shared some facial similarities with the pups. “Lúnda is just cleaning herself up,” Sindri’s voice offered as he moved to join her; he took a breath, hands moving to rest on his hips. “I feel I owe you as much of an apology as I owed her.”

She wanted to tell him that it wasn’t merited, that he had been deep in his grief, had reacted out of pain and didn’t owe her an apology for that but Freya knew that he needed to do it. “I didn’t want to need your help,” she thought of the snarling thing that had spat curses at those who had attacked him, vicious and harsh. “I didn’t want anything but you were so insistent,” she remembered the look in his eyes as she had treated his wounds, halfway mad and achingly lost in his pain. “When Kratos came with the blanket …” He trailed off, thoughtfully absent for a while. “After how I had treated you, it was a kindness I didn’t deserve.”

That was too much, Freya moved to stand and laid her hands on his shoulders prompting him to look up at her; she was never sure how best to address a Dwarf, getting down to his level seemed patronising but towering over him seemed like it would be intimidating. “You have always been deserving of kindness,” Freya told him, making sure her sincerity was clear in her voice. “I wanted to show you that and I’m sorry that I didn’t make it more apparent before.”

He laid his right hand over her left one and gave it a squeeze with a warm grip, “Thank you for being patient with me,” she smiled at that comment, lifting her hands from his shoulders. “Now, I think I have something you might like,” he gestured towards the forge and led her that way.

Searching through a few of the crates that he and Lúnda were using for storage, Sindri laid a quiver worth of arrows on the counter. “No special enhancements I’m afraid, not yet,” the yet implied that he wanted to do more with the arrows and would do so in the future if she gave him some time. “But I thought you’d be long overdue new arrows and probably wouldn’t have time to make your own.”

This was his way of thanking her, crafting arrows when he’d stepped away from weapon craft in the wake of his brother’s death; the shafts were made of supple wood native to Vanaheim and the arrowheads made from ore from Svartalfheim, they were perfectly crafted in a way that she’d only ever known Sindri to manage. The arrow flights were a beautiful dusky red, deep orange colour that called to mind her own wings and she did have to wonder what bird he’d managed to find that had the same colouration because they had very obviously been chosen for that reason. Selecting one of the arrows at random, Freya couldn’t help the little grin she shot Sindri as she headed to a safe spot, selected a target and notched the arrow; the arrow flew with the perfection she expected from Sindri’s work and hit the target in the centre. There was a thoughtful hum from her side where Sindri had appeared with the other arrows. “Fetch that one for me,” his tone was a little bossy but Freya knew the look that had entered his eyes and gladly moved to do so; he had an idea and she wasn’t going to waste that because he’d demanded rather than asked.

Heading for the forge after fetching the arrow, Freya was a little surprised that the special item Sindri was using for his crafting was a pumpkin before she vaguely remembered Sindri pulling one from his bag of tricks and it exploding as he threw it at a Hel-walker before Ragnarők. Humming to himself, Sindri tapped the pumpkin with his hammer incredibly carefully before doing something she’d never comprehend to the arrows which briefly made them shimmer with orange light. Nodding his head, Sindri handed the arrows to her, “Use Eldr to activate them,” he gave a grin.

“Why a pumpkin?”

That slipped out as she took them back and put them into her quiver and Sindri seemed as surprised by the question as she was. “There’s a spice mixed with pumpkins in Niðavellir that tastes of the sound of flame,” the Dwarf explained in a way that suggested it made perfect sense to him but was utter nonsense to a non Dwarf. “It’s delicious, you should ask Raeb about it the next time you’re there.”

“Only if you agree to meet us there.”

She wondered if she was asking too much of him to go back to Svartalfheim given that the last time they’d been there collectively was for Brok’s funeral and she wasn’t sure if he’d been back since. “I might just do that,” came Sindri’s quick reply as he busied himself tidying up. “Durlin owes me money and he’s pretty much always at the tavern.”

She wanted to hug him again but resisted the urge to do so; he was doing so much better than when she’d last seen him and whilst it wasn’t exactly perfect, Freya could see the echoes of who Sindri had once been there now.

And who he’d be again with a little more time and patience.

Chapter Text

It was Kratos who had told her that the hammer didn’t feel as it once had and it was only after he’d done so that Thrúd started to notice that things weren’t quite right with it; after one of their sparring sessions, Kratos had told her to go to Alfheim and speak to the Dwarf she’d find there since he would be the only one who could help her if anyone could. Mimir had offered something cryptic about the possibility that even then there might be nothing that could be done for the hammer which Thrúd thought was wildly unhelpful and not especially encouraging.

Yet, she considered as she strode across the sand, she didn’t have any other options; Lúnda was a fantastic blacksmith and Thrúd had never faulted her work but the way Kratos had spoken about the Huldra brothers with so much respect set them on a rung far beyond their contemporaries. Whilst she’d been raised alongside it, Thrúd was still in awe of Mjölnir and to learn it was now one of a trinity of powerful and remarkable weapons made by the same two people was incomprehensible to Thrúd.

She had deliberately chosen a gate a little way from where Kratos had told her the Dwarf would be so she’d have time to think about what to say to him but every thought she had slipped from her grasp as easily as the sand she walked across. What did you say to a legendary blacksmith? One who had armed gods in the past, who knew Kratos and the lady Freya well enough for both to regard him as highly as they obviously did.

She was trying not to fixate on that as she entered the area where Kratos had said the shop would be, the triple tap of a hammer hitting metal rang out and sure enough a Dwarf worked at the forge nearby. He stilled, glancing up as if he sensed her there, “Kratos said you were looking for me,” he commented, setting down his hammer and crossing to the shop counter, leaning on it with both hands; he had a kind, warm voice. Didn’t she know him from somewhere? He wore a thick leather glove on his right hand and Thrúd was pretty sure that this was counter to other smiths she’d dealt with in the past; Lúnda wore her glove on her left hand and hammered with her right and Thrúd had to wonder if it made the Dwarf before her left handed before cursing herself for not noticing as she’d approached.

Then it occurred to Thrúd where she knew him from and she wondered why Kratos hadn’t thought to mention that the Dwarf he had sent her to find was the same one to bring down Asgard’s wall. There had been times, on her darkest days, where Thrúd had blamed Sindri for the chain of events that had led to the death of her father and the loss of her home but this never lasted for long and her anger was soon turned towards the person who had truly been to fault; her beloved, murderous grandfather.

The Dwarf before her looked radically different to how she remembered him when he’d tried to hit her with his hammer to defend Loki; the badly damaged, bloody armour had been replaced by a beautifully embellished set covered in flowers, it was armour worthy of a master smith. Eyes that had been red rimmed and raw when her life had fallen apart were as positive as anyone else she met and it was only now that she recognised that he had been wearing his grief obviously to all.

He cleared his throat a little self consciously and Thrúd realised that he’d asked her a direct question which she had yet to answer whilst staring at him; her mother would have scolded her for being so rude! “I was,” she confirmed. She sighed, still utterly unsure what to say to him. “I tried to think of what I could say on the walk here.”

“I’m going to guess nothing came to mind.”

The little snort that Thrúd gave in response to his gentle assertion was entirely involuntary. “Too many things did,” she admitted as she stood before the front counter of his shop with her hands on his hips. “I don’t know you, I don’t know how you’ll react to me asking you for your help, especially since your friends warned me that you might not want to.”

“Well, all of that is true,” he agreed with a slightly playful lilt to his voice as he pushed away from the counter. “You could start by introducing yourself,” He prompted as he removed his smithing glove and shook out his hand; there was an old burn scar up the inside of his right arm, stretching from his wrist to his elbow that spoke to a carelessness that she never would have expected from so highly regarded a smith.

He was right and Thrúd drew in a breath to compose herself, drawing herself up to her full height as she did so, “Thrúd Thorsdottir.”

“Sindri Huldra.” Having him offer his own name in turn helped more than she expected when it was paired with the little smile he flashed her and she felt some of the tension leave her shoulders; she still had to approach this situation with more diplomacy than she usually employed but Sindri seemed amiable enough. “You said you came looking for me and from what Kratos said you need my help so, how can I help?”

The invitation made it a lot easier and Thrúd drew Mjölnir, setting it on the counter before him. The Dwarf’s so far friendly eyes darkened as he crossed his arms over his chest and there was something harrowed and unsettled in his facial expression that Thrúd instantly found she disliked; she knew that most people had an unfavourable opinion of the hammer but surely one of the people who had created it could look beyond what it had been used for? Closing his eyes, Sindri drew in a breath which he released slowly as he opened his eyes again. Uncrossing his arms but losing none of the accompanying tension that his small form now seemed to carry, he lent to study the hammer. “I don’t know how much I can help,” his admittance surprised her as on a whole, Thrúd found master blacksmiths of his skill an arrogant and unlikable group of people. “About half the work it needs is structural, that was always Brok’s area of expertise.”

He stepped back from the hammer, his left hand stroking his chin thoughtfully. “But then, Lúnda is entirely capable of it with a little guidance,” he mused, talking to himself rather than Thrúd and she was content to let him if it helped her to get what she needed. “We’ll need to take it to Lúnda,” he dropped his hand from his beard, looking up at her. “She can fix the worst of the physical damage,” this seemed to prompt a thought and his hands went to his hips, highlighting how skinny he was. “That’s not to say that I can’t do it, it’s just that it’s more Lúnda’s skill set.”

“I don’t care who does it as long as it gets fixed,” she replied with a shrug before recognising that it was a callous thing to say but she wasn’t sure how to say it better. “So, back to Vanaheim so Lúnda can do the structural work, then what?”

“Then we have to catch lightning, literally.”

His tone made it sound like this was a perfectly rational, sensible thing to say and her mouth dropped open as she tried to formulate a response. “I’ll be the one catching it,” Sindri went on to say with an offhanded gesture and a little flare of amusement. “If anything I should be the one pulling faces.”

Thrúd’s mouth shut with a slight snap. “You can’t catch lightning,” Thrúd insisted, planting her hands on her hips. “That was one of the first things that my father taught me.” It didn’t hurt to talk about him as much any more but there were still days when it hurt to think about him, when the storms in her head raged and all she wanted to do was scream; when those days came, Thrúd would throw herself into her training and work until she was too tired to think any more.

There was a chuckle from the Dwarf. “Not dealt with many Dwarf smiths before?” He asked, his tone amused and she had to wonder how often he’d asked the question in his lifetime; how long did Dwarves live?

She laughed at that, watching as Sindri clasped his hands behind his back, rocking on his heels a bit as he did so. “Lúnda’s the first Dwarf I ever met,” she told him.

Their eyes met and something passed between them that suggested neither of them was counting the incident during Ragnarők; it was obvious to Thrúd that Sindri had not been in his right mind and that the Dwarf she was now meeting was closer to how he usually was. “Well, she’s made things from Helka’s barks and the scent of trees on a rainy evening,” he told her. “The Draupnir spear that Kratos wields was made with a self replicating ring and the sound of the wind across a canyon in Niðavellir that Brok happened to like.”

“No wonder the Aesir smiths said that Dwarves are fucking weird,” it tumbled out before Thrúd could stop it and she felt her eyes widen as it fell from her mouth. “I’m sorry! I didn’t mean that, Aesir smiths could be a bunch of assholes,” she was quick to apologise since she knew it was a bad idea to insult the person who was going to help her.

Making a dismissive gesture, Sindri pushed off his back foot and moved to start tidying away his tools, “I’m hardly going to argue with the truth,” he replied without any hint of having been upset or offended by her words. “Dwarves are weird, I say this as a Dwarf myself and therefore something of an expert,” the unexpected nature of his comment made Thrúd chuckle and he gave a little half smile back. “Take that back to Vanaheim,” Sindri gestured towards Mjölnir as he spoke, “I’ll meet you at the camp after I retrieve the last of my gear.”

As she picked up the hammer, Sindri finished picking up his kit before he lifted his hand to his mouth to give three sharp and surprisingly loud whistles, moving to stand with his hands on his hips again. “You have a dog,” she realised since there was nothing else he could be trying to summon.

“Involuntarily.”

“How do you involuntarily have a dog?”

There were three more whistles before Sindri looked towards her again. “He’s Helka’s runt,” he told her as his hands went back to his hips. “Lúnda didn’t want him going to just anyone and he decided he was coming with me when I left the camp. If he doesn’t appear soon, he’ll be Alfheim’s dog!” He yelled the last part and she found that hard to believe; she hadn’t known him long but Sindri didn’t seem the sort to abandon an animal.

There was a muffled bark and a small version of Helka bounded across the sand to join them; the puppy already came to Sindri’s waist when sitting and the way he sat in front of the Dwarf so neatly suggested that he had been well trained. “What’ve you got this time?” Sindri asked as he crouched down and held out his hand for the dog to drop a hunk of rock into it. “Hmm,” Sindri studied it, “Alfheim silver,” he put the rock into his bag and pulled a scrap of food from it which led to an enthusiastic bout of tail wagging; he might not have wanted a dog but it was clear to Thrúd that he was a good owner.

The puppy finally seemed to notice her and tilted his head back to look at her, it wasn’t lost on her that the dog and his owner had very similarly coloured eyes. “Hey there,” she greeted and the pup picked himself up to give her a curious sniff as she crouched to pet him. “What’s his name?”

“Hundr.”

She looked up at him at that, her expression unimpressed and the one she got back suggested that Sindri felt absolutely no shame for giving the dog such an obvious name. “So much thought went into that,” she commented as she gave Hundr some attention before she caught herself with a grimace, she was being far too familiar with someone she had only just met.

“I’m sure I’d have come up with something better if a dog hadn’t been unexpectedly dumped on me.”

There wasn’t any hint of upset in his voice due to her conduct and Thrúd understood why Loki had liked the Dwarf enough to refer to him as an uncle; someone had dumped a dog on him but he’d taken that responsibility seriously enough to train the pup. Said pup was the same tan colour as Helka with paler spots over one eye and another on his side, his nose was longer and darker than Helka’s and he had enormous paws. “Shall we?” Sindri asked as he walked around the counter and led the way to the gate with Hundr on his heel, ready to lead Thrúd on the next part of her journey.

~

“Well, hey there, Sin,” it surprised Thrúd a little that Lúnda was familiar enough with Sindri to have given him a nickname but then, he also regarded her well enough to rate her skill level; they obviously had history. “And if it ain’t everyone’s favourite trainee valkyrie too.”

“Hey Lúnda.”

“I was about to get started on food,” Lúnda invited as she continued on her way back towards the campfire.

“We don’t have tih -”

“Sindri Huldra,” Lúnda cut him off, whirling on the spot to face him with a hand up to make it clear that she wanted him to listen to her. “It ain’t healthy and it ain’t normal to feel a man’s ribs when you hug him!” She scolded and Sindri pulled a face in counter. “‘Specially a Dwarf!”

The expression on his face became more of a grimace which didn’t reach his eyes. “There are skinny Dwarves, Lúnda,” he objected, the scold in his voice matching hers. “This is giving me a reason to avoid hugs again.”

There was a bark of genuine amusement from Lúnda. “Sure, sure, you like hugs though!” Whatever they went on to say was lost on Thrúd as they bantered back and forwards playfully in a language she didn’t understand and Thrúd was no longer confused by their relationship; they were siblings in all but name from how they talked to one another.

She had never been overly close to Magni or Modi, the two had always been in competition with one another and Thrúd had never been part of that but she could appreciate that other siblings had far healthier relationships and she could see it in the way that Lúnda and Sindri spoke to one another. “Sindri used to be real touch shy,” Lúnda offered and Thrúd realised that whilst she’s been distracted Sindri had headed off somewhere. “You couldn’t get close to him, couldn’t touch him, couldn’t always tell how scrawny he got, especially hidin’ himself in armour like he does.”

It was like dealing with her father, hiding the worst of his drinking from those who loved him and wanted him to be well; Sindri had not been drinking, from what Lúnda had implied, Sindri had done the opposite. “Lost about half his body weight after Brok died, ain’t quite got it all back yet.” It was shocking to think that Sindri had somehow been skinnier than he presently was since there was barely anything to him! “But at least he’s out of that temple an’ eatin’ again now,” Lúnda went on to say as she went back to tending the meat for dinner.

Helping Lúnda with the meal prep as the dogs played by the fire, Thrúd listened as the female Dwarf regaled her with tales of smithing; she was half way through a story where she’d made a shield from the touch of a newborn child when Sindri approached them. “Here,” he passed Lúnda a neatly wrapped bundle of baked goods. “I also got some of those sweet fruits that you like since the stall holder was trying to sell them off cheaply.”

The two elves that were part of the camp crossed to join them and Byggivr laid a hand on Sindri’s shoulder companionably before engaging him in easy conversation; it was hard to envision the soft spoken Dwarf she’d come to know over the last few hours as the same one who had brought down the wall. “So, what brings you both on over?” Lúnda asked when she was handed out plates of food, the one she passed Sindri had considerably less on than the others and Thrúd recognised that she didn’t want to overwhelm him.

“I need your help with Mjölnir.”

From the way she stared at him with wide eyes, this caught Lúnda off guard. “You need my help?” She repeated, her voice raised incredulously as she looked at him. “Sindri Huldra needs help from another blacksmith?”

She got a long look from Sindri in reply to that. “I can always find another guild Dwarf to do it,” he said back as he picked at his food. “I doubt it would take me long either, they’d probably pay me for the privilege.”

It sounded arrogant to Thrúd but from what Kratos and Mimir had said, it was likely justified and Sindri was probably right in his assertion. “I ain’t payin’ you,” Lúnda replied, unceremoniously stuffing about half a flatbread into her mouth as if to make the point.

“Maybe I should head back to Niðavellir instead,” Sindri seemed to consider as he offered half of his own flatbread to Hundr who wagged his tail, a portion of his food was tipped on the ground for the dog not long after and was eaten with gusto.

“Like you’d trust any other Dwarves with Mjölnir. Bless their hearts but most o’ ‘em don’t know a hammer from a hair comb!”

Talk soon drifted from Mjölnir to more casual things, poetry and music for the most part and Lúnda guided the discussions artfully, obviously not intending to work on Mjölnir that day and Sindri didn’t seem overly bothered. Thrúd was happy to talk with them all and when dinner was done, she said her farewells to the group with the intention of heading back the next day; she was apprehensive and excited in equal measure to think that her father’s hammer would be restored to its former glory.

Chapter Text

The camp was largely empty when she entered it the next day, one of the Dwarves was working the forge but other than that it was quiet. Little Hundr trotted up to her, sitting at her feet with something loosely held in his mouth, his tail wagging occasionally and Thrúd crouched to take whatever it was from him; it was a lump of metal. “You find these for Sindri, don’t you?” She asked, turning the lump over in her hands to look at it. “So he’ll keep you around,” she laid a hand on Hundr’s head and the puppy wagged his tail. “You do it because he gives you treats for them.”

Because Sindri, despite his objections clearly cared for the dog, she’d seen that the evening before when Hundr had been given the largest chunks of meat from Sindri’s meal. “Aren’t you a little small to be going out on your own though?” She asked, concerned that such a young puppy was wandering around without supervision.

“You should probably be careful saying things about size around a Dwarf.”

She wished she could say that she didn’t startle hard enough to land on her backside when Sindri spoke from right behind her and she let out a surprised sound as she hit the ground. “But you were way over there!” She objected as she tilted her head back to look at him upside down.

He tilted his head at her, hands on his hips again. “I was,” he agreed. His hands dropped from his hips, before he gave his shoulders a little backwards flex and vanished; Thrúd scrambled to her feet and drew her sword, whirling on the spot and disturbing Hundr in the process who barked. “I used to have a whole spiel for this,” Sindri’s voice said and he reappeared near the fire where he started warming his hands. “The short version is that some Dwarves can step into the realm between realms, making it seem like we disappear because your brain can’t process it. Doesn’t work on dragons mind you. As I learnt the hard way when one tried to eat me.”

Crossing to join him, Thrúd was quite sure her awe showed on her face as she put her sword away. “If a Dwarf ever decided to, they could be the most efficient fighter in the realms,” she insisted and Sindri let out a sound of amused disagreement. “You could just appear, stab someone and vanish again before they’ve even realised what’s happened.”

“We tend to use the ability to hop into the realm between realms so we don’t have to use the weapons we make,” Sindri explained as he crouched down to give Hundr attention which he had been asking for by sitting at his owners feet and wagging his tail intermittently, the wagging grew more consistent as Sindri patted him. “We’re not really the right size to be effective.”

“It’s not the size, it’s what you do with it.”

The second it left her mouth, Thrúd was horrified with herself for it; had she really just made a penis size reference to a man she barely knew and who looked old enough to be her father?! There was a scoff from Sindri at that, “I’ve never had any complaints.” Surprised by his answer, Thrúd watched as his cheeks flared very bright red as the words caught him up and he realised what he’d said; it made Thrúd feel a lot better about her own little slip up. “I am so sorry,” he apologised, refusing to look at her as he worked through his fluster. “I’ve been around Lúnda too much lately, it made me forget my manners.”

“I’m pretty sure that one was my fault.”

This seemed to put them both at ease and Sindri’s face gradually faded back to its usual colour. “Speaking of Lúnda,” he said as he moved to stand. “She got called away this morning,” Sindri offered. “I had hoped that she could do the work that the hammer needs today.”

The sneaking suspicion in Thrúd’s gut told her that Lúnda had vacated on purpose to encourage her friend towards doing the work himself but she was hardly going to point that out if he hadn’t realised it for himself. “Did you make your armour?” She asked, trying to make it sound like she was curious but she was attempting to prompt a chain of thought from him.

“I did. I wouldn’t be a very good blacksmith if I hadn’t.”

That caught her for a moment because he had a point, what sort of blacksmith would he be if he didn't make his own armour? “It’s beautiful,” she realised that she had been a little too heavy handed when Sindri gave her something of a look with one eyebrow arched. “What? You’ve seen Aesir armour,” she pointed out. “I’ve never seen armour like yours before.”

The look didn’t ease by much but it was obvious that she’d struck a subject he cared about from the little light that flared in his eyes. “Aesir armour is largely artless,” Sindri’s tone held a bit of a haughty sniff but Thrúd was getting the sense that he’d earned that level of pride in his work. “Some of it, your breastplate for example, is pleasing to look at, well crafted with pleasant details,” he made a gesture to incorporate the relevant parts of her gear. “The seaglass is also very pretty, it’s the sort of thing I’d include in armour to give it a little flourish."

She felt oddly satisfied to hear someone pay that part of her armour a compliment, “Thanks, made that part myself,” She offered a grin, it felt really good to have a smith of his level complement the part of her armour that she’d worked on herself in a favourable way. “I painted it anyway,” she corrected since she didn’t want to take credit for something that she hadn’t done.

They talked about his craft for a while and she got the feeling that people didn’t usually give him a chance to talk about the things that he loved doing, every so often he’d look up at her as if he was expecting her to cut him off and yet Thrúd let him talk, offering up questions to encourage him to keep going because it obviously brought him joy and she remembered how sad he had looked the day before. They’d moved to sit by the fire on one of the logs to wait for Lúnda as they talked, feeding it fresh wood to keep it going. “I don’t think Lúnda’s coming today,” Thrúd commented after a while as she tried to play fetch with a ball Hundr had originally given her but kept giving back to Sindri.

The Dwarf tossed the ball over arm with his left hand, bouncing it off a tree trunk across the camp for Hundr to chase. “I know,” he muttered, wrapping his arms around knees and somehow looking even smaller than he had so far. “I knew that last night.”

He was stalling.

In the scant two days since she’d met him, Thrúd had recognised that he was a fiendishly clever man, he would have realised what Lúnda was trying to do when she’d done it. “You don’t have to do it if you don’t want to,” Thrúd said after a few minutes. “The hammer’s been in this state the whole time I’ve been using it. It’s not like I actually need it, I’ve got two fantastic weapons already but …” She trailed off, not sure if she wanted to tell a comparative stranger her actual reason for wanting the hammer fixed. “I wanted to try and use it to undo some of the worst things it was used to do,” she confided and felt his eyes watching her as she said it. “I want to build things where Odin made my dad destroy them.”

Letting out a pitiful little whine, Hundr nudged against Sindri’s elbow until the Dwarf wrapped his arm around him, tapping his hand absently against the pup’s side. “And I know that’s really fucking naive and stupid, all right?” She moved to stand, her back to Sindri and her hands on her hips, “I know I can’t undo what’s been done, I can’t take it back but I want to help. I want to be better than my father was allowed to be.”

That slipped out before she could stop it but she made no attempt to rescind it; her father had said no, that was all he’d done after spending his whole life doing as Odin had told him. On the days where her rage and hurt were at their highest, Thrúd had turned it on the memory of her father, demanding to know why he hadn’t been more brave, hadn’t fought back sooner but it always faded as she remembered his hand reaching out to her as he vanished; it was easy for her to say what he should have done because it wasn’t her life.

With a final triple tap of his left hand against Hundr’s side, Sindri moved to stand, his expression was clouded and hard to read. “Come on,” he said as he walked towards the forge. She watched as Sindri went about selecting the items of his gear that he needed; his hand rested on a hammer that didn’t look like it belonged to the rest of the set, his fingertips alighting on a hail rune and Thrúd got the sense that it had belonged to his lost brother from how distant his eyes grew. When he next looked at her, Sindri’s expression was far easier to read because the emotional pain he had to be feeling was obvious across his features; there was nothing of the friendly man she had interacted with so far left as he tried to function through the pain of loss which made his hands shake.

She was pushing him too hard, Thrúd stopped by the forge counter, watching him for a while whilst trying to make it seem like she was looking over his gear. “You don’t have to do this you know,” she said at length because the last thing she wanted was to drive a knife deeper into the heart of a man who was very obviously already injured in the same way that she was.

“I’m a blacksmith,” Sindri’s reply came across as a fraught snap and it was clear to Thrúd that he was only just keeping it together as his calm unravelled when confronted by work his brother had once done. “There’s smithing work to be done,” he set a few more tools on the bench and then spent several minutes moving each into slightly different positions and back.

She could appreciate what Lúnda had been trying to do but she found herself loathing the female Dwarf for reducing the man before her to a shivering wreck; he’d seemed fine but now he looked pale, drawn and uneasy. A sound welled up from him, choked and desperate that warped into a frustrated shout as he flexed his shoulders a few times as if he were trying to resist the worst of his feelings. “I can’t avoid this forever,” he muttered as he scrubbed a hand through his hair, throwing the neat strands into disarray that inevitably matched his scattered, disordered thoughts. “What sort of useless Blacksmith avoids doing their job?”

One who was grieving and had been broken by the loss of his brother but Thrúd didn’t answer the question he so obviously meant to be rhetorical; he knew the answer just as well as she did. Curling her fingers around Mjölnir’s handle, Thrúd felt herself slip briefly into her own grief but pushed it back down where it belonged as she set her father’s hammer on the counter. “I can’t avoid this forever,” he muttered before he said something to himself in a language that she didn’t know and could only assume to be Dwarvish. It became a mantra as he reached for the hammer with his left hand and it occurred to Thrúd what she could do to help.

“You’re left handed.”

Leaning her lower back on the counter, Thrúd crossed her arms over her chest, trying to seem relaxed when in reality she was worried about him. “Well, that’s impossible,” Sindri replied absently as he headed to his anvil. “You don’t get left handed Dwarves,” he raised his left hand high so as to strike Mjölnir with the out of place hammer.

“Oh, right, present evidence to the contrary,” she replied to that, her tone holding a bit of a tease that she wasn’t really feeling but she knew he needed so as not to fixate more than he was on the work he was doing. “Unless you’ve been lying to me this whole time and you’re not actually a Dwarf. Not like I’d know for sure,” she watched as the runed hammer struck Mjölnir, coursing bright orange light over it and making the bright blue runes on it shine out.

“I’m sure the rest of them would like you to believe that,” he considered as he worked without really focusing on what he was doing. “Before I left home,” he sneered the word as if it were somehow distasteful and Thrúd was sure there was a whole story there, maybe he’d share it with her one day. “I was conditioned to be like any other normal Dwarf.” To demonstrate this, Sindri tossed the hammer over to his right hand and made the next strike right handed before switching back again with a shrug.

Looking down towards Hundr who was sitting on her side of the shop counter, watching Sindri very closely, Thrúd considered her next words carefully for a long time. “My dad was left handed.”

“I know.”

His reply surprised her and Thrúd glanced at him again to find that he was still focused on the work rather than her. “The first thing you notice when you’re seen as broken is other people who are broken in the same way,” Sindri commented but his tone suggested that he didn’t see himself or any other left handed person as broken.

“Outside of my dad, I’ve never met another left handed person before.”

He looked over at her and to her surprise, quenched Mjölnir already; he was done. She tried not to focus on the effort it had taken to get him to that point, it seemed callous when he had pushed himself close to the point of breaking to do the repairs for her; there was more to this then he had shared with her but he was fully entitled to keep that to himself. “Tomorrow, meet me at my shop in Alfheim,” he instructed and Thrúd was aware that he seemed pale and exhausted, physical tells of the emotional pain that he was inevitably in.

He made no attempt to tidy the bulk of his gear but did make sure that the runed hammer was put back on his belt before he called something to Hundr and vanished from the camp with the dog right behind him; despite feeling like solitude would be the last thing that he needed, Thrúd made no move to stop him and hoped that wherever he was going, there would be someone there to help him. She knew there wouldn’t be but she took some degree of comfort in knowing that Hundr was with him.

There was a sound by the forge and Thrúd turned that way again expecting to see Sindri. “That took him forever,” Lúnda commented as she started to pick up Sindri’s tools, setting them neatly on a piece of leather which she then laid to the side.

Anger welled in Thrúd’s chest at the level of disregard in Lúnda’s voice and she picked up Mjölnir not long after the Dwarf set it on the shop counter. “That was cruel,” she accused, her tone a little more petulant than she would have liked but cruel was the only way she could think to describe what Lúnda had forced Sindri into.

“Sometimes a body just needs a little shove to get it goin’.”

Whilst she knew this to be true, Thrúd had seen the way that Lúnda’s little shove had affected Sindri and hated that she had been made an unconsenting part of it. “He wasn’t ready for that,” she countered, slipping Mjölnir into its holster on her belt. “And why does someone else get to decide what he’s ready to do?”

“Now, you listen,” Lúnda’s tone held a good natured but strict scold, “Sindri ain’t as delicate as he looks. I know he’s all cute and doe eyed but he’s got a fire in him that just needs kindled sometimes.” Thrúd was quite sure Lúnda had never looked a deer in the eyes if she thought Sindri shared any similarities with a doe. “Brok would have chewed him out summit fierce for gettin’ in his own head like he has been,” Lúnda’s hand rested on the brand she had stitched on a length of fabric around her upper arm and Thrúd recognised it as half of the brand that marked Mjölnir.

Whilst she knew that she’d known Sindri for all of two days where Lúnda had known him for years, Thrúd couldn’t squash the anger that welled in her chest; how dare anyone make such a significant choice for Sindri! What gave Lúnda the right to decide on Sindri’s behalf that he was ready to undertake the work that had traditionally been done by his brother? She said nothing more to Lúnda as she turned to go on her way as her thoughts demanded to be processed; Sindri had done as she had asked him but the desperately sad look in his eyes lingered as she made her way home.

Chapter Text

Waking up the next day had taken her a while and Thrúd found it hard to drag herself from the furs and through her daily hygiene rituals; she’d blamed Lúnda the day before but sleep had afforded her the clarity to turn an equal amount of blame on herself for being the catalyst for the obvious distress Sindri had experienced. He’d tried to hide it but Thrúd knew she hadn’t imagined the flinch every time he’d struck Mjölnir or the sad eyed looks he’d cast at the hammer he held with each ringing strike. “I thought you were meeting the blacksmith again today,” she glanced up from her brooding as her mother spoke and Sif offered an encouraging smile. “Though, from the looks of it, the hammer is fixed.”

It looked fixed but it wasn’t yet, wasn’t that an apt way to describe most of them in their lives post Ragnarők? “I think I fucked up, mom,” she admitted, ducking her gaze so she could focus on the plate before her which she poked some of her breakfast around without eating. “The Blacksmith - Sindri - was there at Ragnarők, he brought down the wall to avenge his lost brother, do you remember?”

“Dark hair, red raw eyes, bloody armour.”

Thrúd nodded in confirmation, chasing egg across her plate and refusing to look up at her mother. “He looks different now, better but he’s not, mom,” her regret laced into her words as she spoke, her disappointment in herself for being the one to lead Sindri back into a darkness that he was so obviously just getting out of. “He’s not better and I think I forced him to do something he wasn’t ready to do. It’s like I took all the work he’d done and just … pissed all over it because I want dad’s hammer to work. Like my pain was worth more than his!”

Sif was quiet for so long that Thrúd thought she’d left and when she raised her head, her eyes met the gentle calm of her mother’s gaze; Sif moved to take a seat opposite hers, as ever graceful and composed. Taking her mother’s hands as she reached out to her, Thrúd gave a little squeeze that was returned. “Part of growing up, Thrúdie is learning to deal with the consequences of the choices we make,” she provided. “Accepting the pain we cause, attempting to make amends when we wrong someone else.” The hint there was obvious enough and Thrúd nodded, leaning in towards Sif who kissed her on the top of the head. “It was a lesson your father was never allowed to learn and one I wished we’d managed to teach your brothers.”

She spent a little more time with her mother before she made the trip to Alfheim.

The forge smouldered but Sindri sat on the rock outcrop not far from the gate with Hundr close to his side; he looked like he hadn’t slept and Thrúd felt the gnawing of guilt build up in her chest as she spotted him. She found herself regretting that she hadn’t prepared better as she crossed to join him, plopping down on the rock on the other side to Hundr and proffering the pastry she’d brought with her as she did so. “I’m sorry,” she said before he could talk but he did take the pastry. “I blundered into your life, shoved the hammer in your face and demanded that you fixed it without thinking to ask you how you felt about that.”

“You asked a blacksmith to do his job,” Sindri replied, his voice was a little more coarse than the day before which she hoped was lack of sleep and not the fact that he’d been drinking, her father's voice had always been more coarse when he’d been drinking. He tore a piece of the pastry off and gave it to Hundr who took it gently. “I’m sorry if I worried you, that wasn’t my intention.”

How many times had Sindri apologised over the last few months for that to be his default reaction? “You don’t owe me that,” Thrúd muttered as she pulled her own pastry from the bag. “You don’t owe anyone that.”

There was a shake of his head accompanied by a small scoff. “Yes I do,” he sighed but did take a bite of his pastry, chewing it with the slow determination of a man who had not eaten anywhere near enough in the recent past to sustain himself and was worried that he’d make himself sick if he ate too quickly. “I put the people who care about me through more than they deserved and now they worry about me all the time,” Thrúd thought that sounded like an awful burden for anyone to have to deal with. “Worry that I’ll backslide, worry that I’ll vanish on them again, worry that I’ll …” He trailed off with a little shake of his head and a tight, closed expression; his friends had been worried that he would take his own life and Thrúd found herself wondering if that had been something he’d considered when he had been in the depth of his mourning.

He took another small bite of his pastry just as she shoved the rest of hers into her mouth with considerably less grace, “I’m going to guess that this was Lúnda’s idea,” Sindri made a little gesture with his pastry, he still had around half of it left. “She probably told you that I’m too skinny.”

Briefly, Thrúd considered lying to him so he wasn’t upset with Lúnda for telling a stranger such things but then she remembered her annoyance at the female Dwarf the evening before and saw no need to lie for her! “She did tell me that,” she confirmed. “The pastry was my idea though. I wanted to try and make amends for upsetting you yesterday,” she watched as Hundr jumped down from his perch and started sniffing around in the sand, snorting every once in a while to clear his nose.

They were both quiet for a while as Thrúd debated with herself if she was going to share how she felt with him or not; when she’d been honest with him last time, Sindri had agreed to help her with the hammer and she really didn’t want to hurt him again. “Fuck it,” she muttered and Sindri glanced over at her. “This is going to sound weird,” she drew in a breath, “but I’ve really enjoyed your company and the idea that I’d upset you really bothered me.”

Something complicated tracked across Sindri’s face at her words, like he wasn’t sure how to process what she’d said which begged all sorts of questions about his various friendships. “You enjoyed my company?” He asked, his incredulity clear in his voice. “We only just met.”

“I did say that it sounded weird!”

He scoffed at that and it actually felt like something of a victory to have gained such a reaction from him; hopping down from his perch with the remains of his pastry in hand, Sindri tossed it to Hundr who ate it gladly. “There’s just two more things that we need to do to the hammer,” Sindri commented as he wandered back towards his forge. “I’m not going to like this part because you’re going to have to throw lightning at me.”

“You said that the other day,” she said as she crossed to join him. “I’m not alright with that. It sounds really stupid,” she put her hands on her hips. “Worse than stupid, it sounds stupid and dangerous.”

“It’s both,” Sindri agreed with a nod as he rooted through the odd bag on his belt. “It’s got to be done if you want the hammer to work.” To her surprise, he pulled a spear from his bag and gave it a look before somehow putting it back again; how had that tiny bag managed to carry a whole spear? “We need to do it so that Mjölnir resonates with you.” He glanced up at her with a smile just as he pulled a pumpkin from his bag and his expression warped into a confused one that probably matched her own. “Right now, it’s still linked to your father.”

She hadn’t considered that a possibility but it made sense when she thought about it a little more; Mjölnir had been her father’s weapon for a long time and he had always managed to make it do what he wanted to where she, in contrast, couldn't even summon it to hand. Sindri was still talking when she focused on him again and whilst she was sure that every word he spoke was in a tongue she understood, he might have well been speaking his own for the amount of sense it made to her but she saw the excitement in his eyes as he continued to pull things from the bag on his hip.

Her curiosity only continued to rise as Sindri pulled what looked to be regular household items from his bag and set them on the counter next to himself whilst talking about resonance and matching energies from a weapon to the person using it; this was his thing, she realised, the part of crafting that he excelled at and she was curious to see what he’d do. Hundr’s ball had been one of the things out of the bag, it sat on the edge of the counter and the dog stood the other side of it whining occasionally in anticipation. Checking to make sure Sindri was still occupied, Thrúd bumped her hip against the bench which knocked the ball off and into Hundr’s waiting mouth; she watched with a grin as the puppy trotted off with his head held high. A clang drew her eyes towards where Sindri had set a copper cookpot on the counter as if this were a perfectly normal thing to pull from a bag that looked barely big enough to carry someone’s lunch.

“Ah ha!” There was a triumphant sound as Sindri pulled a simple bottle from the bag and gave it a cautious sniff. “Perfect.” He set the bottle on the counter and put things back into the bag; he skimmed his eyes over the counter, his expression confused before looking over at Hundr and giving a small smile as the dog made the squeak in the ball sound out.

“I need one of those!”

“A bottle?” Sindri asked, looking down at the bottle that he was now holding on to, he shrugged. “You can have this one when we’re done.”

She laughed at that, thinking that Sindri was being playful with her before realising he was serious from how he gave a little smile and made a gesture with the bottle. “No, Sindri, not the bottle,” she corrected, still chuckling to herself. “The bag. That’s amazing!” She made a little gesture at it and Sindri glanced down as if it hadn’t been there the whole time.

“Oh, that,” his reply was dismissive and Thrúd recognised that he saw the bag as something he needed to do what he enjoyed properly and not anywhere near as remarkable as it was. “Hundr, stay,” Sindri instructed and the dog let out a whine, his head tilted. “Stay,” Sindri repeated, his tone was strict and showed that he knew how to command his pet. “Thrúd, I need you to aim next to me with a bolt of lightning, what I’m going to try to do is bottle the anticipation of it.”

It was only then that she noticed that he had started to remove his armour; lightning jumped, Thrúd had noticed that from a young age and she could only assume that Sindri knew this too, removing any metal he was wearing made him less likely to be hit. He laid each piece of his armour out on the front counter revealing a needlessly complex knotwork pattern on the neck of his tunic that incorporated the brand that was on Mjölnir; without his armour, Sindri was just as slim as Lúnda had described him as being. The Dwarf picked up the glass bottle again and wandered a good distance from his equipment before drawing in a very obvious breath and turning to face her. “Whenever you’re ready, just … don’t tell me when, if I know then I’ll tense up.”

Feeling like this was possibly the most foolish thing she’d ever done, Thrúd tried to pretend that there was something about to attack Sindri only for her eyes to be drawn across to where his small form was standing with the bottle clasped in both hands near his chest. “I don’t know if I can,” she admitted, her shoulders sagging as she did so and she dropped from the ready stance she’d been in. “What if I hit you?”

“I’ll be pissed off but I’ll be fine.”

“If I hit you with lightning?!”

For some reason her disbelief seemed to confuse him and Sindri furrowed his brow as if he were trying to work out why she would have a problem with this, something seemed to occur to him and he looked directly at her. “Before we met, Thrúd, I was mauled by a bear,” he said it in a very matter of fact tone and Thrúd knew she was staring at him for it. “Brok used to downplay it, say I was wearing bandages to elicit sympathy from others but my skull was caved in when he hit me, my nose was broken, it’s when I got this scar,” he gestured as the small scar on the left side of his nose.

Thrúd hadn’t seen many bears in her life but she was quite sure most of them were taller than Sindri when they were on all fours and she was a little surprised to hear that he had survived being mauled by one. “The bulk of my wounds had healed within a couple of days, the caved in skull took me a little longer and I had some impressive bruises but the most serious part healed up pretty quickly. Dwarves might not be able to heal like gods can but we’re durable.”

“Getting hit by lightning could stop your heart,” Thrúd objected to that, finding it hard to believe that someone as small as Sindri was had managed to take a blow from a bear with his head on his shoulders. “I don’t care how durable you are, most people don’t heal from that!”

He seemed to consider this for a while before looking up at her again as something seemed to occur to him. “It might start my heart back up again afterwards.” The sheer insanity of the situation hit Thrúd then; she was standing in a desert in Alfheim not far from where she had found her father’s hammer, talking to one of the Dwarves who had made it about the possibility of calling up lightning close enough to him for him to feel it as if this were a perfectly normal thing to do! She heard movement by the forge where Sindri was now rooting through his various gear for something before he vanished back to where he’d been standing and hammered a solid metal pole into the ground with surprising force for someone as scrawny as he was. “There,” he said as he walked back to the forge and set the hammer down as if it were something valuable, it was then that Thrúd noticed it was the same one with the hail rune from the previous day.

After picking up the bottle, which he’d set carefully beside his armour, Sindri wandered back to where the post now stood. “I’m less likely to draw the lightning than that is,” he explained as he moved to stand facing her again.

There was a level of sense to that and Thrúd let out a sigh, cracked her neck and upper back and moved into a more grounded stance to call on her lightning. “Fine,” she muttered and let go. Thunder rumbled despite the bright blue sky and Thrúd called down the lightning which lanced towards the metal stake. There was a tense moment where she was blinded by the flash and she feared she had missed but she was eventually able to focus on Sindri again. He stood where he had before, not even a hair out of place and holding the bottle in both hands which now glowed with an oddly warm, gentle blue shimmering light. “Tra-da,” Sindri’s announcement came across as a little sarcastic as he crossed to join her. “The anticipation of lightning,” he held it up to eye level so he could look at it. “It’s softer than I thought it would be, gentler, like it’s something to be looked forward to.”

“You must really like thunderstorms.”

Her comment made him chuckle and he gestured for her to follow him back towards his workbench. “It’s not my anticipation, Thrúd, it’s yours,” he revealed as he placed the bottle on the bench as if it were far more fragile than it was and went about pulling on his armour again.

Her eyes drifted from Sindri towards the bottle; why would her own anticipation of a thunderstorm be such a sweet and oddly tender looking thing? “It would scare anyone else,” Sindri made a sound of effort as he contorted himself at a strange angle to get his armour into place before latching the buckles on the front of it. “We’d be afraid of what a rumble of thunder could bring down on us but I guess for you, the man in the storm wouldn’t be a terrifying figure at all.”

Her steps pulled her towards the bench and the simple bottle resting on it, her bare fingers brushed against the glass before she could stop herself. “Dad,” she murmured, surprised by the intensity of the knot in her chest, encircling her heart. There was nothing to fear in the storm for Thrúd, just a huge hand resting on her head as a big voice told her that she’d done a good job. Proud blue eyes had grown sadder and heavier as she’d aged and she started to see the guilt and shame that choked all the joy her father could feel as the Allfather’s yoke dragged him down.

She felt something slide down her cheek as all her carefully constructed walls crumbled in the face of her loss, of what her father had experienced, had lived with his whole life, had tried to shelter her from with everything he had and it felt like someone physically crushing her for how intense it was. She remembered bright blue eyes instantly losing some of the strain they held when she showed him the pretty stones she found as a little girl and how Thor had beamed with pride when she had shown him that she could call down lightning just like he could when she was a teenager. It was as she stood trying to stop herself from crying in front of a stranger that Thrúd heard an echo of her father’s voice telling her that he was proud of her and all thoughts of stopping the tears fled her mind as the torrent became harder to control.

What would she have said to her father if she’d known that she would never have a chance to speak to him again? Would she have told him that it made her heart ache to see any pride fade from his eyes as Odin continued to suffocate him in the coils of his lies? Would she have tried harder to help her father see that the guilt he carried was as much, if not more Odin’s doing than his own? She would have told him more easily and readily that she loved him, would have hugged him harder and more often if she’d known she’d never get the chance to feel him holding her again.

Compassionate brown eyes met her teary gaze as Thrúd looked up on feeling a warm, firm grip on her arm; I think I understand, Sindri’s mournful eyes seemed to say and Thrúd suspected that they might.

Chapter Text

When he had initially heard that Sindri had emerged from his mourning, Atreus had been struck by an awful sense of ambivalence; he wanted to rush home and see for himself that the Dwarf was safe but at the same time guilt tore at his every sinew. He knew that Sindri hadn’t meant the words he had said, that Sindri’s own guilt had manifested as his snapping at him but it had led to some introspection when the nights drew in and Atreus was alone; he had taken Sindri for granted and ignored so many small seeming allowances that Sindri had made for him. He’d been the only person that Sindri could bring himself to touch and when he had, it had been to bring Atreus comfort whilst surrendering his own dinner in a way that a concerned uncle would. He had tolerated Fenrir on their adventures despite seeing all animals as filthy things to be avoided and never once complained about Atreus wanting to bring the wolf with them despite how uncomfortable it made him.

The first message had been from his father, it had been a blunt footnote in an otherwise bland missive and Atreus had sat and stared at the simple parchment for a few minutes as he absorbed the words; he still had the letter tucked securely in his gear and would read it back when he needed to be reminded that his friend was safe.

The second one had been from Freya, her letters were always more detailed than his father’s and after she’d told him about what the council was up to and how the realms had healed, she told him about gifting Sindri some honey and sharing tea with him unexpectedly on a wet afternoon; he would read that one back when he felt the need to smile because Freya’s tone was fond and kind.

It had been her letter that had encouraged him to start making the trip home, he had been several months on his way when he got a letter from Lúnda to say that she had had unexpected help with the rebuilding in Vanaheim and Atreus was confident it was time to see if Sindri would invite him back into his life or if he would be relegated to the sidelines.

After stopping to see his father and Mimir, Atreus steeled himself for the next leg of his journey; Kratos walked him to the gate in case his seed failed to work. “I can come with you,” Kratos offered as Atreus lingered for a while watching the light of the gate without stepping into it.

“I think I need to do this alone,” Atreus admitted as he continued to try and fortify himself for what came next, anxious in the face of the open door and fearful of the words someone he had once loved like family would throw at him if he’d come back too early. “I’ll be back soon.”

“Atreus,” Mimir’s voice said and Kratos reached back for the head, holding him up so they could see one another. “Let him say his piece, little brother,” he advised, Atreus nodded and flashed a likely unconvincing smile to the pair before he stepped through the gate.

The house in the realm between realms was as it had been over two years before, a beautiful testament to the skills of the Dwarves who had built it. A deep bass bark that Atreus felt in his chest sounded out and he drew his bow on instinct, tracking the approach of an enormous mixed breed hound who stopped before him but didn’t display any aggression. Atreus lowered and then stowed his bow, “Hey there,” He greeted, holding out his hand for the dog to sniff. “Did Lúnda come to visit too?” He found himself a little disappointed at that, he had hoped to see Sindri on his own but that wasn’t going to deter him from doing what he needed to do.

There was a huff from the dog at that and Atreus realised that this wasn’t Helka as he studied it more closely; the dog was male for a start, his muzzle was longer and darker, he had a paler spot over his left eye and one in the same shade on his right side.

The dog let out a unimpressed rumbling sound. “Sorry, sorry, I didn’t look closely enough,” Atreus apologised to his objection. “You’re a really handsome dog so I just assumed that you belonged to Lúnda,” he did know that Helka had had a litter from one of Lúnda’s letters so had to assume that the dog before him was one of the pups; the dog soon told him as such and Atreus offered a smile as he squatted down so as to lavish the huge beast with attention. “Who do you belong to?” There was a derisive snort of disagreement from the dog as he moved to sit down and Atreus laughed at the offended tone. “How silly of me, I meant to ask who belongs to you.”

The dog lifted his head to reveal a collar made of expensive dark brown leather around his neck, it was embellished with pale gold in wrought knot patterns which looped around under his chin to form a familiar fork like rune which made Atreus’ eyes widen in shock. “You’re … Sindri is your person?!” His surprise leaked into his voice as the dog let out an affirmative sound and wagged his tail at the mention of his owner.

Sindri had a dog.

Sindri, who was afraid of tiny beasties in the dirt, had a large, slobbery dog. “It was nice to meet you,” Atreus offered as he moved to stand and glanced towards the house. “Is he here?” The dog gave him a look that suggested he wouldn’t be at the house if Sindri wasn’t before he moved to stand, shook himself and trotted over to where a fur was pooled up by the door. “Right, gotta do this alone,” he accepted as he made sure his gear was as neat as possible before he approached the building.

Pushing open the door, Atreus entered the house which had briefly been his home and skimmed his eyes from side to side; the forge was banked to a smoulder but the hearth and cooking fire were both alight which Atreus was taking as a good sign. His eyes were instantly drawn to a flash of silver over the forge counter and he very nearly reached out to touch Brok’s hammer before stopping himself, it wasn’t his place to touch that.

As he headed deeper into the house, feelings welled in his chest which were both fond and painful as he remembered the life he had so briefly lived there; Brok was by the forge, working with his hammer, teasing his brother. Brok was at the table, sharing a meal and stealing what was left in Sindri’s bowl. Brok was on the floor in his brother’s arms and then they were gone, blinking out of sight as Sindri’s need to be alone with his pain had overwhelmed him.

Yet, as his eyes drifted towards the pantry that had been his space, Atreus felt the warmth of Sindri’s arm around his shoulders and heard the tenderness in his words; this house had felt so comfortable and surrounded by the people he loved, Atreus had had everything he needed but in his childish need to prove himself, he hadn’t seen it for what it was.

Chief of all the things he had had and cast aside was a friend who he had loved like an uncle, who had guided and helped him as much as he could when Atreus let his desire to know more about himself win over common sense and the things he already had. Someone who had always treated him kindly, had always listened to his ideas attentively and offered his own opinion when he disagreed.

His pace slowed as he caught a flash of gold armoured movement from the corner of his eyes and his next steps forwards felt leaden; Atreus wasn’t seventeen as he crossed the threshold into Sindri’s study, he was fifteen and had just made the biggest misstep anyone could make, breaking any bond he had once had with his best friend in all the realms in the process.

His vision blurred for a second as he blinked on catching sight of the figure standing by the desk which was covered from corner to corner in scrolls. He took a step forwards on legs that felt like they would fail to hold him up any longer but he managed to stay on his feet; he wasn’t sure what he was going to do until he reached out to Sindri, snagged him by the elbow and pulled him into a hug, crying without shame as he did so.

An echo of the bitter voice that had told him to get the fuck out of his sight rang in Atreus’ ears as he clung to the man whose life he had unintentionally ruined whilst fearing the whole time that Sindri would push him away.

The last thing he expected was for strong arms to wrap around him in turn and for his desperate sobs to find a duet with Sindri’s. “I’m so sorry,” Atreus howled, fifteen years old and reliving the trauma of watching someone he loved being stabbed, of seeing the light fade from Brok’s eyes seconds before Sindri’s had darkened with the brutal revelation of loss. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he repeated it three times, each more fraught than the last as Sindri didn’t reply. “I’m so fucking sorry,” the last one came out as a snotty, needy warble and it didn’t surprise Atreus when Sindri broke the hug.

What did surprise him was the look in Sindri’s eyes, it wasn’t sad exactly but there was a deep regret there that Atreus found he hated. “I should have found you and said this sooner,” the Dwarf took hold of his arms and their height difference became so much more obvious; had Sindri always been that short? “It was not your fault,” Atreus felt something close to relief crash in on him and he felt his strength fade entirely as he dropped to his knees, letting out a wailing sob. Sindri had said the one thing he had wanted to hear for the last two years but had never expected to. “It wasn’t and I’m sorry that I said it was,” the Dwarf went on to say, still holding his arms. “Do you think you can forgive me for that?”

That was far beyond what Atreus had wanted from his trip home, he’d just wanted to hear Sindri say that it hadn’t been his fault that Brok had died but the Dwarf was earnestly asking for something that Atreus didn’t think he was owed. “No,” he choked out and Sindri’s expression grew more grave but he did accept it without getting upset or angry. “No, Sindri, I don’t think I can forgive you, why would I?”

Chapter Text

Part of offering an apology was accepting that the other party could choose not to accept it and the fact that the last time an apology had been refused had been his doing wasn’t lost on Sindri as he released Atreus’ arms. It was enough that he knew Atreus was safe, he didn’t need more than that and he certainly wouldn’t force more on the teenager than he had already said, it wouldn’t be fair.

Even if he wanted it.

This did make him feel a little awkward, it wasn’t that he’d expected instant forgiveness but Atreus wasn’t giving him much to work with especially given his initial relieved reaction to Sindri telling him that things hadn’t been his fault.

When he’d heard that Atreus was coming home, Sindri had taken some time to work out what he wanted to say whilst also cluding that it was up to Atreus to decide if he wanted to forgive him for the horrendous things he’d said and the way he’d reacted when he had been newly aggrieved and utterly lost in his pain. He had decided that he wouldn’t push things, that forgiveness should never be about force but Sindri had also expected far more of a reaction than Atreus had given.

“I - I - I can’t forgive you,” Atreus struggled to speak, his voice cracked under the strain of the tearful words and Sindri felt his heart ache for what they had once had as he accepted the very definite, final end of their friendship, the first one he had really had for himself. “Because … I don’t know … what you’re asking me to forgive you for.” It took a few seconds for the words to sink in and Sindri jerked his head up sharply to meet the teary blue eyes of the man Atreus now was; he’d missed two whole years of his life, Sindri knew next to nothing about who he had become.

He could have detailed why he felt the need to ask for Atreus’ forgiveness in excruciating detail, he’d certainly tortured himself with his own words enough since he’d started talking to people again but it was a burden that he didn’t think Atreus deserved any more; he’d been the one to lay the blame for Brok’s death at Atreus’ feet when he’d been too grief blinded to turn it on himself.

So he didn’t.

Instead, Sindri reached out to Atreus as he should have done two years before, pulling him into a hug which Atreus readily returned. “I’ve missed you so much,” Atreus murmured through fresh tears which threatened to set Sindri off again.

He rubbed Atreus’ back as he held onto him. “I’ve missed you too, kid,” the admittance came easily because it was true, Sindri had missed all of his companions when he had eventually emerged from mourning and yet, had been surprised that they had all waited for him; he’d expected to have to fight to get them back in his life or to have to find other people to connect with. It was more than that, people hadn’t passively waited for him, they’d reached out to him and their gentle attempts to care for him had slowly eroded the fugue that he’d been encased in; he remembered the first taste of the honey Freya had given him, slathered on stale bread and the warmth of the beautiful blue blanket when he’d pulled it around his shoulders that night.

He held Atreus a little tighter as he remembered Kratos entering his shop and depositing a packet of cured meat on his counter without so much as a word and when he had stopped by again, Sindri had asked for and updated the Draupnir Spear for him as thanks with less than ten words spoken. It wasn’t unreasonable to say he had been starving when Kratos had brought him the food and there had been no way he could have expressed how thankful he had been at the time.

He was glad of his armour as Atreus tightened his own grip and the teenagers sobs grew more ragged; he remembered how Lúnda had reacted when he had told her that he was ready to go out on his own, how she had tried to hide her initial tears behind her hands and how she had refused to let him leave without Hundr when he finally left her company.

It hadn’t been one big thing that Sindri had needed to help him but the combined effort of all those that he knew and loved and Sindri was glad of them every day.

He let Atreus cling to him for as long as he needed to and when the teen finally released him, he looked exhausted but smiled in the way he’d done as a boy, open and honest. “So, what do I call you now?” Sindri asked, he didn’t want to assume anything about the person Atreus was after so many years.

“Whatever you like as long as it’s not another awful nickname,” Atreus’ voice held the notes of a scold as he picked himself up and brushed down his trousers; he was a lot taller now, not really a surprise given his parents but he favoured neither in his physicality. “I think I’d prefer you to call me Atreus, anything else would be too weird.”

Gesturing towards the dining table, Sindri followed Atreus that way and moved to put some tea on. “Wait, you let me hug you,” Atreus commented as he moved to take a seat after another little gesture.

“I’ve let a lot of people hug me,” Sindri tried to make it sound dismissive but it hadn’t escaped his notice that hugs felt good; he’d wished a few times that he’d been able to hug Brok more, to feel his brother’s arms squeezing him tight enough to bruise like when they’d been younger but he knew that such wishes were pointless now.

“And you have a huge slobbery dog!”

He was sure that the contrast to who he had once been was especially sharp for Atreus now he’d returned and in truth, Sindri was often surprised with himself at how rapid the change had been. He remembered his first bath, months after Brok had died, remembered how cold the water had been, how it had felt to wash the grit and grime from his skin, how it had stung his cuts and burns enough to make his eyes water and how he had vowed that he would never let it get that bad again only for his selfcare to slip, for the dirt to build up again some weeks later when he had felt a deep, soul crushing loneliness take him. “Oh, yes, Hundr,” Sindri replied as he made the tea. “And before you say it, yes, that’s his name and no, I don’t feel bad about it!”

Atreus laughed easily at that and Sindri grinned to himself at the sound, he was just aware of Atreus reaching into his pack, opening and laying out something on the table; sweet pastries from Midgard. “Why do you have a dog, Sin?” He asked before he grimaced as if catching himself, “Uhh … Sindri, even.”

It hurt a little that Atreus felt the need to correct himself but Sindri knew it was because the boy was being considerate of how long they’d been apart. “I was working with Lúnda when Helka dropped her litter,” he explained as he crossed back to the table with the teapot and poured tea into the cups he’d set out ready. “I made the stupid mistake of picking him up just after he was born so Helka would feed him and from that moment forwards I seemingly had no choice in the matter.” He set the kettle on the stand and moved to fetch some plates for the pastries, “When Lúnda was looking for homes for the pups, she wouldn’t let anyone take him despite people making some really generous offers for him and I assumed that she was going to keep him. When I was preparing to leave, after Lúnda had finished hugging me and crying, she handed him to me and told me bluntly that he’d decided he was mine,” there was a chuckle from Atreus at that. In truth there was more to the story than Sindri ever told anyone else but he wasn’t sure how to put into words the comfort that Hundr’s presence had brought him from the first time he’d woken up with the then tiny pup curled up in his bedroll.

“He said you were his person when I asked him,” Atreus offered with a small smile. “He’s really proud of his collar, showed it off.”

Scoffing a laugh of his own, Sindri set plates on the table and moved to take his own seat, “I’d hope so, that leather cost me a small fortune.” When he had gone and very deliberately sought out specific materials for Hundr’s first adult collar, Sindri had realised that he was finally getting back to himself again; he’d finished the leather himself, spent hours embellishing it with Draupnir gold so the details matched his armour and added the Huldra brand to it with as much pride as he’d ever felt making weapons. “He’s probably showing it off because his last one was plain leather,” Sindri considered as he plated up the treats and passed the first one to Atreus.

Their eyes met as Atreus accepted the plate and he offered a boyish grin which faded quickly as Atreus seemed to take him in for the first time, Sindri knew what was coming next because it always came up eventually. “You lost weight,” Atreus commented, his tone was concerned and Sindri was immensely glad that the teenager hadn’t seen him at his slimmest. It had taken Sindri a long time to recognise that neglect in himself but when he finally had, his goal became hiding it from his friends as much as possible so as not to worry them more than he already had; he made armour that he padded out to hide the fact that his ribs were still far too obvious even if he was trying his best to improve that.

He nodded his head, not wanting to be dismissive of Atreus’ earnest concern for his well being, “I have,” He conceded. “I’m going to guess someone mentioned it to you?” Atreus had brought food with him after all and that was something that everyone now did when they came to visit; Kratos usually brought jerky or other cured meats, seasoned perfectly and always delicious. Freya would bring honey, eggs and flatbreads and would often make time to share tea with him despite how busy she was with council duty. Whatever sweet food Lúnda had would be thrust in his direction when they parted company and in return he’d started giving people jam made with fruit he’d purchased or foraged.

“It’s pretty noticeable, Sin,” Atreus’ voice held a bit of a scold and Sindri felt his hopes rise a bit at the use of his nickname. “Sorry, Sindri.”

Furrowing his brow, Sindri felt his hopes get quashed again as Atreus corrected himself once more. “You can call me Sin, if you want I mean,” he provided whilst hoping it didn’t sound as pathetic out loud as it did in his head. “I’d understand if you didn’t want to given how I treated you,”

“You were angry.”

“I was but that wasn’t on you, Atreus,” Sindri glanced up at his former friend to find that Atreus was watching him closely. “I never should have turned how I felt on you. I was the adult, I shouldn’t have taken my anger out on you. I just needed to be alone.” That time alone had dragged out after Brok’s funeral, becoming days, then weeks, then months until one day he had stumbled from the clutches of some raiders and into the forest with red leaved trees where Freya had then saved him. He hadn’t shown it at the time, hadn’t been capable of doing so but when he’d collapsed through her door, halfway conscious and bloody, it had broken through the fog in his head just enough to reach him that she had helped him. It had taken several more months, several more attempts by the others before Sindri had invited them in properly, sharing tea with Freya, repairing things for Kratos and eventually helping Lúnda.

Then it had been about apologising to them. Saying sorry awkwardly to Kratos as the Greek had stood by the forge table of Brok’s shop in Midgard, quiet until he had said his piece and surprisingly understanding of the words Sindri’s anger had launched at him. Being sincerely and deeply thankful to Freya for her care when he had hated everything, most of all himself and sought pain as a way of feeling anything. Getting drunk over a campfire with Lúnda as they shared stories about Brok until the small hours of the morning where that had been found by the elves giggling about Brok’s wildly inappropriate behaviour.

Finally, after two years and so many regrets, the last person he needed to apologise to was home once more, sitting at his table; he’d known Atreus would be the hardest one to deal with but he also knew the teenager would be the one that he had to be the most honest with. “I’m sorry you went out on your travels with that hate on your shoulders.”

Atreus’ face contoured into a strained smile, part lost child, part relieved adult, “I wished that I’d had something Brok had given me so many times on my journey,” He admitted. “I didn’t have anything to remind me of him.” There was a little lump that formed in Sindri’s throat, he hated that Atreus had gone on his way with nothing to remind him of someone who had been so important to him. “I had something to remind me of my mother, of father, of Freya, Mimir, Angrboda, even Thrúd gave me something before I left and my best friend gave me so many things but I didn’t have anything from Brok once I grew out of my armour.”

“Nothing from me either.”

The look Atreus fixed him with was a little smug and knowing. “I said you,” The teenager scolded and he grinned as Sindri looked up at him properly. “I said that my best friend gave me a lot of things. One of them I’ve carried with me for a really long time,” Atreus hooked a simple leather necklace from inside his tunic as he spoke and on the end of it, glinting in the light was the Mistletoe arrow that Sindri had given him. Despite the anger that Sindri had sent him away with and the time that had passed, Atreus still cared for him enough to consider him a friend and Sindri knew that he had to send him on his way this time with something better than hateful words.

“Wait here,” Sindri instructed with a little gesture for Atreus to stay put before he vanished between. He was soon cluttering around the forge in search of something that he knew Brok had done his work on and put aside for Sindri to finish before everything had fallen apart in the most horrendous way; he eventually found the hunting dagger tossed with a very Brok level of disregard off to one side.

Pulling his hammer from his belt, Sindri focused his mind as he worked, found the sturdy chain that linked all of his best and worst memories of his brother and yanked on it as hard as he could. The scent of hard work. The feel of warm stew in an empty belly. The taste of water brought to hand when it had been neglected.

Love.

Deep, permissive and yet so much more than any romantic attachment could ever be.

Branding the hilt of the dagger with the Huldra mark and focusing on the part of it that represented Brok, Sindri called to his mind the last lesson that Brok had tried to teach him; to let go. He let out a breath and the new dagger, now whole and ready to be gifted, glowed briefly with a silvery cerulean light; the colour of dirty jokes, of ale consumed and a love so complete that its loss had nearly killed him.

His walk back to the table was a little slower than usual but he presented the knife to Atreus without hesitation. “Consider it one last gift from Brok,” Sindri offered as he moved to sit down, watching as Atreus drew the knife from its sheath and tilted it in the light to examine it.

After he’d inspected it, Atreus held the knife in both hands, closing his eyes as if he were trying to gather himself. “Doesn’t giving this to me take something from you?” Atreus asked, slowly opening his eyes again.

“Sharing how I felt to have Brok in my life doesn’t take that feeling away from me,” Sindri provided as he tried to control the tremor in his right hand; it was good to be reminded of Brok but that didn’t stop the same reminiscence from causing him pain on occasion. There were still days, though rarer than they had once been, where Sindri wanted to stay in bed, to be alone with his pain but he had found that Hundr objected to them, would somehow make his way up the stairs and sit on him until he got up.

Eyes a little distant, Atreus continued to hold the knife as if it was something precious and it made Sindri’s heart swell to see it; this wasn’t the same young teen who had disregarded the gifts he’d been given but a young adult who had learnt to savour and value them. “I never had a brother,” Atreus trailed off, his eyes still distant, as if he was trying to sense what the knife had to tell him. “I feel like I do when I’m holding this. All I can feel is this sense of … cherished love,” he finally looked up at Sindri and gave a small smile that was equal parts sweet and concerned.

The ache that he had felt at different intensities since Brok had been murdered flared to a point of pain as sharp as the stab of a knife to his heart and the tremor in his hands worsened to the point that it bounced the cup slightly as he set it on the table, a triple tap like his hammer being used for forge work. “He’d never have admitted it,” Sindri murmured, the table blurring in his vision as he blinked, a film of tears covering his eyes. “Ain’t the done thing!” He announced in a close approximation of Brok’s voice. “B-But I knew,” his voice cracked a bit and he swallowed to control it. “I knew when I was ten years old and woke up screaming from a nightmare with his hand on my forehead, when he would hold onto my hand until I calmed down.”

He glanced up at Atreus and there was some comfort to be gleaned from the fact that the teenager’s eyes were teary too; he wasn’t alone with the grief he felt, he never had been despite how he had felt at times. “When I was six, our father broke my hand,” Sindri offered, it wasn’t that he kept the story secret, not exactly but it rarely needed to be told. “No son of his was going to be left handed, that simply wasn’t done! So, one day, after I’d spent years refusing to be taught this, father had me place my hand on his anvil,” Sindri spread his left hand on the table, just as he had laid his hand before his father so long ago. “And the naive child that I was did it for his approval.”

He feigned raising his right hand high and dropping it sharply as if he were holding one of his forging hammers, it was an action that felt strange, alien now that he was allowed to use his left hand. “I screamed so hard that I tore the back of my throat -”

“Sin, that’s terrible!”

He looked up at Atreus at his exclamation, “I know that,” his tone held a bit of a playful scold despite the seriousness of his words. “In public, I learned to right handed out of fear of him finding out even though I was living with Brok. When he died six months later, Brok told me to stop, put a hammer in my left hand and said that if anyone had a problem with that they’d get to meet his right hand.” Smiling at the memory, Sindri reached for his cup with his left hand, the one he was dominant with and the one that Brok had taught him, with time and surprising patience to be proud of his skill with. “I had been told, since I was old enough to show which hand I was dominant with that left handed smiths got in the way, that no right handed smith would want the hassle of working around my ‘deformity’,” he gave Atreus a little look to show that he certainly didn’t see it that way! “It always came so easily to Brok and then he taught Lúnda when they met and suddenly, this thing I’d been taught to be ashamed of wasn’t shameful any more.”

Flexing his left hand, Sindri gave a slight grin; these memories were bittersweet and yet the reminder of Brok’s kindness and care for him warmed him. “It’s funny, even after we became household names, other Dwarves would still look at my handedness and see it as this aberrant thing to be shunned as if it was something I was doing on purpose. I stopped caring what they thought because of Brok.”

Quiet lapsed in on them broken only by the ambient sounds of the house, the creaks of the tree and the smouldering of the fires that he had lit that morning; Atreus finally set down his knife and picked up his treat. “He always loved you,” the boy offered and Sindri inclined his head though he had doubted that after the flight that had kept them apart for over a hundred years. “If he’d made a knife and you were gone, I think it would feel the same.”

Sindri had devoted a little bit of time to thinking about how Brok would have reacted in his place; Brok had always been the more decisive of them both so Sindri was certain that he’d have applied himself to the defeat of Odin. He’d likely have smashed the marble too, ending Odin’s reign once and for all but he could never decide what Brok would do after that other than it would have been done without a trace of the pain he’d be feeling.

Would he have turned his anger on the statues of Odin across the realms? Tearing them down to stop them from blighting the landscapes they were in. Would he have continued to arm Kratos and Freya to help them in their quest to defeat the last of Odin’s loyalists? Would he have pushed people away as Sindri himself had done or would he have pulled his friends in close so as to heal and move forwards sooner? He always tried to cut that last thought short; grieving in his own way wasn’t something he should punish himself for and doing so would only lead him down paths he’d already travelled, to pain he’d already visited and regrets that deserved no more of his time.

“Thank you Atreus, I appreciate you saying that.”

Atreus smiled, his expression no longer that of a child but a young man who seemed relieved that he could talk to a long lost friend. “So, I want to hear about your travels, tell me everything,” Sindri encouraged, he was keen to find out everything about Atreus’ time away from the realms of his birth.

As Atreus talked, Sindri committed the new version of him to memory; he was now quite a lot taller than Sindri but hadn’t filled out in the way that his parents had. His hair was still side shaved but the middle part is longer and the sunset colour still reminded Sindri of Faye. He wore gear that stank of foreign materials but enough of his Norse heritage lingered that it tempered the strangeness of it. The leather of his chest plate was unembellished and Sindri’s fingers itched to improve it, to make it more interesting and more fitting for a friend of a master blacksmith but he didn’t want to make Atreus stand out. Maybe Atreus would let him work some magic on the leather before he left, to make it so it would effectively dazzle an aiming archer in the same way that his own armour was designed to do.

“I hear you met Thrúd.”

Smiling into his cup at that, Sindri inclined his head; Thrúd had been such a frequent visitor to his shops that Sindri had even given her an Yggdrasil seed for the house because he had quickly grown to enjoy her company. Often, Thrúd tried to make it seem like she needed armour patched or work done on her weaponry but Sindri had quickly recognised that she enjoyed having a place that she could escape to where no one could find her. For Sindri, it was good to have someone in his life without any expectations surrounding who he had once been; it wasn’t that his friends did it intentionally but he knew there were times where he didn’t exactly act or react as they expected. He knew it was difficult for them, he had vanished for a year and come back as a different person and it was only recently that he’d found his equilibrium again. “She likes to act as though she’s keeping me in business,” Sindri offered. “Which is laughable but I do enjoy her company and Hundr likes her.”

“I think Hundr likes everyone, Sin.”

Sindri considered this for a while, trying to think through every interaction his dog had had with the people they encountered. “He’s not overly fond of Eir,” he offered. “She visited my shop in Alfheim to get some armour repaired and I think she startled him. He’s never forgiven her.” Whilst Hundr didn’t like the most gentle of the Valkyrie’s, Sindri did and had used her visit to ask her about an old injury that he couldn’t help but be ashamed of; Sindri had no idea when he’d caused the savage burn scar up the inside of his right arm but he did know it was an unsightly wound that was unbefitting of a blacksmith. Eir had humoured him, inspecting the scar tissue before telling him in a soft, gentle way that he would bear the scar for the rest of his life. “He also doesn’t much care for Durlin but that’s mutual,” he gave a grin. “Hundr tried to use Dínner as a chew toy the first time they met.” Chaos had erupted in the safety office when Sindri had materialised to renew his smithing licence and Hundr had very casually lifted Dínner from her tank and trotted off with her whilst he and Durlin had been talking.

They talked for hours as if they hadn’t been apart for two years and Sindri was surprised at how it felt like nothing had changed whilst at the same time, so much had. They shared jokes and teased one another like they’d seen each other the day before but Sindri was aware of the fact that he had to be careful.

Eventually though, Atreus reached the end of his latest story. “I should really get back home,” he said with a touching twinge of regret. “I’ll be staying around the realms for a while.”

“Then I’m sure you’ll see me out and about,” Sindri offered as he moved to stand. “And my door will always be open if not.”

He led Atreus from the house, Hundr trotted up to join them and on instinct, Sindri reached out to rest his hand on his head. “It was good to see you again,” Atreus pretended to focus on opening the gate rather than looking at him. “Thank you for letting me in.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t come to find you.”

There was a huff from Hundr who snorted directly into the palm of his hand and Sindri let out a disgusted exclamation as he jerked away from his dog; Atreus laughed, a keen, youthful sound that made Sindri join him as he cleaned his hand on a cloth. “Do I get another hug before I leave or were the ones we had your limit?” Atreus asked as their laughter faded.

“You’d have to give me an uncomfortable amount of hugs to beat Lúnda’s record,” Sindri commented as he put his hands on his hips; he remembered leaving Vanaheim fondly and it did make him smile now that every time he’d gone to leave, Lúnda had broken into tears again. His answer to Atreus’ question was simple enough, he held his arms open and Atreus bent down to give him another hug which he easily and readily returned. It was good to have Atreus back in his life again and after so long, Sindri felt like he finally had some semblance of peace.

Chapter Text

“No one told me that four legged menace to society would be here!”

The voice of his cousin cut across to him as Sindri closed the tavern door behind himself after letting Hundr in first. “No one said I couldn’t bring him,” he pointed out. “And Raeb’s never said he’s not allowed.”

Durlin gave Raeb a look and the bartending bard shrugged his shoulders. “He’s less likely to piss on the floor than the patrons,” he provided. Sindri shrugged as Durlin shot him a dirty look, he was hardly going to justify Hundr being there beyond that.

“I don’t want a dog, Lúnda,” Lúnda’s voice scolded and he gave her a smile in greeting which she matched in kind. “You objected so damned hard to havin’ a dog but then you bring him on with you everywhere.”

“I don’t have a dog,” Sindri accepted a pint of ale from Raeb and moved to take a seat away from the bar so that Hundr would have room to sit down, which he dutifully did when Sindri gestured for him to. “I have a four legged menace to society,” he flashed Durlin a teasing smile as he took a drink of his ale.

“You little shit!”

“I’m the tallest in the room.”

“Skinniest too.”

The back and forth with his cousin made Sindri smile despite the serious note it ended on. “It’s the extreme mourning diet,” Sindri countered to his last point. “I do not recommend it. All people ever do is ask you if you’re getting enough to eat.” It happened often enough that Sindri could predict where it would fall in a conversation when it came up. This prompted a few chuckles and Sindri took a drink of his ale; he’d have liked to say it had been a long time since he’d been drunk but it had happened far too many times in the immediate aftermath of Brok’s funeral and one of those had led to him waking up mostly naked in a bush. “I asked the others to join us, I’m sure they’ll be here soon.”

“I feel like I ask this for everyone,” Raeb chimed in as he cleaned one of his steins and set it on the bar. “Are you getting enough to eat?” His tone held the notes of a tease but Sindri had grown adept at hearing the undercurrent of concern to it that suggested he was worried too.

“Please, don’t! It’s bad enough that one of you already asks every time they see me,” Sindri exclaimed and Lúnda shot him a look, he held her gaze. “Sugar, you sure you’re getting enough to eat? You’re skinnier than a Tatzelwurm in the desert!” He approximated Lúnda’s accent with his hand to his chest and she choked on the mouthful of ale she’d just taken.

“I do not sound like that!” She objected with a huff as she patted down her front to clean up the ale that she covered herself with.

“Anyone else weirdly aroused right now?” Raeb asked at the same time as she spoke and shrugged when they all shot him looks. “What? It suits him,” he defended.

This prompted a round of raucous laughter as the four Dwarves fell about playfully teasing each other; Sindri had never really considered himself to be part of the group before, they’d all been Brok’s friends but it was clear to him now that they didn’t see him that way. He remembered how Raeb had greeted him when he and Freya had visited to sample the spice he had mentioned to her, how he had been swept up into a hug that he really hadn’t expected and told to never vanish on them all again. How Durlin’s eyes had widened when he’d walked into the safety office and he’d been given a surprisingly generous discount on his smithing licence, until Hundr had decided Dínner was a chew toy and he’d ended up paying double the fee in emotional damages for the baby kraken. “Are we late?” Freya asked as she entered the tavern with Kratos just behind her, they both had to bend down to enter.

“Nah, this is just us getting our drink on beforehand,” Lúnda provided as she doffed her tankard towards the pair before she took another swig. “Ain’t a proper Dwarf memorial without! That and Sindri’s paying, right Sin?” He let out a slightly noncommittal affirmative to that though he’d already arranged with Raeb that he would be settling the tab when everyone had done getting very drunk in Brok’s memory.

“Hello Sindri,” Freya greeted with a warm smile as she rested her hand on his shoulder for a moment as she passed; Freya was always very careful not to ask him if he was getting enough to eat but she also tended to bring food with her when she visited which meant she assumed he wasn’t and so didn’t feel the need to ask. “Were we the last to arrive?” Sindri shook his head, there was still someone missing from the group who had not had an opportunity to memorialise Brok with his friends.

Conversation soon built up again, Raeb had launched into a particularly inappropriate story as the door cracked open, cutting him off before it got any worse and just as Sindri was feeding Hundr one of the meat pies that the tavern owner had laid on for them. “Hi everyone,” Atreus ventured cautiously as he entered and Sindri wasn’t oblivious to the look that Kratos gave him, a look that offered thanks where Kratos would not.

After Atreus had got an ale and taken a seat near Freya and his father, Sindri moved to stand and cleared his throat to get everyone’s attention. “That’s all of us now, thank you all for coming,” he looked to each of them in turn with a smile that he had to force a little now he had to address why they were there directly. “I don’t have a speech, I don’t think I could have given one big enough to cover everything Brok was to all of us.” He met Lúnda’s eyes and found she had tears in hers already. “You’re probably all wondering why I chose Brok’s birthday as his memorial day rather than the day he died and I wish I reason was more profound than it is,” he gave a little scoff and shook his head. “The simple reason it’s today rather than the day we lost him or the day we said our final goodbyes is because I think we should be celebrating his life rather than lamenting that he’s gone.”

It had taken Sindri two and a bit long years of painful introspection and self-loathing wrapped in resentment to recognise that but he was finally ready to share the best of his memories with the other people who had loved Brok. “Please eat, drink and share loud obnoxious stories about my brother, I’m sure there are plenty of wildly inappropriate ones to go around.”

Soon enough the tavern was filled with sound and Sindri caught snippets of several stories that he already knew; how Brok and Lúnda had met and very quickly realised that they were very likely soulmates. How he and Raeb had got very drunk one night and stolen a battle helm from the memorial of a famous Dwarf that Raeb could no longer remember. How Durlin had once found Brok drunk in charge of a forge wearing nothing but his boots, apron and forging glove. All the stories were shared with ample laughter and a degree of fondness, Brok had made an impact on everyone he knew and it was a comfort to hear so many voices raised so lovingly.

A meaty arm was slung companionably around his shoulders after this had continued for a while. “Someone’s bein’ a mite coy with his stories,” Lúnda said as she lent in close, bringing with her the scent of ale. “Spill it Sindri, you’re gotta have at least a hundred good stories in that noggin’ of yours.” He most certainly did have but around half of them weren’t fit for public consumption, not with Atreus in the room. “How’s about you go and tell us about that scar on your back? Brok said you got it in a fight and he saved you.”

Looking towards her from the corner of his eye as he took a gulp of ale, Sindri finished the mouthful and set his tankard down, “You believed that?” He asked with an eyebrow quirked at her and she grinned to show that she likely didn’t. “It was just after we’d left home, we headed to Alfheim and were drinking in a bar. Brok had decided that he wanted to take both types of elf at once,” he tried not to look at Atreus and Kratos as he spoke. “He got up on the table and shouted as loud as he could,” Sindri cleared his throat, “Right! I wants a dark elf and a light elf willin’ to fuck a Dwarf! I’ll throws in the pretty one,” he mimicked his brother’s voice in the easy way that he had always been able to manage.

He quickly made eye contact with Atreus right after he’d said it. “Something I never consented to, by the way!” He was sure to add, he didn’t want those in the room who weren’t entirely aware of his past more hedonistic ways to be made aware of them. “The barman objected to Brok being on his table so he pulled him down and that’s when the fight started. I got in the way of an elf that Brok was about to castrate and Brok caught me across the back. I passed out and when I woke up I was in agony, laying on my front in our rented room. I’ve never seen Brok so worried,” Sindri held it on the same level as when Brok had found him under their fathers forge counter with a broken hand. “He was nice to me for three whole days.”

“That must’ve been weird.”

“It was worse than my back!” Sindri told Lúnda to her comment, “I was so confused!”

The stories continued for many hours more but the jovial tone never eased; this was how Brok would want to be remembered, with dirty jokes and wild stories that got more embellished over time. Sindri let the fact that everyone in the room that day would carry a piece of his brother with them bring him some peace. It would always hurt that Brok was gone but Sindri finally understood what Brok had meant as he had died, the last lesson his brother had tried to teach him.

To let go of the pain and anger.

To let go of the self loathing.

To let go of the memories of his death and accept the joy his life had brought them all. As they parted company that evening, Sindri was certain that moving forwards wasn’t a matter of forgetting.

It was a matter of letting go.

And he was fine with that.

~ FIN ~