Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Sindri isn’t sure how long it’s been. He can’t tell if it’s been hours, days, or weeks, but he doesn’t particularly care, either. Gentle waves crash against the shore, the smell of embers having not left his nose since he appeared here. It’s almost peaceful, if he’s not counting the high pitched ringing that hasn’t left his ears.

He’s laying on the floor of a cave in Svartalfheim. It’s dark in the cave, and he’s far away enough from the mouth that he can’t tell if it’s dark outside, too. He had lit a torch when he arrived, but it had long since burned out, so he just lay in the dark, staring up at the same rock formation he’d been staring at for what seemed like forever.

Resisting the urge to hurl again, because there’s nothing left in his stomach at all, he licks his dry lips and closes his eyes. He can’t eat and he can’t sleep. His “friends” led his brother to his death. What is the point of living anymore?

Sindri doesn’t know. Maybe he doesn’t want to know, either. When he closes his eyes these days, he often hopes he won’t open them again. But here he is, day after day, still here, still alone.

He doesn’t have any tears left.

“Get the hell up ‘n pull yer head outta yer ass.” A sudden voice makes his eyes flutter open. Above him, a blue figure swims into his blurry vision, and Sindri bites his tongue so hard he tastes blood. His mind and heart races, but his body is sluggish and he can’t move besides slowly tilting his head. 

“Brok…?”

The figure wearing his brother’s face grins, just the way he used to, crouching down beside the broken man. His entire body shimmers like he’s incorporeal. “You ain’t givin’ up that easy. Won’t letcha.”

“You’re…this isn’t real. I’m hallucinating.”

Brok scoffs. “‘Course you are. Lookit you. What’d ya think was gonna happen?”

Sindri knows he looks worse for wear. After he left the funeral, he looked at himself in the water. Bloodshot eyes stared back at him, accompanied by matted hair and beard. Even his face looked thinner.

Even so, he’s annoyed that his hallucination is pointing it out. He places his arms over his eyes. “Go away. I don’t need a figment of my imagination to tell me I’m crazy. Let me lay here.”

A hand grabs his forearm, startling him so badly he can’t help but yelp. Wide eyes meet achingly familiar ones, though they’re full of a concern he isn’t used to. “No. Don’t you remember what I said to ya, or are ya so dense you already forgot?”

Of course he remembers. He plays that moment in his head over and over again.

“Y’gotta stop. Y’gotta let go.”

Sindri’s grief is replaced with anger again, giving him enough energy to sit up and swat hallucination-Brok’s hand away. “Shut up! Shut up!” His voice echoes off the walls. Chest heaving, he forces himself to be quieter. “It’s easy for you to say. Why do you get to give up, but I can’t?!”

“I already died once,” he answers softly. “You ain’t get to go out like this.”

“But I can’t do it. I can’t. You were all I had left.”

Brok gives him that look, the one that calls him stupid with just his eyes, and shakes his head. “Naw, I’m not. Our friends was our family too.”

Anger flares again, his voice icy cold. “No. They’re not. They’re the reason you’re gone.”

“You hit yer head or somethin’?” Brok sounds annoyed now, and it makes Sindri’s chest tighten. “It ain’t their fault I turned out to be smartest of the bunch. Hell, if even the Smartest Head in the World couldn’t see Tyr was a shady motherfucker, how was anyone else supposed to?”

Sindri’s eyes well up with tears, much to his surprise. “Why’d it have to be you? Why?”

Staring at him for a moment, Brok suddenly rears back and smacks Sindri across the face. His cheek stings, as if it wasn’t just a hallucination that hit him. 

“Ymir’s sweet ass! Listen to yourself, Sindri!” His hands move to his shoulders, so their eyes meet. Brok is still fuzzy, but Sindri looks at him anyway, as if he could disappear at any moment. “You can’t do nothin’ about the past. You and I know it better’n anyone. I’m glad it was me. Finally got the honor that you took away from me, mind.”

Sindri releases a sob. Brok sighs.

“I forgives ya, remember? But look. My death meant something. Odin’s the reason I kicked the bucket, sure, but I’m also the reason he kicked the bucket. Well, me and you together.” Brok smiles, a little more genuinely. He reaches forward, wiping a tear from Sindri’s cheek. “Just like always. Pickin’ up after everyone else.”

Sindri squeezes his eyes shut, sick of crying, sick of this burning hatred, sick of being. “How am I supposed to keep going? We’re not together anymore.”

“You’ll be fine,” Brok promises, surprisingly gentle, “‘cause you’re my brother, and I ain’t really gone.” His hand moves to Sindri’s chest. “Whenever you got a feelin’ in yer scrote, you know it’ll be me.”

Sindri chokes on what sounds like a cross between a laugh and a sob. “You’re so dumb.”

“Yer dumber.” Brok grins again, standing up. He turns his back, then sighs, his voice almost inaudible. “I love you too, y’know.”

When Sindri blinks again, Brok is gone. Sobs echo off the walls until he’s dry heaving, left on all fours, shaking rather violently. He breaks into a sweat, suddenly feeling as if he’s on fire.

He’ll die here if he doesn’t do anything about it. He doesn’t think he’s ready to face the others, but he also doesn’t have any other choice. Brok was always the only one who could talk sense into him. 

That hasn’t changed, even now.

Hauling himself to his feet, vertigo shoves him against the cave wall. The entire world spins, and it feels like his stomach is eating itself. Pressing his palms against the cave wall, he squeezes his eyes shut and swallows hard.

Midgard.

When he opens his eyes, he’s standing in melting snow. Wolves bark nearby as his vision darkens around the edges. “Help,” he whispers, sure no one can hear it.

“Sindri!”

He sways, but instead of falling face first into snow, strong arms support his body, a familiar white face swimming into view above him, looking the most concerned he’s ever seen. Kratos turns his face up as more footsteps approach.

“He is burning up.”

“Hang on, Sindri. Hang on.” Freya’s voice sounds like it’s underwater. He tries to say something, feeling Kratos lift him like he weighs nothing, but all that comes out is a gurgled noise in his throat.

The world goes black.

Chapter Text

“- brought what you asked. Is it enough?”

“I’ve done all I can, but the fever won’t cease.” A grimace. “This root you found should help, but I’m not sure there’s much else I can do. He will have to do the rest of the fighting.”

A chair scrapes nearby. A large hand gently rests atop the small, Dwarven one. “Then fight, Sindri. Fight.”

Chapter Text

The crackle of a fire reaches his ears first, the smell of burning embers not far behind. Sindri doesn’t know if he’s dead, but if he is, it’s sure harder to be dead than he thought it would be. His whole body feels heavy, his heart thumping so hard in his chest and throat that it hurts to breathe.

Involuntarily, a quiet moan escapes his lips as he tries to pull his eyelids open. When he succeeds, the sight of a cave ceiling greets him - different from the one he was in last - a much warmer brown, glowing softly with the reflection of fire nearby.

He turns his head slightly, almost surprised to see Kratos nearby. He is leaning against the cave wall, his arms crossed, head back, and eyes closed, breathing softly and evenly. Sindri doesn’t think he’s ever seen him so relaxed. He’s even more surprised to see that beside Kratos is Atreus, leaning against his father’s arm with a pained look on his sleeping face.

The last few times he’d looked at Atreus, all Sindri had felt was hurt, betrayal, and fury. Now, seeing him here, his heart aches with a new sense of hurt, one that he’s almost sure doesn’t actually have a name.

They really had saved him, even after all of those terrible things he said.

“You’re awake.” Freya’s voice breaks through his hazy thoughts. His gaze slides toward the source, watching her stand up from the fire and step closer to kneel by his side. “I am pleased to see it. How are you feeling?”

Sindri opens his mouth to speak, but all that comes out is a weak cough. In moments, Freya lifts a small bowl to his lips, some of it dribbling down his chin and into his beard as he drinks its contents. By the time she pulls it away, he’s panting, but feeling better for it.

“Thanks,” he says quietly, hoarsely, a little ashamed. Much to his surprise, she smiles slightly, placing the bowl down to the side.

“I am happy you are all right. For a while, we were not sure if you were going to make it.” The words hang heavily in the air, and Sindri guesses he was a lot worse off than he thought. She hesitates, slowly lowering the back of her hand toward his forehead. He doesn’t resist. Her hand is cool against his clammy skin, a welcome feeling. “You are not completely out of the woods yet,” she continues, sighing softly as she reaches forward to pull a tattered, thin blanket up to his chest, “but you should be in good health in no time. For now, rest.”

Sindri marvels at the fact that this woman, this goddess, used to be an enemy. She used to be someone he feared; something he feared, even more than the tiny creatures that permeated every surface, so much so that he faced that fear and opened his home to his friends. That same, vengeful goddess is here, by his side, gently tending to his fever and choosing to help him with her magic.

His eyes burn.

If she can find forgiveness, forgiveness enough to even work directly with her son’s killer, surely he can find it, too.

He hopes.

She looks like she’s about to get up, so he musters the courage to utter her name. “Freya?”

Settling back beside him, she tilts her head. “Yes?”

“How did you…” his gaze drifts toward Kratos and Atreus, the rest of his sentence trailing off.

“Forgive him?” she supplies, and when he nods, she leans back, folding her hands in her lap. “I’m not sure if I have. Not in the sense most think of, anyway.” Her gaze falls upon Kratos, too, blissfully unaware of the conversation, sleeping in peace with his son beside him. “At first I used him. Put my own feelings aside so that I could finally get to Odin. I thought when Odin was gone, the hatred I had for Kratos would return. I truly still thought I might kill him after Ragnarok.”

“The truth, Sindri, is that I am simply tired. I’m tired of living my days in a blur of fury and grief. Kratos is responsible for the death of my son. That, I will never truly forgive him for. But the big picture is so much clearer now. Baldur doesn’t have to be the only family I ever have. He is a good man, and so is Atreus. We can undo the bad that Odin had brought upon all the realms.” Freya gently places her hand over Sindri’s. “The sooner you choose to move forward, the sooner you will heal and heed Brok’s wishes. Forgiveness is earned, and I believe we all are willing to put in the work to earn it. Even if we never earn it, we will always be here for you.”

Sindri’s chest burns, and when his eyes squeeze shut, a single tear escapes from its outside corner, rolling down the side of his face. “I’m tired, too,” he whispers, his lips barely moving as he slips into unconsciousness again.

Chapter Text

The next time Sindri opens his eyes, his chest doesn’t hurt as badly.

A small, lone stream of sunlight pours in from the mouth of the cave, and although he remembers he made it to Midgard, it certainly doesn’t feel like it. For the first time in years, it is warm. Fimbulwinter has finally come to an end.

“You are awake.” A low, familiar voice pierces his thoughts. Sindri glances toward the sound, finding Kratos occupying the space Freya had before. He’s kneeling on the ground beside the bedroll, with Mimir right beside him. The head smiles, a glint of sadness in his gold eyes.

“Told ya he’d pull through, brother.”

Sindri isn’t sure what he’s supposed to say now. Since Brok’s death, he hadn’t wanted to even look at any of them, let alone talk to them. He drops his gaze.

“We are grateful we found you.” Kratos’ voice is much softer around the edges than it ever has been. “We…I am relieved to see you are safe.”

“Don’t think I’ve seen Kratos so nervous in a long time,” Mimir says cheerfully, and if he’s bothered by the icy glare that the god gives him, he doesn’t let on. “Thankfully, Freya got to you quick enough.”

A sharp pain stabs Sindri in the chest at Mimir’s comment. For a moment, he’s back in his house, kneeling beside his bleeding brother, begging Freya to save him. He shakes the thought away, needing to focus on the conversation at hand. “I owe her my life. You two, as well.” Though he still isn’t quite sure how much that life is worth, he knows he ought to say it anyway. He can’t bring himself to say thank you.

Kratos seems to understand. He nods, an air of solemness around him. “Having death walk so close scares even gods.” A little more unsure, he hesitates before asking, “Is that what prompted your return to Midgard?”

Sindri’s breath catches in his throat as he remembers the hazy hallucination in the cave, feeling simultaneously incredibly embarrassed and also like he may cry again. Frustrated, this time with himself and not someone else, he pushes himself up to sit, even after Kratos’ and Mimir’s protests grow in volume.

“Something like that,” he mumbles, a bout of dizziness descending upon him as he leans back on his hands, throwing his head back as he thinks about Freya’s words to him. “I think I had this fever for a long time. It messed with my head.”

A shadow crosses Mimir’s face. “Aye. Fever has driven lesser men mad.”

“Who says I’m not a lesser man?”

Kratos’ permanently furrowed brow deepens as he leans forward a little. “What did you see?”

“I…” A lump forms in his throat. Last week, he would have sooner faced Odin himself than tell Kratos and Mimir about what he saw. He shoves his face into his hands, unable to look at the two of them. “Brok told me to get my head out of my ass.”

The words hang in the air awkwardly for a moment. Then, Mimir chuckles. “Sounds just like him.”

“Indeed.” Kratos nods, the corner of his mouth twitching. “I always appreciated how plain he spoke. It seems it worked for you, as well.”

Sindri peeks at them through his fingers, seeing nothing but quiet support and care. The sheer look in both of their eyes almost makes him dizzy again. They cared about Brok, too. 

They care about him.

“Yeah,” he manages, barely audible as he lowers his hands from his face. He realizes he hasn’t spoken to anyone about Brok since he shouted at Atreus. The anger has mostly disappeared, replaced by a terrible sadness and guilt, threatening to swallow him completely whole. “He was…He was the best.”

He doesn’t realize he’s crying until a large hand finds its way to his shoulder, pulling him closer. Sindri sobs into Kratos’ shoulder while Mimir murmurs soft words of encouragement. 

The absurdity of the situation is not lost on him. He doesn’t think he’d ever truly not been afraid of Kratos. The man is twice his size and barely ever showed any warmth. For the first year of knowing each other, Kratos didn’t call him by his name. Even after that, Sindri had never seen the man smile. The only person he’s ever seen him show affection to is Atreus.

And here he is, holding the broken man like he can put him back together if he’s strong enough.

Sindri has to admit, it feels nice. Instead of hugging his own arms to his chest, digging his elbows into his gut to feel something , someone else is here with him. He had forgotten how good it feels to be around other people.

When his tears dry, he pulls away from Kratos, wiping his face hastily. “I…I’m sorry.”

Kratos shakes his head. “That is what family is for.”

“Couldn’t’ve said it better myself, brother.”

With quiet wonder, Sindri regards them both. For a moment, he thinks of Faye, and he thinks wherever she is right now, she must be so proud of Kratos. He wonders if, someday, he can do the same for Brok, even if he’s just trying to make a fever-induced hallucination proud, since that is all that remains.

“Sindri,” Kratos says softly after a moment. “Atreus would like to speak with you.”

His stomach twists into painful knots and he has to look away. Mimir’s voice is just as gentle. “As soon as Kratos told him about your condition, he dropped everything to come here. He cares about you very much.”

Of course Sindri knows. He’s always known that Atreus cared for him, even if he didn’t always show it, even if he pissed him off more than once. The thought of facing him now, though, makes him feel sick again.

He could just walk away. Disappear again, try not to get sick, try to live out the rest of his life alone in Svartalfheim and shut himself away from anyone else.

But he knows, fever or not, he’d continue to be haunted by Brok. It’ll only get worse if he shuts himself away again, and he isn’t sure he can stomach another hallucination.

Might as well just get it over with.

He gets to his feet, swaying a little but otherwise stable. “Where is he?” His voice is low and cold, not bothering to hide the fact that he’s not expecting anything to come out of this.

Kratos points toward the mouth of the cave, and Sindri begins walking toward it.

“Sindri.”

He freezes. “What?”

“Do not hold back.” When Sindri looks over his shoulder, Kratos’ eyes are steel. Perhaps he believes that whatever Sindri has to say, Atreus needs to hear it. The blacksmith nods curtly, then continues forward.

Bright sunlight pierces the world as he exits the cave, and he has to lift a hand to shield his eyes. The snow has melted along the hills, and he’s somewhat pleased to find that the lake has finally begun melting too, large chunks of ice breaking apart in jagged pieces. The air is fresh with the smell of spring, and for a second, he actually feels better breathing in air that doesn’t freeze his nose.

Once his eyes adjust to the light, he lowers his hand and scans the area. He knows that Atreus wants to talk to him, and has wanted to since that night, but Sindri hadn’t been anywhere close to ready. He still doesn’t feel ready. A part of him hopes that Atreus has just run off so he doesn’t have to see him. He doesn’t have that kind of luck though, he thinks, as he notices the boy sitting on a rock in the slow-growing field of grass, his knees to his chest as he stares at the blue sky.

Sindri sighs softly, wanting nothing more than to turn and run. He has to remind himself that this boy is not the one who took Brok from him in the end, even though he is not free from blame. He rubs his face hard, trying to psyche himself up before slowly approaching.

His feet sink in the ground, no doubt muddy from all the melted snow. As he grows closer, Atreus’ shoulders tense a little, like he can hear him coming, and he knows this is not his father’s footsteps. To his credit, he doesn’t turn to look. Instead, he just asks, “Do you want to sit with me?”

It’s an invitation he expected, but still surprises him nonetheless. The last time they spoke, Atreus had seemed desperate, desperate to make things right just like he always did, but Sindri hadn’t thought there was a way. Now, Atreus is calm; asking, not begging. So Sindri wordlessly steps up, sitting on the rock with a foot of space between them.

A warm breeze blows by, ruffling their hair, Sindri’s beard, and Atreus’ bow. Sindri had thought he wouldn’t be able to be near him without exploding into a maelstrom of fury, but to his surprise, he finds himself just feeling that sadness he had felt while looking at Kratos. 

Strangely, Atreus looks older in the sunlight. His hair has grown out a bit, uneven, patchy stubble dotting his chin. Dark shadows lie beneath his eyes, and his hands that are clasped around his knees are white with the pressure of how tight he’s holding them. After a few moments, he looks at Sindri, his brow furrowed just like his father. “I’m glad you’re alive.”

It had seemed like he wanted to say “I’m glad you’re okay” but thought better of it. At the end of the day, Sindri isn’t okay, and that’s clear to anyone who looks at him.

“Me too,” he says, probably unconvincingly.

Atreus fiddles with his bow strap, the silence that follows incredibly uncomfortable. Sindri sighs, Kratos’ and Freya’s words echoing through his brain.

Even if we never earn forgiveness, we will be here for you.

Do not hold back.

“I don’t forgive you,” Sindri begins, because he isn’t sure where else to start. “Not just because of…Brok.” He breathes in, looking away immediately as the hurt etches itself onto Atreus’ face. “All those times I helped you sneak around behind your father’s back, behind Brok’s back, without so much as a thank you...It hurt. You only talked to me when you needed something from me. We were friends, but we weren’t equals.” The words tumble out without him really thinking about it. He hadn’t even really known he had felt so frustrated by it all until now. “I thought it was normal. I went along with it because I cared about you, with no regard for my personal safety. If a Draugr didn’t get me, it’s possible Kratos would have.” 

He shivers at the thought. Atreus doesn’t dare speak. Sindri thinks he might be holding his breath, so he closes his eyes to try and collect his thoughts. He can imagine hallucination-Brok behind him, telling him the kid’s heard enough for the day.

He presses his lips together and forces himself to look at Atreus. “I don’t forgive you,” he repeats, this time softer and slower, “but I still love you, and care about you, Atreus. For what it’s worth, I’m…sorry about those things I said to you at the old shop.”

“No, it’s okay.” Atreus is quick to respond to that, shaking his head. “You’re right. About…about all of it. It was my fault Odin was at your house in the first place. And I…I should have realized how one-sided it all was. You were right to be angry at me.” He turns his body so that he’s completely facing Sindri now, his eyes still a little wide as he bows his head. “I’m the one who’s sorry. About all of it. I…love you too, Sin. You’re my best friend. I want you to feel the same someday.”

Before Sindri can say anything, the boy holds his hand out, an earnest look in his eyes that reminds Sindri of when they met, when he was so young and innocent and kind. Swallowing the lump in his throat, he reaches forward to grab Atreus’ hand. The grip is firm and warm, and despite all of the hate he’d been harboring recently, it makes Sindri feel just a little better than before.

Being angry at Atreus hadn’t felt right. After all, the person he’s really the most angry at is himself.

The warmth disappears as he feels the all-too-familiar icy claw of grief and guilt, and he retracts his hand to ball it into a fist so tightly he almost draws blood. “I don’t know what to do, Atreus. I survived without him for years, but I don’t know how I’m supposed to do it again.”

Atreus bites his bottom lip, looking up at the sky again. “When my mother died, I wasn’t sure how to keep going. I thought my father hated me. I thought I’d never be happy again.” He returns his gaze to Sindri, chewing the inside of his cheek. “It…It helped to stay busy. One day at a time, working toward the task my mother wanted us to complete.” He hesitates before asking, “Did Brok have any wishes?”

Digging the heels of his palms into his eyes to stop the burning, Sindri huffs, but entertains the idea anyway. “He wanted the Lady of the Forge to notice him,” he scoffs, almost under his breath, but suddenly straightens up, his hands falling into his lap. The words come out in a soft whisper. “The ring.”

“What?”

“There’s…Brok heard this rumor a long time ago, way before we stopped talking to each other. There were whispers that a gold ring with a certain crest on it was hidden somewhere in Alfheim. The ring belonged to our mother.” Sindri inhales sharply. “He always wanted to find it, always talked about being the one to get to it first. Then he got banned from the realm, and, well…everything else.”

Atreus eyes him for a moment. “Then we should find it.”

Taken aback by how quickly he responds, Sindri’s heart skips a beat. “What?”

“We should find it,” he repeats, more certain this time. “It’s your mother too, Sindri. You deserve the ring more than anyone. We can find it together.”

“You’ll…you’ll go with me? What about your own journey?”

Atreus smiles slightly, sliding off of the rock to offer Sindri his hand. “It can wait,” he says sincerely. “If this is important to you, and to Brok , I want to help.”

This kid’s alright , Brok says in Sindri’s mind, with all the love his stunted brother could muster, and Sindri lets himself smile a little, taking Atreus’ hand.

“Thank you.”

Together, they head inside the cave with more of a hopeful feeling in their step.