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She’s so cold. It’s strange to him—his mother has always been a warm comfort to him, a blanket he can wrap himself in or a pillow to rest his head on. To Atreus, Mother is everything he is not: strong, firm, invincible. She was stronger than even Father. Nothing could harm Mother.
But her hand is trembling as it runs through his hair, and her breaths come out shallow. Her throat makes the sound that his always makes when he’s sick. Hearing it from Mother, who he could not ever fathom being in the position she is now, frightens him more than anything.
Atreus snuggles into her chest, trying desperately to find the warmth that was once there. His ear is right above her heartbeat; he can hear it going thump, thump, thump. He’s always loved hearing that sound, the proof that Mother is alive, that she isn’t going anywhere…
“Atreus,” she says his name so, so softly, in the way she always does. But now, there is a hint of pain behind the inflection. “My little wolf. I’m so sorry I have to leave you.”
That’s right. Mother is dying. Mother is not invincible, nor strong enough to fight off a sickness of this nature.
“But no matter what happens,” she continues, breath fanning across his face, “always remember that I lo—”
“Loki?”
Atreus blinks. Angrboða is looking at him expectedly, brow furrowed in gentle concern.
“You all right?” She asks, “You spaced out there for a moment.”
Staring at her blankly, it takes him a second to remember where he is: Ironwood, not Midgard. The present, not the past.
Atreus gives her an easy smile. “I’m okay, just got lost in thought. Were you saying something?”
“I asked you to grab the fruit above you.”
Oh, right. He looks up at the branch hanging over his head and reaches a hand up to pick off the dangling Greenbulb.
Despite Fimbulwinter being over, the natural seasons have yet to return to the Nine Realms. Atreus, who is sick of the cold and yearns for sunshine, finds himself in Ironwood more often than not throughout his journey, taking advantage of the sweet air and comfortable temperature.
Or at least, that’s what he convinces himself is the reason he’s always there—nothing else. Nothing else at all.
Angrboða finds ways to make him useful when he visits. He helps her forage, feed her animals, and other miscellaneous chores—today, they harvest.
Jalla makes a disgruntled noise from beneath them. She’s getting antsy, and Atreus’ presence is no help. Time has not eased the yak’s distaste for him.
“Just a little longer, girl,” Angrboða soothes, giving her a little nudge to get her moving along the path.
Atreus finds himself distracted once more as they continue. He gazes out at the river, where the fireflies have already come out, glowing like little floating lanterns. The sun has already begun to set. Its light bathes Ironwood in a warm orange, and the breeze is still warm with its rays.
In weather like this, Mother would let him stay outside longer. Some days they’d even stay out until the moon was high in the sky and the stars were out. Then, she’d point out the constellations to him, and tell him the stories behind them.
“You see over there? That’s Aquila, the Eagle, and over there is Cygnus, the Swan,” Mother holds him in her lap, pointing at the sky. “They’re always facing each other.”
He squints, trying to see what she’s referring to. “I can’t see anything!”
She laughs and presses her cheek against his, drawing him closer. Her body is warm to his back, and he sinks into her, even with how comfortable the temperature is outside. She takes his hand in hers and directs it to the stars.
“There… and there.” She points them out again. “Do you see now?”
“...No.”
Mother laughs louder this time, and Atreus laughs a little himself. He loves her laugh. With where he is, he can feel it rumbling her chest.
“That’s okay, little wolf. You’ll learn in time.”
“...kind of her to help us forage.”
Angrboða is speaking. The last words of her sentence catch his attention, and Atreus snaps back to attention, straightening himself. “What?”
“It was kind of Grandmother to help us forage, I said,” she reiterates, glancing at him over her shoulder.
“Oh, yeah, it was.” They’d encountered Gryla earlier on during their hunt—she has gotten to a point in which she can talk to her granddaughter without sending her away in tears. It makes Atreus happy to see Angrboða able to rekindle her broken relationship with her grandmother. Even if there are still thorns choking out the new growth in the ground.
Angrboða’s gaze lingers on him, an odd look passing across her features. Whatever is on her mind, though, she doesn’t say.
They reach the riverbank. Before Jalla wades into the water, Angrboða clicks her tongue, and the yak pauses in her tracks.
“What now?” Atreus asks as she slides off onto the ground.
“We’re going to give Jalla a little break,” Angrboða responds easily, beckoning him down. “C’mon.”
“But… what about the—”
“It can wait.”
When Atreus slides down, Angrboða pats Jalla’s side, and she grumbles as she totters off towards a patch of grass.
“Come with me,” Angrboða grabs his hand, tugging him to follow her.
She leads him to the other side of the river. Atreus trails behind. She always seems to race him even as they stroll, and he is happy to follow. It is nice to walk behind someone who knows the trail, without having to think.
He stumbles on a root, and nearly lands with a mouthful of twigs. As he falls, he hears laughter. Not Angrboða’s. Laughter in his head, and a voice telling him to keep some presence of mind as he daydreams.
“You’ve got to—”
“—keep your head up, Loki,” Angrboða chides with fond exasperation as she helps him back to his feet.
He chuckles, a bit uneasily. “Sorry.”
They go where a large cluster of flowers grow—Silents, he recalls, from when he first came here. Their petals are a rich red that remind him of the trees in Freya’s woods. Angrboða lets go of his hand to settle among them, and he does the same.
Angrboða breaks the silence first. “You’re thinking of what Grandmother said, aren’t you?”
Atreus, caught like a deer backed into a corner, stiffens.
Gryla may be able to show her granddaughter kindness despite the hurt that still exists between them, but that doesn’t mean Atreus receives the same treatment.
It had been while they were foraging. All while Atreus helped Angrboða cut roots, he could feel the older woman’s eyes boring into his back. Were he any less afraid of being squished like an ant beneath her hand—or worse, facing Angrboða’s disappointment for being rude to her grandmother—he would’ve said something. But Atreus liked being on Angrboða’s good side almost as much as he liked being alive. So he ignored it.
“You’ve got a lot of nerve hanging around here all the time, boy.” She’d muttered as they worked.
He glanced at Angrboða, who just looked back nervously.
“Well, it’s a nice place to be, uh—ma’am.” Atreus stammered, remembering his manners at the last moment. Angrboða had concealed a giggle behind her hand at that.
Gryla grunted and picked up her large basket. “That it is,” she said, turning away from them. “What a shame, really, that your mother was born here, yet chose to go against her people and die rather than stay here and thrive. Though I suppose both choices had the same outcome.”
Cold tendrils, like the hands of a frost troll, made their way up his spine and dug into his shoulders.
He should have known Gryla knew Mother. She was so old that she very well could’ve watched her grow up. But hearing her speak about her, with such disdain and scorn—
Angrboða grabbed his hands. He hadn’t realized they were shaking until she touched them.
“Let’s go,” she’d said, and they had taken what they found back to Jalla and left.
Now, Angrboða is riddled with guilt as she looks at him, her lips pulled in a thin line.
“I should’ve told her off for that,” she murmurs, curling into herself, “That wasn’t right of her. I”m sorry I didn’t speak up.”
“Don’t be sorry, Angrboða. You didn’t do anything wrong. It’s not that big of a de—”
“But it is!” Angrboða interrupts fiercely, “It’s one thing if she talks to me that way, but when it’s you, it—” she cuts herself off with a frustrated sigh. Her face crumples with a swarm of emotions. “She didn’t need to bring up your mother. That’s all.”
Atreus, unsure of what to say, lets the silence between them stay tense. He draws his knees into his chest and stares at the water. If he leans forward enough, he can see his reflection.
“You might have my eyes, but that look on your face is all your father’s.”
Atreus wrinkles his brow. “What look?”
Mother grins and taps his nose. “Precisely that one.”
“It’s not about what she said, exactly,” Atreus murmurs, chin resting on his knees, “It’s… it’s something else. I thought I’d gotten over it, but…”
“She reopened the wound,” Angrboða finishes for him, scooting closer, “...didn’t she?”
“It never closed,” Atreus whispers, eyes flitting to the dust particles floating in the sunlight that pours down. He knows it’s just dust in the air, but he pretends it's her ashes. More than he should. More than it’s healthy.
After he and Father spread her ashes, he thought it would get easier. That the pain of her absence would wane over time, and one day he’d wake up and it wouldn’t hurt anymore. But Atreus has spent three, long years stumbling around without her.
Day by day, Atreus watches his mother deteriorate. She cannot walk on her own anymore; Father or he must hold her steady as she staggers across the house. Her hands tremble when she holds her cup. When she tries to speak, she breaks into coughing fits. It terrifies him to see her this way.
Tonight, he and his parents all sleep together like they did when he was younger. He sleeps in between the two of them. But as the night wears on, Atreus finds that he can’t fall asleep. So as carefully and quietly as he can, he scoots closer to his mother, and burrows his head beneath her arm.
She’s lost so much weight. All the muscle has left her—Mother is just skin and bone now, and this fact is more evident when it is in front of him. Atreus feels his eyes burn as he listens to her wheezy breathing.
Mother and Father told him not to trust in the gods. But tonight, as tears stream down his face, he prays to any god out there to please, please heal his mom.
But the truth is that no child can save their mother.
Atreus unfolds himself and leans back until he feels the flowers against him. Angrboða’s mother used to come here with her, he remembers suddenly. He wonders how many times she has lain here after she passed, trying to feel her presence in any capacity she can.
“Does it ever stop hurting?” he asks in a broken voice.
The river continues to rush by. Distantly, Jalla’s hooves thud against the ground.
The giantess beside him shifts, mulling over his words.
“I don’t know,” Angrboða answers quietly, earnestly, “But… I’d like to think it does. Someday.”
“Sometimes I—I don’t want it to stop hurting.”
There it is, the root of it all that’s been haunting him for years. Atreus feels ashamed the moment the words leave his lips. Fearful, a part of him expects Angrboða to be bewildered by this—but she says nothing, only turns to look at him, waiting for him to continue.
He inhales a shaky breath. “It’s like… the pain, the sadness… It's proof that she existed. And a part of me thinks that if I were to let that go, I’d be saying she didn’t exist. But I know that’s not what she’d want from me.”
“Don’t be afraid. No matter what happens, I’ll be with you.”
He feels her everywhere, in everything—in the wind that blows against his face, in the trees in the Wildwoods, in the water of a rushing river. When he sleeps, he dreams of her face and the way she laughed at all his jokes, even when it hurt her to do so much as breathe. When he wakes, it’s with his heart throbbing in his chest, like something has sunk its claws into his ribcage and torn out a part of him, a part he can’t live without yet will never get back.
But the memory Atreus keeps circling back to—the moment he forces himself to relive everyday—is how her breaths slowed in her chest until they stopped completely. How her arms, which held him so firmly against her, fell to her side and never moved again.
Atreus will never forget it—cannot forget it, not for as long as he lives.
If being reminded of it everyday is enough to keep her memory alive, if it’s enough to keep her with him, then—then—
His thoughts are broken by Angrboða’s voice, soft and reassuring. “Loki… pain is not proof of her existence. You are the proof.”
The words sink into his chest, straight into his heart. He feels tears well up in his eyes, threatening to spill over.
“Your dreams, your hopes, everything you carry with you…” Angrboða continues, “I know it’s hard, and it doesn’t feel like enough, but simply being here is what keeps her memory alive.”
“I miss her,” he says, heavy with grief, “I miss her so much.”
“She’ll always be a part of you, Atreus,” she whispers, and that’s what makes the tears break and stream down his face.
When Angrboða reaches out for his hand, he takes it, squeezing tightly.
“Will you tell me about her?” she asks, tentative so that he may refuse if he wishes to.
Atreus nods. Talking about her would be good. “She…” he begins, then trails off, at a loss of what to really say.
Where can he even begin? There’s too much to say. His earliest memory of Mother is her singing a lullaby to him while he cried. She loved the winter sky. She gave him his first tattoo the day she also taught him to hunt. She worried when the weather was bad and Father had not yet returned. Sometimes, she’d get this faraway look in her eyes, but when she noticed Atreus was staring, she’d smile and pat his cheeks.
But there are instances that there are no words to properly convey—moments, memories, and conversations filled with laughter and love that seem impossible to retell.
“She taught me everything I know,” Atreus settles on, “She was strong. Even when she got sick, she never stopped being strong. And she… she loved Father and I so much. I—” his voice breaks, and he pauses to collect himself. “I loved her. I love her.”
“She sounds lovely,” Angrboða says gently.
“Yeah, she… she really was.”
Mother would’ve adored you, Atreus wants to tell her, She would’ve treated you like her own daughter.
Angrboða is now on her back too, their joined hands in the space between them.
“Whenever I miss my mother, I come here,” she murmurs, “It makes me feel closer to her. It reminds me that she’s at peace. The same for your mother.”
Peace. Mother had told him something similar; her death would mean she was at peace, no longer suffering. She left with a smile on her face—the one that always brought Atreus comfort.
Closing his eyes, he reaches out with his whole being and tries to grab for anything, anything. Any essence of her that is still left. Any part of her that he can—
“Loki,”
Atreus opens his eyes to see Angrboða gazing at him with a reassuring smile. She runs her thumb over the back of his hand in soothing motions.
“You’re here now.” It sounds like she’s pleading, the way her voice goes soft. Atreus returns the gesture, squeezing her hand in his. One day his father will die as well, and they will be two orphans in the field. It feels like a promise, that they will grieve together from now on.
“The night the giants hid,” Angrboða says, “my mother brought me here. To teach me how to listen to Ironwood.”
She closes her eyes.
“Try to quiet your mind. Don’t say anything. Just listen and feel the forest.”
She turns her head back towards the sky. He stays studying her a little longer, relishing in the way her features relax as her eyes slip closed, before looking away.
He closes his eyes and focuses his senses, trying to burn the scene into his mind:
The warm sunshine on his skin.
The breeze rustling the trees.
The Silents’ petals pressed against his back.
The sound of Angrboða’s light breathing beside him.
The comfort of her hand in his.
His head nestled into the crook of her neck. The sound of her laughter. The softness of her hands.
He memorizes it all, holding the memory close to his heart.
And as he lets peace wash over him, he imagines his mother lifetimes younger, running under the Ironwood sun.