Fanfics by ScreechTheMighty

A backup place to read my fanfics when AO3 is down or whatever lol.

[screechthemighty]

Screw it, I'll share all the current tracks on the Time Travel AU playlist. Possible character development and plot spoilers if you want to read into it too much lol. Playlist is meant to be listened to with "repeat all" on because I'm nothing if not committed to the bit.

TOMBI - Kvi Baba - for the story titles ( Tears scattered like tissue paper / Frightened by tomorrow I never know )

Way of the Triune God - Tyler Childers - sounds from no man's land ( All this sin and waging war / my God's coming any minute )

Far, Far Away - Five Iron Frenzy - for wolfwood ( And Peter was a liar / a traitor just like me )

Thus Always to Tyrants - The Oh Hellos - for vash ( Will you greet the daylight looming? / Learn to love without consuming? )

Ready Now - dodie - for the found family ( I believe you / I'm not wrong / How it suits me to feel strong)

Never Love an Anchor - The Crane Wives - for vash and [redacted], from nai ( There is love, it doesn't have a place to rest / but it would've buried you if it had settled on your shoulders )

Chiquitita - ABBA - for the found family ( You'll be dancing once again / And the pain will end / You will have no time for grieving )

My Blood - twenty one pilots - for the found family ( I'll grab my light / and go with you)

Soap - The Oh Hellos - for wolfwood, from vash ( I think that you're worth keeping around / I think you're worth holding onto)

Addict With a Pen - twenty one pilots - for wolfwood ( Hello, we haven't talked in quite some time / I know I haven't been the best of sons)

Love Like You - Rebecca Sugar - for the found family, from wolfwood ( If I could begin to do something that does right by you / I could do about anything / I could even learn how to love )

Beat the Love - Autoheart - for nai, from vash ( I cannot see what you want me to see / So you beat the love right out of me )*

The Times They Are A-Changin' - Simon & Garfunkel - sounds from no man's land ( Please get out of the new one / If you can't lend a hand / For the times they are a-changin' )

Forget and Not Slow Down - Relient K - for wolfwood ( I'd rather forget and not slow down / Than gather regret for the things I can't change now / If I become what I can't accept / Resurrect the saint from within the wretch )

Feel the Tide - Mumford & Sons - for the found family ( But you and I now / We can be all right / If we just hold on to what we know is true )

Heathens/Trees [Livestream Version] - twenty one pilots - for the found family ( Please don't make any sudden moves / You don't know the half of the abuse / ... / I want to know you / I want to see / I want to say "hello" )

Fourth of July - Sufjan Stevens - for vash and rem ( Did you get enough love, my little dove? / Why do you cry? )

Abbey - Mitski - for wolfwood, and for legato ( I am hungry / I have been hungry / I was born hungry / What do I need? )

Chains - Radical Face - for vash, from wolfwood ( In the end, I'm lost / And I'll drag you down, yeah that's my cost )

The Moon Will Sing - Crane Wives - for knives, from legato ( The moon will sing a song for me / "I loved you like the sun / Bore the shadows that you made / With no light of my own / I shine only with the light you gave me" )

This Close - Flyleaf - for wolfwood ( I had a dream that fire fell from an opening in the sky / And someone warned me of this hell / And I spit in his naive eye / And left him crying, for my soul he said would die )

The Line - twenty one pilots - for vash in july ( I'd rather you not be here for / What could be my final form / Stay your pretty eyes on course)

Smile Like You Mean It - The Killers - for vash ( Dreams aren't what they used to be / Some things slide by so carelessly / Smile like you mean it )*

Call Them Brothers - Regina Spektor and Only Son - for vash and nai ( That's it, it's split, it won't recover / Just frame the halves and call them brothers )

Timshel - Mumford & Sons - for the found family ( You are not alone in this / As brothers we will stand, and we'll hold your hand )

Slipping Through My Fingers - ABBA - for wolfwood and livio, vash and livio, and ship three and vash ( Sometimes, I wish that I could freeze the picture / And save it from the funny tricks of time / Slipping through my fingers )

Deep Water - American Authors - for wolfwood ( When it pulls me under / Will you make me stronger? / Will you be my breath through the deep, deep water? )

Way Less Sad - AJR - for everyone really but especially vash ( Don't you love it, don't you love it / Well I ain't happy yet / But I'm way less sad)

Fare The Well (Dink's Song) - Oscar Isaac & Marcus Mumford - sounds from no man's land ( So sure as a bird flies high above / Life ain't worth living without the one you love )

Oldies Station - twenty one pilots - for the found family ( Make an oath and make mistakes / Start a streak you're bound to break / When darkness rolls on you / Push on through )

CHRONICALLY CAUTIOUS - Braden Bales - for vash ( I'm an optimist who's cynical / And that's just fucking miserable )

The Anchor - Bastille - for the found family ( 'Cause when it feels like I'm lost at sea / You're the song I sing again and again )

You're Gonna Go Far - Noah Kahan - for ship three and vash ( We ain't angry at you, love / You're the greatest thing we've lost )

Arise - Flyleaf - for the found family, and the plot ( Hold on to the world we all remember fighting for / There's some strength left in us yet )

A Car, a Torch, a Death - twenty one pilots - to the found family, from wolfwood ( But then I remember when you packed my car / You reached in the back and buckled up your heart / For me to drive away with / I began to understand why God died )

Headlock - Imogen Heap - for wolfwood, from vash and meryl ( You know you're better than this )

MR. GUNMAN - atsuover - for vash ( I'm the Stampede / You can't catch me )

Golden Slumbers/Carry That Weight/The End - The Beatles - for the plot ( Boy, you're gonna carry that weight / Carry that weight a long time )

Paladin Strait - twenty one pilots - for the found family from vash, and for july 21 ( Standing on the shore / Staring down a hurtling storm / Makin' its way toward me / Water rips with rage / Endless row of angry waves / Makin' its way towards me )

.

*Added to the playlist because of fan edits, this one and this one respectively

[abrielarnold]

The song didn’t quite fit, but she had a feeling it wasn’t meant to. He was singing for someone else. Trying to call them back to him.

The Unknowable Tomorrow

by @screechthemighty

What a good good fic. I'm so excited for the next part in the series. (the suspense! aaaa!) The way Wolfwood is characterised and written is everything to me. The premise is fascinating and executed extremely well. I think about this fic a lot.

(process stuff below the cut because figuring out the composition for this was a fun challenge!)

i usually start with a pretty loose sketch layer, but when i tried to draw out the scene i quickly realised that i would need to figure out a much more solid base before i could even think about lineart. (looking back, this is still really close to the final composition, which is cool, because the scene in the fic is really strong and when i read it i could see it very clearly in my mind)

so first, (after a few days of agonising and scheming and rotating because i knew this was going to be A Challenge and a Proper Endeavor) i drew a quick birds eye view of the scene to kinda figure out what the field of view could be. then, i drew the vehicles at different angles so that i could have something to mix and match until i found a combo where everything fit together.

(this first concepting stage took as much time as the final lineart stage, with a lot of stopping and thinking and mental gymnastics, but i think that time spent getting everything in place really paid off!)

then i made a refined sketch (still loose, but confident and with the major shapes in play.) and a quick value layer to make sure the light sources would lead the eye where i wanted.

then i drew the lineart and a refined value layer to use as a base for my colour layer. (i really like how bold and punchy this layer turned out, and i think it really helped me remember to preserve a lot of intentional contrast)

at this stage, the rendering is pretty much there and it's almost done and i have a lot of time to plan out the colours as i go.

[screechthewriter]

awake and unafraid... | a god of war fanfic

part one of seven:

Everyone who knew me before says the same thing.

She used to be such a sweet girl.

That's how they remember me: as little Laufey, the baby of her family, laughing and playful, unmarked by sorrow. They remember me as I was before the storm, when my family still lived in Midgard, when I was too young to know what was happening around us. Too young to fully understand hatred and its consequences.

They act as if I died out there, sometimes; as if the burned, crying child brought back to Jotunheim by Týr himself were someone else entirely. In a way, I suppose they’re right. The Laufey they knew was left for dead in the summer mud, stripped away by lightning. And in her place…

I don't know, honestly.

I'm still trying to figure that out.

.

Blood dripped onto the fresh snow.

It was only a few drops at first, sporadic, like the dripping of morning dew from a leaf. As she watched, the drops increased, turning into a persistent drip, drip, drip, like rain.

A part of her knew what she would see when she looked up. Maybe that was why she kept her gaze on the growing circle of red. As long as she was looking at that, she wouldn't have to look up, wouldn't have to know the truth…

But she had to look up. She had no other choice.

There was a hand hanging from the travel gate.

A man's right hand, calloused and worn, severed midway up the forearm, tied at the wrist. Next to it hung a cloth bag, just within reach. Its contents saturated the fabric with crimson, enough that it, too, was on the verge of dripping into the snow. She stepped forward, her footfalls somehow soundless, reached up, took the bag. Blood stained her fingers as she opened it.

Eyes. Two sets. Different colors. She didn't know whose. One eye was strangely cracked, with something starting to poke out. The beginnings of a plant. As if it were a strangely shaped seed and not…

Something dripped onto her forehead, trickling down into her eye. She went to wipe it away, but only smeared more blood across her face. Another drop. Another. Thunder rumbled somewhere in the distance. She should run. She knew she should. Another drop. It was starting to rain. She had to leave. She couldn't leave.

If it was raining, why was the sky still so clear?

She looked up.

There were bodies hanging from the travel gate. Blood continued to fall like rain. All around her, the ravens feasted.

The ground gave way beneath her but just before she landed…

“LAUFEY!”

Faye hit the floor with a solid thud.

Someone had tipped the bed. Someone had tipped over her bed. If she weren’t so relieved at being jarred from the dream, she’d be livid. “Get up,” complained another female voice. “I helped with the horses yesterday, it's your turn!”

Never mind. She was still livid.

“And you couldn’t just wake me normally?” Faye turned to glare at the other woman. She had to push her hair out of her face to get the full effect; it was coming out of its braids in a tangled mess. Just one more thing to deal with. "You didn't have to throw me onto the floor, Guðrún."

"I tried. You wouldn't wake up." The other giantess's eyes narrowed—first in suspicion, then with concern. "Were you dreaming again?"

"No." The lie was instinctive; it was none of Guðrún's business if she was, and besides that, she didn't want to talk about it. She especially didn't want to be dragged into another conversation with Yrsa. "My...arm was hurting me again. It kept me up last night."

Bad lie, bad lie. Now Guðrún looked more concerned than ever. "You really need to take it easy with the archery if it's…"

"Okay, mother, I'll keep that in mind." Faye untangled herself from her blankets. The first thing she did when she was on her feet was check on her family's statues. Fortunately, they were still upright. "I'll see to the damn horses since it's so important to you."

Faye half-expected Guðrún to try and follow her, but she didn't, for once. She'd always been so nosy when they were children; maybe she was finally growing out of it.

As much as Faye hated being woken up so damned rudely, she didn’t mind the prospect of tending to the horses. They didn't ask so many questions, and they were, for the most part, better-behaved than the people around her.

Well. Except for Bergen. Bergen was an asshole. Rurik always liked to claim his horses were direct descendants of Svaðilfari, Hrimthur’s own stallion. So fast, you’d swear they had extra legs, he said. Faye didn’t know how true that was, but Bergen sure believed it. All the spoiling and praise made him haughty, almost impossible to deal with. And, as always, the stallion was first at the gate and far too impatient for his own good.

“Move,” Faye sighed. The horse stared her down, head bobbing. She could feel his impatience, his almost pompous smugness. She hadn’t know horses could be smug until she met Bergen. “I can’t feed you if you don’t get out of the way, you big oaf. Move.”

Bergen snorted disapprovingly, but got out of the way. She was the only one in the house he couldn’t bully and he knew it. Everyone else caved out of fear or a general unwillingness to deal with his attitude. But Faye? Faye had seen much more terrifying things than a horse too spoiled by his owner to know how to behave.

She made sure the horses were fed and watered, and then lingered outside with the mares. She stayed so long at the fence, watching the forest, that one of them, Hildur, came over to see why she was still there. “I’m okay,” Faye said distantly as the horse nuzzled her cheek. “I’m all right.”

They’d practically grown up together, the two of them. Hildur had been born not too long after Faye had come to live with Rurik and Yrsa. She was much older now, body changed from foaling, wiser but no less sweet and even-tempered.

“It must be nice being a horse,” Faye said idly as she watched the trees swaying in the wind. “You don’t have to deal with strange dreams and Guðrún’s pestering.” Or Yrsa trying to get her to be a seer. Or the way people looked at her sometimes when they realized what she’d lived through. Or the exhausting sense of helplessness whenever more of her people came back to Jotunheim, their lives shattered by the Æsir.

Must be nice.

Faye distantly heard a voice calling her name. It was Rurik; breakfast must have been ready. “Well, wish me luck,” Faye sighed, gently patting Hildur’s neck. The horse snorted in response.

Maybe the day would improve from there.

She could only hope.

.

I’m not ungrateful. I’m really not.

I didn’t have much left in the way of extended family, and the ones left had their own mouths to feed. Yrsa and Rurik taking me in, even though they were expecting Guðrún, was an act of kindness I can never fully repay.

But they could never replace my family. They’ve never tried, to be fair, but sometimes it hits me that they’re gone—my mother, my father, my brothers and sisters. They’re gone and I’m living on a farm with a horse breeder and a seer who wants me to follow her own path. She keeps insisting I have natural talent, that I can’t let it go to waste.

If I have such natural talent, then why couldn’t I see what was coming for us?

Why couldn’t I save them?

.

“You got to the horses late this morning.”

She should have expected that Rurik would notice. The man lived his life with startling rigidity—same tasks, same time, same days. He was never excessively strict about others following his routine, but he did still notice deviance from the routine. She'd just hoped that maybe he wouldn't comment. "I forgot it was my day," Faye said. That was only partially a lie. She had forgotten, but even if she hadn't, the dream probably wouldn't have let her go. "It wasn't that long. Bergen can afford to wait a bit, the brat…"

"Don't you go antagonizing my prize stallion, girl."

"He antagonizes me." And everyone else, but not everyone else was as in-tune with animals as she was. They only saw his irritating behavior, not his irritating attitude. "Can I borrow Hilfur later? I was going to go out hunting."

Yrsa spoke up before Rurik could reply: "Our stores are fine. You don't need to go hunting."

Faye's eyes narrowed. The seer's tone was even, not accusatory or otherwise confrontational, so it could have just been a simple reminder. Or she could have suspected something. Or been told something. "Can't hurt to have a little extra," Faye said, trying to keep her tone even as well. Her gaze slid to Guðrún, searching for any signs of betrayal. "Winter's coming soon and I have a feeling it's going to be a cold one."

Yrsa shook her head. "I was hoping to talk to you."

Guðrún, you bitch, what did you say to her?! The other giantess was more focused on her food than the conversation, clearly uncomfortable with where this was going. Faye just couldn't tell if it was an admission of guilt or if she was bracing herself for an argument. This line of conversation always ended in an argument. "Will someone die if we don't talk?" Faye said.

Yrsa sighed. "Laufey…"

"I take that as a no." She stood up. "I'll go on foot."

"Laufey."

That tone might have worked on Faye as a child, but not so much now. She was of age; even if she still lived in the house and helped with the chores, they couldn't make her do anything. And they certainly couldn't stop her from leaving, half-finished plate or not.

Faye grabbed her bow and cloak, almost forgetting her bag in her eagerness to leave but remembering at the last second. She only got halfway down the road before she heard Rurik calling her name. Had it been anyone else, she would have kept walking, but he was at least willing to hear her out. Most of the time.

"Are we really such bad company that you feel the need to leave so often?" he said when he caught up.

Faye sighed. "No." She couldn't quite look Rurik in the eyes when she turned around; she wasn't sure what she'd see there. Her gaze wandered anywhere else on his age-worn face—strong nose, black hair shot through with grey, carefully maintained beard. "I just need to think."

And I can't think with your wife pestering me. She thought about saying it, but it would be rude. Besides that, her feelings were well-known, had been well-known for some time (not that it stopped Yrsa from constantly badgering her about it anyways). No need to repeat herself.

Rurik sighed heavily and put his hands on his hips. "She's trying to help," he said quietly. "You can't avoid this forever, Laufey. I'm not talking about natural talent or doing what's best for our people. Bottling those things up...it's not good for you."

At least he wasn’t lecturing her about duty. "There's a difference between bottling it up and not doing anything about them," she said carefully. It was something she'd tried to explain before, but seeing how the matter kept coming up, she must not have been successful the first dozen or so times. "I have my journals. That's good enough for me. We're only in this mess because some oaf thought that chasing every vision of the future he saw was a good thing." It felt perverse, comparing their seers to the fierce, obsessive drive of the Bági Ulfs up in Asgard, but it was how she felt on the matter. She wasn't going to lie about it. "Nothing good comes from knowing the future. I might not have a choice in seeing it, but I do have a choice in how I respond. And I choose to let things run their course."

Rurik nodded. She finally risked meeting his eyes then. They were storm grey, thoughtful when they weren't bright and brash. He'd been a fierce warrior once, by all accounts; now whatever fierceness was left in him had been tempered by old age, the maturity that came with fatherhood, and the deep sorrow felt by all giants. "I understand," he said, and she believed it. "You can take Hilfur if you promise you'll be back for supper."

So much for avoiding everyone the entire day, but… "All right, deal," Faye responded. "Thank you."

Rurik waved her off. "Just don't get hurt. The house would be boring without you."

It was a strange sort of compliment, to be sure, and possibly not even meant to be complimentary. But she'd take it.

Faye could have gone right to the hunt, but she didn't. She diverted away from her usual places, following a river to a small cave in the hills. It was the kind of place a person could reliably go to be alone. Faye settled down near the mouth of the cave, letting Hilfur graze not too far away, and pulled one of her journals out of her bag. She took the time first to skim through the pages. Dreams were fickle things; even the ones she remembered so vividly upon awakening could slip from her mind after a day or so, hence the journal. She might not have wanted to be a seer, or to do anything about the things she saw, but she couldn't bring herself to forget, either.

There was nothing like last night's dream recorded there. Even the most grotesque and bloody of her visions didn't show that severed hand, those plucked eyes, the bodies hanging from the travel gate the way mortals hung their offerings to the gods. She could guess at the meaning of the ravens—they only ever meant one thing, that the so-called High One still lived to torment her people—but as for the rest of it…

Faye shook her head. No. Didn't matter. She wasn't here to read into things. Just to record them.

The dream was committed to the page with as much detail as her artistic talents could provide, with a few scribbled notes next to them to clarify anything a drawing could not capture. Once it was done, she shut the journal and put it back in her bag. There. Everything was recorded. No reason to worry about it anymore.

That was what she told herself, at least. It wasn't so easy in reality.

Faye took the time to just sit, breathing in the cool air, watching the clouds go by. Jotunheim was beautiful, that much was undeniable. It was cold, with brief summers and harsh winters, but there was a wildness about it that couldn't be found in other realms. It was that quality that she loved most, and yet…

Tamer though it was, and yet at the same time much more dangerous than her people's homeland, Faye couldn't help missing Midgard sometimes.

Maybe missing was the wrong word. It was probably more accurate to say that she resented having it ripped from her as it had been.

She doubted anyone could blame her for that.

.

I’ve thought about going back. Living in the mountains, maybe, where many of my people still live. I know Jotunheim is safer, that I’d have to start over, but it’s a tempting thought. I didn’t have any choice as a child—there was no one in Midgard who could take me in—but I have one now. Abandoning the place that was once my home feels like letting him win.

But can I really go back there when my family isn’t there?

Will the dangers of Midgard be bearable without them?

[screechthewriter]

it must be so lonely knowing what you know | a god of war fanfic

part seven of seven:

Mimir wept alone the night after Baldur’s death.

He’d gotten very good at crying quietly during his time in Asgard, and it was a skill that served him well now. There were many reasons for his tears–a final release of negative emotions, all the fear and sorrow and anger and uncertainty of their journey finally striking him with a weight too heavy to bear. But he also wept because he remembered it all. Everything about what Freya had done to Baldur.

Everything about his part in it.

He wept in private, mourned in private, because how could he explain to the others what he was feeling? After everything Baldur had put them through, they wouldn’t want to hear it. A part of Mimir felt guilty for weeping over someone who had caused the two of them so much pain.

But that wasn’t the person Mimir mourned. He mourned the child he had once known, the Baldur he had failed. He mourned what could have been.

And perhaps he wasn’t as quiet as he’d thought.

“Mimir?”

Atreus’s voice was thick with sleep, groggy and confused. Mimir quickly swallowed back his pain. “Ah, sorry, lad,” Mimir said. “It’s all right. You can go back to sleep.”

There was a pause. Mimir hoped the lad had simply nodded back off; instead he heard the rustling of blankets as Atreus moved. Soon, the lad was at his eye level, his blue eyes full of concern. “Are you okay?”

He could’ve lied. He really thought about it. But he’d been lying about this for too damned long. He couldn’t bear to do it again.

“...having a hard time sleeping. Too much in my head, I suppose.”

“Oh.” Atreus grimaced. “Yeah. That’s happened to me, too. My mom would talk to me sometimes…help me figure everything out. Do you want to…?”

Hearing the question gave Mimir a strange mixture of many feelings: relief that Atreus had finally come back to himself, gratitude for the kindness being shown to him, guilt because he didn’t deserve it, pain because in so many ways, the boy in the room with him now reminded him of someone else. The same person he mourned, deep in his heart.

“He wasn’t always like that, you know,” Mimir said. “Baldur, I mean. I remember a time when he was kind. Just a boy, really…” Mimir stopped to take a deep breath. The action didn’t feel quite as calming when he didn’t have lungs. “...he might’ve had a chance, you know? And not just him. Freya, Tyr…so many people dragged into that nightmare could’ve made it out.”

Tears stopped up his throat again. He had to struggle to take another breath.

“I just wish I could’ve done more. I wish I could have stopped it. I tried, I really tried, but it wasn’t enough.”

Atreus nodded, his eyes darting away as he considered Mimir’s words. There was no judgment in them; just quiet contemplation. Like a softer version of his father…or perhaps he looked like his mother. “Can I take you down from there?” Atreus asked.

“...I suppose so. Why…?”

He got his answer. When Atreus lifted him off the shelf, it was to hug him–well, hug him as best he could, when it was just the head to hug.

The first kind touch he’d had since Sigrun, Mimir realized.

“I’m sorry,” Atreus said. “You helped us. I don’t know if that makes you feel better, but we wouldn’t have made it without you. And I’m grateful.”

It did, and it didn’t. It didn’t because it didn’t undo the damage that had been done with Baldur.

It did, because at least he’d staved off the same thing happening to them for a little while longer. And maybe…

“Thank you, lad,” Mimir managed to say. 

He didn’t know what would happen in the coming days, especially when it seemed that fate and prophecy hadn’t accounted for at least one person in the room. But that uncertainty did little to diminish the new sense of purpose he found then. To make things right this time. To help in ways he hadn’t been able to before.

Maybe this time, things could be different.

[screechthewriter]

it must be so lonely knowing what you know | a god of war fanfic

part six of seven:

Freya had it under control.

Freya had it under control.

Freya definitely had it under control.

It spoke to how terrified he’d been–how terrified he still was–that Freya’s enchantment was so thoroughly tested in those days.

Mimir would wake up in the middle of the night in a cold sweat, body shaking from a half-remembered nightmare, the knowledge of his part in the whole affair just within his grasp but flitting away as wakefulness fully settled in. The memory would spring to mind at meals if his meat was undercooked. All that blood. All that…

Of course. It had been upsetting, seeing Baldur acting out like that. But…Baldur was immune to all threats, physical or magical. He hadn’t really been hurt . And whatever was wrong, Freya must have handled it.

The magic jammed that explanation into his skull, forcing it like two parts of a chair that didn’t quite fit together. Sometimes his mind seemed to fight back, his desperate desire to ease that pain he’d seen in Baldur’s eyes scrambling for an explanation. Other times, he accepted it quickly. It was an easy explanation, a respite from the pain and terror that seized him whenever he remembered.

A respite from the guilt, too, though he hated to admit it.

Mimir heard secondhand from Thor that Baldur and Freya weren’t talking. Mimir had tried to ask them about it directly–he was the court advisor, after all, the mediator, he could be more than trusted to intervene–but Baldur wasn’t anywhere that he could find. Freya, meanwhile, flat out refused to speak to him. The distance stung at first, but…why should it? They had never gotten along. He’d gotten her into this mess. And she’d always been so protective of Baldur.

Mimir tried to keep busy. Odin certainly gave him plenty to do. He was still scouring the realms for ways to access Jotunheim and influence Ragnarok. Mimir, of course, tried to dissuade him. That careful game of push and pull took up so much mental energy, he may as well have been traversing the whole of Midgard on foot.

(Honestly, he would rather have been doing that.)

Mimir tried to stay out of sight whenever he did have time to himself, sticking to the parts of Asgard where your average Aesir didn’t go. Fortunately, these were usually the parts where it was easy for Mimir to hide anyway. The plants and the trees were as close to a domain as he could have in this realm. He hadn’t quite lost his touch when it came to hiding.

One day, though, he came out to the gardens to find the one person he didn’t want to hide from.

I thought you’d forgotten about me , Mimir thought. The words were nearly spoken aloud, but Baldur looked so… tired. Everything from the dark circles under his eyes to the curled-up way he sat under the tree spoke to a bone-deep exhaustion rarely felt by gods. Mimir instead approached carefully, making just enough noise to alert the god to his presence without startling him, before sitting down an arm’s length away.

For once, he didn’t know what to say.

“Remember those stories you used to tell me?” Baldur asked suddenly. “About your home.”

The thought of home struck Mimir hard. The memories were always a bit painful, but never this much. “Aye, I do.” He’d told Baldur quite a bit, as much as was appropriate for his age. “Been a while since we talked about it. I’m surprised you remember.”

“Of course I do. I loved those. I always thought I’d go there with you when I was older.” Baldur leaned back against the tree, his head hitting the bark with a soft thunk . “I was just curious back then…wanted to see everything, I guess. Tyr would sometimes tell me about the places he’d go, and I thought…” Baldur trailed off for a moment. “Do you ever think about going back?” 

Mimir hadn’t in some time, but the thought was suddenly very tempting. His lucid, uncursed mind tried to claw its way out again. He could leave. They could leave, the both of them. Get Baldur away from this place, away from Asgard and its schemes. Maybe there was someone back home who could help him. Oberon may not have been familiar with Vanir spells, but he was immensely powerful in his own right. If anyone could…

But the enchantment re-asserted itself. Baldur didn’t need help. Baldur was fine. There was no curse that needed breaking, no help they required from Oberon. They would only be going to satisfy Baldur’s curiosity and Mimir’s homesickness. That thought was tantalizing on its own, but pure, uncaring logic asserted itself next.

“Don’t think I could go back,” Mimir said. “I left a lot of mess behind. And besides that…”

Your father wouldn’t let me.

The sentiment remained unspoken, but from the bitter smile on Baldur’s face, he knew. Mimir was too dangerous to be allowed to leave, and Baldur too valuable. They were entangled in Odin’s net now. No getting out for either of them.

“Right,” Baldur said, a bitter laugh seeping into his voice. “Just another stupid dream.”

Mimir glanced Baldur’s way. The pain in the god’s eyes was so raw that he had to look away again. “Maybe one day,” he said, “when all this unpleasantness with Jotunheim is over and your father’s calmed down. I’d love to show you.”

Throwing the possibility out there almost felt cruel, only a step below outright making a promise he knew he couldn’t keep. But he couldn’t help himself. Baldur was drowning, and Mimir was drowning too. Even if the thought only prolonged the inevitable, even if it just kept them afloat long enough to sink another day…that was something, wasn’t it? A small mercy?

He wasn’t sure anymore. But he held onto it anyway.

“Maybe,” Baldur said finally. “That’d be nice.”

Seemed that Baldur wanted to stay afloat a while longer, too.

They sat under the tree in silence for some time. It felt like the one safe haven in a wide sea of chaos. Mimir knew, even with the enchantment gnawing away at his mind, that this would be the only peace they’d get for some time. Possibly the last peace they’d ever get. He wasn’t sure he wanted to leave, or to let Baldur leave it, either. Keeping him there, staying with him, it was the only way of protecting him that Mimir had left.

But he also knew he couldn’t stop Baldur from leaving. The best he could do as the god stood up and started to walk away was throw out one last rope.

“I’m here, Baldur. You know that, right?”

Even if Odin didn’t like it, even if Freya didn’t like it, even if his own mind cannibalized itself with every attempt Mimir made at reaching out…he was there. He wanted to be there. He’d try and try for as long as he could. It was all he had left, but he’d give it until he couldn’t anymore.

Baldur sighed. When he turned around, one last time, his arms wrapped around himself, it almost looked like there were tears in his eyes. He smiled, but it was bitter. Sad. As if Mimir were just the ghost of his old childhood friend.

“Don’t make promises you can’t keep, frændi .”

He walked away, leaving Mimir in that circle of safety.

It felt a lot less safe now that he was alone.

.

The weight of Asgard pulled him under eventually.

Freya tried to break it off with Odin, and was banished as a result. Baldur vanished from Mimir’s life again, over time becoming Odin’s eyes and fist in ways that even Thor couldn’t accomplish. Mimir didn’t even have time to mourn the loss of the boy he’d once known, because now Odin’s eyes had turned to him. The Allfather was not pleased.

He made that anger very, very clear.

The air at the mountain’s peak was cold, biting at Mimir’s exposed skin. The bark of the tree dug into his body, rubbing it raw in places when he struggled. Both of these things he could get used to–the cold numbed and his skin developed calluses over time. But there were two things he couldn’t get used to. The first, and most obvious, was the torture. Every blow, ever spat word, ever threat wore away at him ways that not even years in Asgard could.

The second was the guilt.

It crept in when he was alone, on the long nights when the pain kept him from sleeping. It chewed at him with what-ifs and self-blame. If he’d only done this or that, if he’d only stepped in sooner, if he’d only run and taken…

If he’d only protected…

But that was the worst part. Some things he could clearly remember–how he’d failed Freya, how he’d failed Tyr, how he’d failed the giants and the people of Midgard. But when he reached the bottom of that spiral, the deepest depths that left him trembling and sobbing as if Odin were back and actively torturing him, there was that uncertain monster. The guilt for the thing he could not remember. The certainty that he’d done something horrible, something unforgivable. That he’d helped to destroy something good, and would never be able to make it right.

It never lasted long. The enchantment made sure of that. The gaps in his mind dragged him back out and back to feeling guilt for all the things he could remember. Again, Freya had spared him, in a strange and cruel way.

But perhaps she hadn’t spared him entirely. 

And even if she had–even if those stabs of guilt had never existed–it didn’t last forever.

A little bundle of mistletoe saw to that eventually.

[screechthewriter]

it must be so lonely knowing what you know | a god of war fanfic

part five of seven:

note: this chapter is more intense and contains onscreen depictions of self-harm. these instances will be marked off with ### so they can be skipped, and a summary will be available at the bottom of the chapter.

.

Mimir wasn't sure how he missed what followed. Looking back, he assumed the spell told him there was no need to keep a close eye on Baldur, or no closer an eye than usual. Everything was fine. Everything had to be fine.

Everything wasn't, and he would've given anything to have seen it.

Baldur's demeanor changed in the weeks after that night, his usual lighthearted self giving way to a quiet, but deep frustration. He started spending more time with Thor and the boys. Freya wasn’t thrilled about that, nor was Mimir, but Baldur could make his own decisions by then. The only person who might have been able to stop it was Odin, and…well.

It’s good. Thor will keep him from getting soft.

Of course Odin would say that.

Usually, that would have been Mimir’s clue to start inserting himself more into Baldur’s life, to serve as that counter-balance as he always had. But Odin was constantly keeping him busy—another burst of paranoia, if Mimir had to guess—and whenever he was able to spend time with the lad, Baldur’s agitation bobbed to the surface. He didn’t speak much, beyond brief sentences. He’d started picking at his fingernails. Sometimes he made himself bleed. One time, Mimir had taken his hand to try and stop him; Baldur had gripped at him so tightly that it had started to hurt. “Ah, Baldur...?”

Baldur let go almost instantly. He didn’t go back to picking at his fingernails, but he did stare at his hands, as if searching them for something. “You all right?” Mimir asked.

Baldur looked up at him. There was something dark and confused in his eyes. It was the same look he’d worn after his nightmares. “Fine,” he said. His voice was clipped. Terse.

Just like his father.

That thought was enough to jar Mimir from his stupor, however briefly. He went straight for Freya. He made it about halfway at a determined walk before his pace slowed.

Confusion settled in.

He knew he had to talk to her, and he knew it was about Baldur. Anything beyond that was half formed at best. Something about how much time he was spending with Thor...but it wasn’t just about that. There was another reason why wiggling under the surface like maggots in rotted meat, but every time he tried to articulate it...

He stopped outside Freya’s room. Grappled with the thought a bit longer. Dismissed it the usual general dread he felt whenever Thor was involved and knocked on Freya’s door. Yes, that must have been it. The thought of Thor on its own made him ill. That was all. There was no other reason.

There’s no other reason.

Freya opened the door. “Mimir,” she said. “What does he want now?”

“Who...? Oh, no, Odin didn’t send me. It’s just, ah...” Mimir’s hands clasped together anxiously behind his back. “You don't think Baldur has been spending too much time with Thor, do you? I mean, it’s not that I don’t trust the lad, it’s just...”

“Oh.” Freya shook her head. “No, you don’t have to worry. I have it under control.”

Right. Of course she did. Why did Mimir ever think differently? He’d feel silly if he weren’t so relieved. “Right. Of course. Just being sure, m’lady.”

But he wasn’t really relieved, was he? His mind wouldn’t let him dwell on it as he walked away; wouldn’t let anything stick except the certainty that Freya had it under control. But deep down Mimir knew.

He wasn’t relieved at all.

.

Then, one day, a curtain slammed down between him and Baldur. No more coming to Mimir for advice, or just to talk. No more time spent in the gardens. Baldur may as well have left Asgard entirely, for how little Mimir saw him. It was an outcome he’d always feared for a long time, sometimes even thought inevitable.

He still wasn’t ready for it. And he especially wasn’t ready for how it seemed to tear his mind in half. Part of him accepted it. At best, it was a natural consequence of Baldur growing up; at worst, it was the inevitable corruption of Asgard. Nothing Mimir could do about it.

But another part of his brain rebelled, refusing to believe it was inevitable. There had to be something he could do or say, some way he could draw Baldur off that dark path. The two warring impulses clashed constantly, leaving him in a state of paralysis.

It didn’t help that there was a third, worse thought buried underneath the other two: the nagging conviction that it wasn’t age or family influence that had driven Baldur away. That there was something else. Something that he should know, but that he somehow didn’t.

No. He knew. He just couldn’t remember.

The thought was difficult to grasp, always slipping away before he could really define it. Still, he could feel its effects heightening the storm of dread in his mind. It was a miracle he functioned as well as he did and went as long as he did without saying anything. Truth be told, the paralysis might have kept him silent forever, except...

“Baldur seem all right to you?”

Mimir nearly dropped his goblet in shock. Thor expressing concern? Thor expressing concern to him? That kind of thing never happened. If Thor was expressing concern...

It's bad. This is bad.

"What brought this on?" Mimir asked. At least he’d recovered enough that his voice wasn't trembling. He had centuries of practice with that.

"He's just been acting funny," Thor said with a shrug. "Not talking so much. Magni said he tried to pick a fight the other day. Got Modi to hit him."

Baldur picking fights was confusing enough, but...Baldur picking fights with Modi? He knew Modi wasn’t Thor’s favorite. He’d always tried to be kind to him to make up for that, or at least he used to. How much worse can this get? “Have you spoken to Freya?”

Thor snorted loudly. “Please, she doesn’t talk to me. Especially not about her precious baby.” Mimir knew that, of course; he was just curious what her response might’ve been. Apparently he’d have to stay curious. “That’s why I’m asking you. Do you know anything?”

“He...hasn’t been speaking to me much lately, either,” Mimir admitted.

Thor raised an eyebrow and stood up. “Right. He’s deep in his head.”

“Wh-what makes you...?”

“He never shut up about you before. Mimir said this. Mimir said that. If he’s not talking to you, something’s wrong.”

Mimir felt like he was going to be sick. If Thor sees it... “You’re right,” Mimir said. Those were two words he never thought he’d say to Thor—and from the startled look on Thor’s face, he knew it, too. “How’s about...I try to talk to him, and if I can’t get anything out of him, you give it a go?” He hated even suggesting Thor try to handle a delicate emotional matter, but, well...Baldur had been spending more time with him. It might be worth trying.

“All right. Think he was in his room...that’s where he said he was going after that hunt, anyway.”

The nervousness in Mimir’s gut had turned into a veritable maelstrom by the time he arrived at Baldur’s door. The silence in the hallway only made it worse. It didn’t feel like the silence of a peaceful afternoon; it felt more like the silence of a burial site, or a battlefield after the fighting had ended. Mimir’s hand shook as he knocked on Baldur’s door. “Lad? It’s Mimir. Are you there?”

He heard the rasp of the door being unlocked before it opened, just a crack. “Anyone with you?” Baldur asked.

“Oh...Thor’s up the hall a bit, but he won’t come over unless you want-”

A hand reached out and dragged Mimir into the room.

###

Out of everything Mimir had expected to encounter inside, the overwhelming scent of blood was not on the list. But that smell was the first thing to hit him. The sight quickly sank in. There was blood everywhere, some fresh, some days old. Smeared on the ground. Collecting in fist-sized indents in the wall. Various tools and bladed weapons were scattered across a table, all coated in it, and Baldur...

Baldur was covered in blood. On his face, on his arms, on his chest. But there wasn’t a mark on him. He stood in front of the now-closed door, looking like he’d barely walked away from a fight with fifty well-armed giants, but even with all the blood, Mimir could tell he wasn’t hurt. There were no bodies, absolutely nothing that could explain where it had come from.

Is this a dream? Am I having a nightmare?

“What happened?” Mimir asked. He was surprised his voice didn’t shake.

“...you know something?” Baldur asked, his voice far too calm. “I was going to ask you the same thing.”

Baldur picked up a knife. Mimir felt his heart stop. “The thing is,” Baldur said conversationally. “I haven’t been feeling like myself these days. I’m not sure if you noticed...”

He placed the blade against his chest.

“...things have been a bit unusual around here...”

He dragged the sharp edge along his skin.

Mimir should have stopped him. He knew he should have. But the sight of the knife had stopped his mind, and the sight of blood wasn’t enough to restart it. The situation felt more unreal with every passing second. All that blood but...why didn’t it feel right?

“And I’ve been trying to figure it out myself, but...” Another cut. More blood. Wrong, wrong, wrong. “...I feel like I’m missing some information.” Deeper this time. So much blood. “But maybe the smartest man alive might know...”

So deep it must have hit bone.

“...why this is happening to me.”

And then...

Point first. Right into the chest, over the heart.

Mimir’s brain finally unfroze, his body lurching forward, hands desperately reaching for the knife. Sheer blind panic overrode everything, panic and terror for the boy he’d watched grow up, cared for, even loved as if he were kin, who now shoving the knife into his own chest. So much blood...

“Baldur!”

Baldur twisted the knife and yanked it free.

The wound healed itself near-instantly.

Mimir froze again, this time in a mixture of shock and confusion. How was that possible? Gods were difficult to kill to be sure, but he’d never seen one recover so quickly from so dire a wound. Even Odin’s gouged out eye had taken some time to heal. This was a knife in the heart.

###

That’s why the other cuts looked so wrong, Mimir realized. Because there weren’t any. They must have healed even more quickly than the stab had. All that blood with no discernible cause.

“I-I...” Mimir looked around the room and grabbed the first clean cloth he saw. “Here, let’s...let’s get you cleaned off, and then we can figure this out, all right?” He wasn’t sure if that would help, but he needed a moment to think. And he couldn’t stand to see Baldur covered in so much blood.

Baldur just stared at first.

The second Mimir started cleaning off where the wounds should have been, he crumbled.

“It’s all wrong,” he said. Any pain he might have felt from the wound seemed to be poured into the words. He leaned towards Mimir; it made trying to clean him off difficult, but it was a strange sort of relief, seeing him react normally to the situation. “It’s all been so wrong...I don’t know why...”

“What’s been all wrong?” Mimir said gently.

“I can’t feel it. I can’t feel any of it. It’s not just the pain, it’s…” He suddenly grabbed Mimir’s wrist. “...I can’t feel this.”

What? How? How was something like that possible? “Not at all?”

“I know I’m touching you, I know you’re…” Baldur’s voice cracked. “...you have to be here. You must be, but I can’t…” He pulled his hand away and stared down at his shaking hands. “...heat, cold, nothing has any taste, no one’s truly touched me since…”

He trailed off.

Or that was what Mimir thought. Baldur’s lips were still moving, but it was impossible to hear what he was saying. It made the sudden volume to his voice as he grabbed Mimir’s shoulders all the more startling. “Please.” Baldur’s hands were still bloody, still sticky, and his vivid blue eyes were full of pain. “Tell me what she did. Just tell me how to fix this…!”

“I don’t…” His mind scrambled, reaching for answers. Answers he should’ve had, but didn’t. It was like reaching for a book that wasn’t there—reaching for a book that someone had moved. Nothing but empty air where the hard spine should have been. And it didn’t help that he kept getting distracted by the blood, so much blood, streaking across Baldur’s pale skin, coating the knife on the floor, in the indents on the wall. “What did who do?”

“My mother!” Baldur shook him roughly. “What did she do!?”

“I don’t know! I don’t…” Mimir’s heart was racing, his body froze, his mind was torn between doing whatever it took to placate the frantic god before him and running as fast as his legs could carry him. “…I don’t know. Baldur, you have to believe me, I don’t know what she did.”

He should have. He didn’t. His mind was a muddy hillside and any attempts at getting to the top only made him fall further.

Baldur’s eyes cleared. It seemed for a second that he saw through the emotions clouding him and into the abject terror racing through Mimir. The god straightened up slightly and gently placed his hands on Mimir’s cheeks, forcing them to make eye contact. “Mimir,” he said, suddenly very calm. “What did my mother do to me?”

Any thought of running fled Mimir’s mind instantly. There was nowhere to run, nothing he could fight, and even though the touch on his face was gentle, he knew. He knew this would be the end of him if he didn’t answer correctly. Oberon had done the same, hadn’t he? Honeyed words and a careful touch that hardened into something sharp and harsh? He might not have been able to recall the specifics, but he could sure recall the outcomes.

Mimir tried to force his lips to form the answer Baldur wanted (because he knew, he knew it was in there somewhere), but all that came out was, “I don’t know.”

“And you haven’t helped her with anything?”

This time, his brain stalled. “I…no, she wouldn’t ask me for help with anything,” he said.

“Are you sure about that?”

Mimir’s self-preservation was the only thing that kept him from hyperventilating. Pretend to have control over the situation, always act like you know what you’re doing even when you don’t, because any sign of weakness could get you killed. Especially here. Especially now.

“I’m sure,” his stupid mouth repeated. Sharp tongue gone dull. Mind spitting out the answer as if it was the only response. “She wouldn’t ask me for help with anything.”

Baldur leaned closer, as if he could peer past Mimir’s eyes and into his brain. “What did she do to me, Mimir?”

He tried. He tried. He tried. But again…

“I don’t know.”

Baldur stared at him for a long time, face nearly blank.

When his face changed, it changed in an instant—blue eyes gone harsh and cold, expression twisted and furious. Monstrous. Just like his father.

I’m dead, Mimir thought, though his body did nothing about it. It had already accepted its fate. No sense fighting it. It would only make the pain worse. Just brace yourself and wait for the…

“Bitch!”

But when Baldur did explode, it wasn’t on Mimir. He let go. He grabbed one of the drinking horns near his bed and threw it against the wall. Baldur didn’t say another word, only screamed. Enraged. Pained.

He’s hurting, Mimir thought distantly. He thought I could help. Why can’t I…?

The door suddenly flung itself open, the wood splintering around the lock. It was Thor. He stared at the scene in the room with a look of blank confusion. “Brother, what the fuck…?”

Freya pushed past him—a face Mimir would’ve been happy to see any other day, but not today. Not when the sight of her made Baldur’s face twist into a mask of rage again. Baldur started screaming, though whatever he said was lost to Mimir. His heart was racing and his mind had gone as numb as his body had only a moment ago. He felt like he’d drop dead at any second. No one seemed to notice his distress; Baldur was screaming at Freya, Freya was trying to console him, Thor only watched the two of them with a look of utter shock on his face. Not something you saw there often.

When the thunder god finally stepped in to break up the argument, Mimir saw his chance. He forced his body forward, nearly tripping in his haste to get through the now-open door. No one tried to stop him. He doubted they even noticed.

Mimir only walked at first, out the door, a little down the hall. His legs felt too numb for anything else. His mind was chasing itself in circles, only really able to focus on the blood, the blood, all that blood…

Something shattered in the room behind him.

Mimir took off running.

Any other day, he would’ve run toward the sound to make sure no one got hurt. Today, he could only consider his own safety. He ran as fast and as far as his legs would carry him. He didn’t want to be in Asgard anymore. He couldn’t be in Asgard anymore.

So he ran to the one place where he knew he could find some solace.

.

One didn't often think of peace when Valhalla was mentioned. Not peace in the traditional sense, at least; it was a hall of constant noise, be it feasting or fighting. There was a reason Mimir rarely went inside. If there was someone he wanted to see, he waited outside. Usually, he'd wait on the steps, but today he sat off on the side of the great hall, just out of sight, trying to wipe the blood off of him and keeping his eyes open for one person in particular.

The flurry of wings signaled the arrival of the Valkyries. Mimir peered around the corner and watched. Fresh crop of dead souls deemed worthy, from the looks of it. He waited as those souls were ushered in, followed by two of the three Valkyries shielding them, and just before the last one entered…

"I know these halls are reserved for the worthy dead, but, ah…" Mimir leaned out just enough to be visible and smiled sheepishly. "...I don't suppose you could spare a pint of ale for an old friend?"

The surprise on Sigrun's face turned to delight. Mimir felt safer already.

This was the real peace in Valhalla--sitting next to one of the rivers that flowed beside it, some mead from Heiðrún, far enough away that the clamor of the place was a distant hum, just him and Sigrun. No Aesir breathing down their necks. A few moments of quiet here and there.

It wasn't quite so peaceful this time. Mimir's hands wouldn't stop shaking. He had to drink half the pint before he could tell her what happened.

"In the heart?" Sigrun asked. "Are you sure?"

"I saw it with my own eyes. He's…" Mimir took another long drag from the cup. He was going to need more than just the one, he could tell. "...Sigrun, something's wrong with the boy. It's not just the healing, it's like something's changed. You've met him, you know what he's like, but all of that was just..." He waved one shaking hand. "Gone. It was just…pain. And when it wasn’t that, I swear he looked like his father. It's not like him."

"Did something happen? Anything you can think of?"

"I don't…"

That question again. That damn question. It hit him then, the weight of the situation settling over him like a pile of boulders. It wasn't just seeing Baldur in that state that terrified him, though that was bad enough. It was the slippery parts of his memory, the things he should have known, but didn't. Even now, as he tried to grasp the past few weeks, it felt like something wasn't right.

It felt like he was losing his mind.

"He was fine, and then he wasn't, and I don't know what happened," Mimir said. "And I feel…" Forcing the words out was harder than it should have been, but he had to say it aloud to someone. "...I feel like I've done something terrible, but I can't remember what it is."

Sigrun didn’t respond. It seemed like she couldn’t; it was clear from the look on her face that she was just as lost as he was. After a moment, she straightened up, reaching into her belt pouch for a bandage that she dampened in the stream. “Here. You’ve still…”

Mimir flinched away instinctively when she reached for his face. Sigrun’s gray eyes went dark at the gesture. “Ah, sorry,” Mimir said sheepishly. “Jumpy today.”

This time, she only held out her hand, waiting until Mimir’s body finally relaxed before trying again. One hand held his while the other gently wiped the remaining blood off his face and shoulders. The river water felt cool against his skin. Soothing for the body, less so for the mind. The only thing that could wipe away the past few hours was more mead, and even that would only be temporary.

Mimir wasn’t sure why that, of all things, was the thought that broke him, but it was. Mimir tried to cover for the sudden rush of dread with a witty comment. All that came out was, “I can’t go back there.”

“I’m sorry,” Sigrun said softly. “May I…?”

She didn’t have to finish the question. Mimir leaned into her touch instantly, resting his head on her shoulder as she wrapped him into an embrace. He was trembling so badly he thought for sure he might start weeping.

He didn’t cry. Maybe he was still too much in shock for it. Maybe it would hit him later. But in that moment, he did not cry.

.

He didn’t cry later, either.

Once he was away from Valhalla–because he did have to go back, eventually he had to–the terror and dread and fear of it slowly started fading away from him. Whatever he did remember of the incident was dismissed with the thought that Freya must have handled it. She must have.

Sigrun never spoke to him about it again, either.

He did not find this unusual.

.

summary of marked off content: Baldur reveals that he can no longer be physically harmed in the worst way possible (including the stabbing Mimir mentions to Sigrun later), yes it IS upsetting for Mimir.

[screechthewriter]

it must be so lonely knowing what you know | a god of war fanfic

part four of seven:

He thought that getting into Vanaheim would be the hard part, and to a certain extent, he was right. Finding the right time to sneak away had taken weeks of planning, of checking and double checking and waiting for Odin to be distracted by something else. By the time Mimir finally got his chance, he was so nervous that he almost took back his offer to help.

But he bit his tongue and he ran, because going back on his word would make him worse than a coward.

It worked out, somehow, and Mimir damn near cried when he arrived in Vanaheim safely. Even having to talk to the Vanir and convince them that he was here on Freya's behalf, not Odin's, was preferable to the mind-numbing anxiety that had seized him during his escape.

Then, Freyr showed up.

He said nothing at first, only hovered in the same room as Mimir while he desperately went through Freya's old things. The harvest god looked quite a bit like his sister—not exactly alike, of course, but they had the same striking golden eyes. Eyes that were currently glaring at Mimir as if trying to place a hex on him. Mimir tried to ignore him at first, but then…

"Is she in danger?"

Mimir remembered the raised voices in Asgard, the way Odin glared and sneered and gripped her arm, but kept that to himself. "This isn't for her," he said. That was, at least, the truth, even if it left out some bits. "It's for your nephew."

"Is he…?"

"Just some runic readings she's worried about, my lord. She only wants to be sure. And before you ask, I didn't get a clear look at them and she didn't tell me their exact meaning. I'm just trying to help."

All of the individual statements were true, technically, which was what made the whole statement such a convincing lie. Sometimes, all you had to do was leave in enough accurate information, and they'd never think to ask about the other parts. Mimir was still a bit surprised that Freyr didn't press him further, though. The god looked emotional enough to keep asking questions. But in the end, the only one that came out was:

"He's ten now, right? Baldur?"

"Thereabouts." Age was tricky with young gods, but that sounded right. "He's a sweet lad. He takes after his mother, you’ll be glad to know.”

“That’s...good. That’s good to hear.” Freyr contemplated this, then laughed bitterly. “Don’t suppose there’s any chance I’ll get to see him one day?”

Mimir wasn’t sure about that one. The matter had never come up directly, but if Odin wouldn’t even allow Freya back, there was no way he’d allow Baldur to visit. Probably have something to say about him being corrupted by the enemy.

Still, saying that out loud felt cruel. “I’ll do what I can to make sure you can meet him one day,” Mimir said. He meant that, too, but Freyr didn’t look like he believed it. “And Freya will as well.”

Freyr believed that part, at least.

Mimir gathered up everything (mostly books, but a few odds and ends Mimir didn’t know the use of) and left not long after. Freyr, fortunately, didn’t do anything stupid, only watched from a distance as Mimir slipped back through the travel gate, his eyes somber and sorrowful.

Mimir’s sorrow for what he had done to this family was overridden by his fear of what he might find on the other end of the travel gate. His mind danced with visions of Odin waiting at the other end, ready to have Mimir executed for treason.

But no such thing occurred. Mimir made it through the gate and back to the halls of Asgard unimpeded. Still, he hid the items in his own room and waited until he was sure he had not been found out before passing them off to Freya. "How is Freyr?" she asked once the items had been hidden away.

"He's well. Still hates me...wants to meet Baldur one day." Perhaps he shouldn't have said that; the sadness in Freya's eyes was clear and immediate. "I'm sure we'll be able to figure something out."

"I hope so." Freya took a deep breath before turning to face Mimir. "This is everything I need for now, but I don't know how long it's going to take. Whatever you can do to keep Odin from finding out…" He saw some new emotion pass through her eyes. "Baldur trusts you, you know."

Mimir had never expected to hear her say those words. It was...beautiful to hear, comforting in a strange way, but the fact that she was telling him this now made him nervous. "I'm guessing I should use that trust to keep him from doing anything too stupid?" he said.

"He won't listen to me without question forever. And I'm sure he won't always listen to you, either, but hopefully between the two of us, we can keep him safe until I've figured this out."

“Hopefully. I’ll do what I can. I promise.”

Mimir hoped those words wouldn’t come back to haunt him.

.

It was easy to keep the boy safe when he was younger. As much as Thor poked and prodded, none of the important adults in Baldur’s life—not even Odin, to Mimir’s surprise—wanted him to go along on Thor’s various hunting excursions. Regardless of whether Thor was hunting beast, giant, or some other alleged enemy of Asgard, Baldur was kept out of it, for a time. Mimir certainly wasn’t going to argue with the decision. It made his life a bit easier.

It wasn’t just about protecting Baldur physically, though. It was about protecting him mentally, keeping him from succumbing to his father’s influence. This was almost trickier than keeping him from running off and picking fights with his uncle. Mimir had to find a way to undermine Odin’s worse traits without seeming like he was actively undermining the Allfather himself.

Just offering an alternate perspective. That was how he usually sold it. Fortunately, Baldur seemed to have absorbed Mimir and Freya trying to teach him the benefits to taking alternative lines of thinking into account. He never told on Mimir for occasionally suggesting that maybe his father was off-base. If anything, he seemed to come to Mimir for advice more than he did his own father, at least with certain matters. It was a few years before Mimir learned why.

“He doesn’t really want to talk,” Baldur said. He was well into his teens by then, a bit sulky on occasion, but overall much better-tempered than Thrud had been at the same age. And more often than not, he was sulky when he had good reason—say, for instance, when his father was ignoring him. "He said he's got business to attend to. Important shit." He picked up a stick and started tracing runes into the dirt. "Shouldn't I be able to help with that? I'm his son. Thor's always bringing Magni and Modi to do things so they can learn. And Mom teaches me things, too."

Mimir never thought he would say these words about anyone, but then again...it was Baldur. He seemed to be the exception to a lot of things. "He's just trying to keep you safe, I think. He's...had a lot on his plate and a lot of it is dangerous." More dangerous to other people than to Odin, of course, but...sometimes Mimir wondered if the Aesir realized how much fire he was playing with. The meddling with seiðr, trying to defy fate…

Then again, what's Freya doing right now?

Mimir tried not to think about it that way.

"I'm sure he'll find something for you to do. Are you doing all right? No new nightmares lately?"

"Nah, not since the last one." It was sad, how used to them Baldur sounded by now. It was the same dream, more or less, coming and going as the years went on. The cold, the snow, his death. There were slight variations sometimes--a few times he talked about seeing fire, a strong impression of the color red, or sometimes blue. One time, he heard four words: The cycle ends here. They still hadn't been able to make sense of that part. "Does ale really help? Thor says it does."

Of course that was Thor's advice. "Speaking from personal experience, little brother, I would not make that gamble," Mimir said honestly. Baldur was getting old enough to know that his father's trusted advisor had made some truly spectacular mistakes in his lifetime. At least the god could possibly learn from them. "I've had that technique make the dreams worse. And there's not much worse than waking up from a nightmare to a hangover."

"A what?"

"Drink too much and you feel like a troll threw you off a cliff the next day. That's the cause of...probably half your brother's headaches?" The other half being all the fights he liked to get in. "Just try to be careful as you get older, yeah?"

Baldur only half-listened to that one. It was probably Mimir's fault for not explaining what too much was, though to be fair, it was hard to tell with gods. Sometimes the bigger ones seemed to have the lighter constitutions. You really never knew until you had to half-carry a drunk god back to his sleeping quarters. At least Baldur was, once again, more agreeable than his brother would've been in similar circumstances. "Mom's gonna be mad," Baldur giggled.

Mad at me, not so much you. "She'll be less angry if we just get you to bed before she notices," Mimir said. And get that black eye and bloody nose as healed as it could be. "New rule. No more climbing things while you're drinking. I don't care what Thor dares you to do."

"Fiiiine. I'll make him climb things." Baldur paused, then started laughing at the thought. "Hah. That'll be funny. I can out-climb him any day."

It was a true statement, but Mimir was still hesitant to laugh. Baldur could get away with that kind of mockery. Mimir, on the other hand… "Maybe don't wound his pride too much," Mimir advised. "You know he doesn't like that."

Then again, Thor seemed to mind it far less when Baldur did it. The boy really did have a knack for balancing teasing with kindness. He even got away with making a few jabs at his father, though it was possible Odin had missed they were loving insults. He could be remarkably dense for a man who saw danger in every minor interaction.

Maybe Baldur was his one true blind spot, or the first person the Allfather really trusted.

Either way, that could be useful one day.

.

When tragedy and harm did strike one of the younger gods, it wasn’t Baldur who was attacked. It was Magni.

In a way, Mimir wasn’t terribly surprised. Magni was very much his father’s son, prone to getting into fights, but without Thor’s experience to back it up. The boy was bound to get into a scrape he couldn’t get out of alone. It was the circumstances around his injury that made it noteworthy.

Jarnsaxa. A name Mimir hadn’t heard in a long time, and avoided thinking about since last he heard it. The giantess had somehow reached out to her son. How, Mimir wasn’t sure...he certainly didn’t have anything to do with it, despite the way Odin glared at him while he explained the situation. Regardless of how she managed to reach out to him, they had met, and now Magni was lying injured in his bed, too worn out to fully explain what had happened. Mimir had heard him muttering over and over again about how he’d killed her, he’d killed her. But if that were the case, how was he in such rough shape? Had he fallen down the damn mountain in the process of killing...

Killing his own mother. Mimir’s skin crawled just thinking of it. It wasn’t just for the obvious reasons—that it was wrong, that poor Jarnsaxa hadn’t deserved that, that she was now the latest casualty in the absolute nonsense the Aesir had been throwing at the frost giants for decades. As much as Magni may have wanted to deny it—and he certainly would—and for as long as poor Sif had raised him...

Jarnsaxa was still his mother.

Nature abhorred a child who killed their own parent.

Mimir had originally planned on getting as much information as possible, but he was distracted by a new issue: Baldur’s reaction to the whole thing. He seemed fine, initially; a bit rattled, but focused on making sure Magni was okay. Mimir almost missed the strangely melancholy way that Baldur stared at Magni’s injuries.

He didn’t miss the way Baldur kept rubbing his chest, in one of the spots that Magni had been hit. And he definitely didn’t miss that Baldur didn’t sleep well that night. Mostly because he wasn’t sleeping well either, and ran into the younger god while wandering the halls of Asgard. “You all right?”

Baldur stared at him for a long second. He was rubbing his chest again, so hard that Mimir was worried the poor boy would actually wipe away his new tattoos. “...he hasn’t said who hurt him, right?” he said.

“Not sure. I don’t think it was...” Mimir couldn’t even bring himself to say the giantess’s name. “...another giant, maybe? He’s recovering nicely. I’m sure he’ll be able to tell us, soon.” Mimir couldn’t help himself; he had to step forward, take the poor boy’s hand, hold it in both of his to try and soothe that nervous tic. “Why?”

Baldur clung to his hand desperately. The gesture was almost childlike in how desperate it was. “I don’t know, just...” He hesitated. “...nothing can kill a god. Right?”

That wasn’t true. It might have been rare, and it might have been hard, but it was still possible. Just like with Tyr. Nearly with Magni.

Possibly with Baldur.

“Your mother’s not going to let that happen,” Mimir said before he could stop himself. Fortunately, recovering from the slip was easy. “And neither is your father, and neither am I. You’re going to be all right, little brother.”

Baldur stared at him for a long moment, the blank look on his face slowly crumbling away, turning to...pain, fear, something like it. He hugged Mimir without warning, clutching him with the same desperation he’d held his hand. “I don’t want to die,” Baldur said, his voice trembling.

“You won’t,” Mimir replied, holding the god tightly. “You won’t.”

How cruel of him to promise that. How reckless, when he already knew what fate wanted.

Freya, whatever you’re doing, do it quickly, Mimir thought. If Asgard has made new enemies, it won't be long before Baldur gets dragged into things.

They hadn't made a new enemy, as it turned out. Magni was finally able to say who exactly had bested him the next day. It had been an old enemy--a giantess with red hair, a frost axe, and a bow. Laufey the Just, the people's hero. Thor's greatest rival, despite them never having met.

If Thor hated her before, he loathed her after that.

.

Baldur already had some combat training by adulthood, but it increased after Magni's encounter with Laufey. Most of it with the Valkyries, thankfully. As stressful as the whole concept was, Mimir was grateful Baldur was learning from a group that actually knew how to use that kind of martial power (as opposed to Thor). Baldur would be an adept warrior as well as an increasingly skilled negotiator, it seemed. Mimir could only hope he used those powers for good.

That was only one of the many, many things Mimir was worried about when it came to Baldur. He worried about the boy so much that sometimes he felt his stomach was twisting itself into knots. He thought about asking Freya about her progress, but there was rarely a good time. Whenever there ever was, Mimir lost his nerve. It felt like taking a plunge he wasn’t sure he was ready for.

Then Freya pushed him in.

“I need your help with something.”

It was far simpler than last time, at least; he didn’t even have to go very far. She just needed samples; various rocks, dirt, plants. Mimir wasn’t sure why, but he wasn’t going to question it. It seemed like progress, and he’d take whatever he could get if it meant he’d keep his promise to Baldur. Besides, it gave him a chance to get away from Asgard. Spend some time on his own, picking flowers, like he did when he was small. He even stopped a few times to lie on patches of moss and close his eyes. Try to will his body to sink into the forest, become one with the roots and dirt, not have to deal with any of Odin’s nonsense anymore.

But he had obligations to fulfill, so Mimir dragged himself up and went back to Asgard.

Freya didn’t explain what she needed everything for, not yet, at least. She seemed relieved to have them in her hands, so Mimir suppressed his questions. Most likely, she was still trying to avoid Odin finding out. Mimir couldn’t blame her for that. He was more than capable of keeping a secret from the god, but with the way he’d been acting lately...a bit of extra security definitely couldn’t hurt.

That thought was why it struck him as strange that Baldur, out of nowhere, suddenly seemed to know about the plan.

Or, at least, he seemed to know that his mother had a plan, even if he didn’t know the specifics . Mimir never found out what Freya told her son; he just knew that, after an especially bad spell of Baldur having nightmares, the two of them talked. Whatever happened during that talk, it lead to Baldur hunting down Mimir someplace private and giving him another, slightly awkward but definitely earnest hug.  He walked away without explaining what it was for, but Mimir had a feeling.

He really has gotten tall, Mimir thought as he watched Baldur walk away. More thinly muscular than some in his family, but with a lot of the height. He wasn’t the little boy who used to follow Mimir around the halls of Asgard, peppering him with questions.

If that’s true, why does he still feel so vulnerable?

.

The day Freya slipped a message in his hands telling him to meet her in the mountains was a long time coming. Mimir still didn’t feel like he was ready for it. In addition to the understandable concerns, he just wasn’t sure what to expect. He’d never really dabbled in the magic of this realm, preferring to stick to his own simple magics instead. Odin guarded his secrets so jealously that Mimir had never seen what the Aesir could be capable of.

The sight that greeted him in the mountain clearing damn near slammed him back in time. The mountain spring, the careful layout of all the plants that Mimir had been gathering around the border...Mimir found himself checking how many of them might’ve been hallucinogenic. “Is it just us?” he asked.

“No, Baldur’s coming. He’s...” Freya huffed in annoyance. “...having supper with his father. Bonding time, I suppose.”

Ah. Hopefully, that bonding time wouldn’t lead to anything too worrying. If it had been Thor, Mimir might be a little more worried; dinner with Thor would likely mean Baldur wouldn’t be able to make it to the mountain without assistance. “What exactly are we doing?”

“It’s a pact,” Freya explained. She kept checking the samples spread out around the pool, as if checking to make sure that everything was there. “A binding pact. Haven’t you ever made a deal with nettles?”

Now that she mentioned it... “Never successfully. My old master said they can sense weakness.” He laughed bitterly. “But...what, a binding pact with everything?”

“It should work, shouldn’t it? If everything has vowed not to harm him...”

Mimir’s eyes widened at the implications of it, his eyes darting over the objects spread out in the clearing. She really had thought of everything. Even any missing items he could think of were just combinations of the components in the clearing. If this worked...

“That’s...” Mimir looked up at Freya, genuine admiration in his eyes. “Creative. Very creative, m’lady.”

Freya shook her head. “Don’t look too impressed. We haven’t tried the spell yet.”

She sounded nervous still, certainly more so than she had when Mimir first entered the clearing. He almost rested a reassuring hand on her should but held back, knowing she probably wouldn’t want physical comfort from him. “It will work,” Mimir said. It has to. You’ve put too much effort into this. It has to work. For your sake.

For his.

When Baldur showed up, he was only a little bit unsteady on his feet. Just enough extra drinks to take the edge off, then. Mimir could respect that. “Sorry,” he said. “Father kept asking questions...are you sure he shouldn’t know?”

“It’s best if he doesn’t, love,” Freya said soothingly. She gave him a gentle hug. “Don’t worry. He won’t mind.”

Well, not entirely accurate. Odin definitely wouldn’t mind the part where nothing could hurt his son; the rest of it, maybe he’d have a few complaints. Mimir kept that thought to himself, though. "Told you we wouldn't let anything happen to you," Mimir said, masking his nerves as he always did with a smile.

His mask almost cracked when Baldur hugged him next—tightly, as if the world here ending.

In hindsight, Mimir supposed it was.

.

A lot of other things about that night became clear in hindsight. One thing Mimir wasn't expecting was the thought that Freya had done him a favor.

Because if the night hadn't ended the way it had, he would have spent the next decades thinking about it. Over analyzing what happened, when he should have seen this was going to end badly, how he should have stopped it—if he could have stopped it. He saw more magical power from Freya that night than he had seen even from Odin. It was almost terrifying, certainly would have been if she hadn't just been trying to protect her son. Still, seeing one goddess invoking a binding pact with what seemed the whole of nature, one item after another, even the beasts seeming to appear and disappear in the bushes as she invoked them...

It was impressive. And far too strong for the likes of him, a low-level fae and advisor, to have done anything about. Once Freya had got started, there would be no stopping her.

But then his mind would still wander to all the ways he could have stopped this night from occurring at all, because even without hindsight he had known this was risky, maybe even too risky to attempt. But would that have done anything? Would he have been able to stop Freya even before the spells began to leave her lips?

Would the Mimir of the past even want to try, or would his own love and care for Baldur—his desperate desire to spare the boy of the fate that had befallen his half-brother—have overridden his common sense?

Mimir was spared having to dwell on that question for a long, long time. Even if the actual act was violating, even if it would bring him a lot of pain later on, well...at least it had spared him some other pain for a little while.

Small favors and all that.

.

There were no signs in the moment, no big indications that they'd made a mistake. Freya was hesitant to test the spell, not helped by the fact that both she and poor Baldur were exhausted by the time all was said and done. It seemed like Mimir was mostly there to pass off components and make sure they got back to Asgard safely. Freya insisted on carrying Baldur when nearly fell asleep while walking, despite her own weariness. "I'm his mother, it's my job," she said.

"You can say I'm too weak for the task, m'lady. I won't be offended." Mimir certainly wasn't any match for the denizens of Asgard when it came to that. Even Sigyn was stronger than him, and she'd be first to admit her talents lay more in wit than physical strength. “Are you sure you’re all right?”

“I’m fine.”

Mimir hummed, made a mental note to keep a careful eye on her, and kept walking. “I think we should get our story straight,” he said. “Baldur had a few more, wandered off, we went looking and found him...?”

At first, he thought the object that struck his face was an actual branch. He’d been pushing his way through the brush, and all kinds of things had caught him on the face. But this was something dislodged from a higher branch, something he almost didn’t recognize until he pulled it away. “Oh!” he said, surprised.

Freya stopped behind him. “What?”

“It’s just...” Mimir held up the plant, a leafy cluster with a few white berries clinging stubbornly to it. “...I haven’t seen this in a while. I didn’t know it grew here.”

“...it doesn’t. Not usually,” Freya said carefully. “I hadn’t seen it before recently. Traders brought it, I think.”

“Ah, so it’s too new for the spell?”

He wished he hadn’t said that out loud.

It was most likely the truth. Children couldn’t swear oaths, and neither, he assumed, could something so new to their lands that it might as well be considered a child. Trying to include it in the spell probably wouldn't have hurt anything, but it wouldn't have done anything, so there was no real point in seeking it out. That was his logic at the time...and in hindsight, he wondered if Freya had knew that. If she'd avoided asking him to bring the mistletoe along because then he'd know it was the one exception to the pact. He was never meant to know.

But he'd found out anyway, because he was too clever by half and had terrible, terrible luck.

"Well, I wouldn't worry if it is. Not much you can do with this. Not here, anyway." He twirled the branch in his fingers as he walked, an old impulse from a time when he wouldn't have to work hard to find the plant. "How's Baldur? Still asleep?"

"...yes. I expect he'll sleep through the night."

At the time, he'd thought her careful tone was just exhaustion. At the time, he hadn't questioned why the woman who, as much as she'd sought out his help lately, was still not his friend, and therefore had no real reason to spend time with him, had asked him if he wanted a drink. He’d just consumed what he was given without a second thought.

He woke up the next morning with no memory of what had happened.

The memories of the night before weren’t the only things wiped from his mind. He didn’t remember helping Freya. He barely remembered Baldur’s fears, though he had the faintest feeling that something had been troubling the boy. He didn't see Baldur very much that day (and in hindsight, that was a bad sign, already a bad sign), but he did see Freya.

"Everything all right?" he asked when they had a moment of privacy. "You and Baldur doing well?" Mimir couldn't remember why, exactly, it felt so important that he ask that question; only that it did.

Freya's gaze was regretful, just for a moment, but the look was quickly replaced by a smile he'd never seen directed at him before. "We're all right," she said, giving his shoulder a quick squeeze. "Thank you, Mimir."

It was odd to him, just for a moment—the gentleness, the real gratitude, the genuine sense of companionship he seemed to feel, even if for a moment. But then the spell kicked in, and his mind found no reason to find it strange.

"Of course. You know where to find me if you do ever need anything."

That was the last peaceful memory he would have for some time.

[screechthewriter]

it must be so lonely knowing what you know | a god of war fanfic

part three of seven:

The tension around Asgard was palpable. No one directly talked about Týr, but it was clear he was on everyone’s minds. Well, maybe not everyone’s. Mimir had a feeling Thor didn’t especially care one way or another once the high of having bested his brother had worn off. But for many of the minor Aesir, and especially for Freya, Týr’s fate served as a threat. If Týr could suffer this fate, there was no way they were safe.

Odin, meanwhile, seemed more paranoid than ever. If he had found any relief in getting rid of his son (killing him, Mimir forced himself to think, because hiding from the truth wasn’t useful), that relief was short-lived. If anything, Mimir thought he was getting worse.

He wasn’t sure how the younger ones felt about it. Thrúd had never been especially close to Týr; Baldur would ask about him, but at some point he stopped. Freya must have talked to him, because Mimir certainly hadn’t. He hadn’t had the chance; Odin had been running him ragged, probably still suspicious that Mimir, too, was conspiring against him. That was probably why he’d sent Mimir off with Thor. To make a point.

Mimir thought about that severed hand often. Dreamed about it. He hoped Baldur didn’t know about that part.

While the memory never truly left, it faded as the weeks turned to months, then to years. A lot changed in Asgard after Týr’s death. Ullr left, and Thor had two more boys to replace him. Magni and Modi were handfuls from birth, and the circumstances around that whole fiasco had given Mimir enough headaches to last a lifetime. It felt like he hadn’t fully recovered from what happened until the boys hit toddlerhood. He watched Thrúd reach the cusp of adulthood, and Baldur grow older and taller. He was becoming very mature for his age.

Mature, but fortunately not cruel or unkind. Mimir was impressed Baldur was able to navigate the halls of Asgard without being dragged into their muck. He didn’t change the other Aesir, per say, but it seemed like whenever he was around, the mood shifted. Mimir didn’t think anyone had a bad thing to say about Baldur. He was the only one exempt from Odin’s paranoia, if nothing else.

He’d make a great advisor, Mimir thought, if he wasn’t already a god. Maybe he could take Týr’s place as the peacekeeper in Asgard.

But seeing how things had ended with Týr…did Mimir really want that for him?

Regardless, he did his best to guide Baldur whenever he could. It helped that the boy seemed to have some respect for him—a bit surprising, considering one parent had never liked him and the other trusted him less and less every day, but Mimir would take it. Even if it meant answering odd questions every now and again.

He liked it a fair deal less when the questions went from odd to concerning.

"You all right, little brother?"

Baldur seemed sullen today, sullen enough that it set Mimir on edge. Sullen for a god rarely ended well. "Tired," Baldur responded. They had been sitting outside; Mimir had needed a break from Asgard's suffocating atmosphere, and Baldur often joined him. The boy was curled up in a patch of sunlight, looking quite a bit like a cat getting ready to take a long nap, but…

"Having a hard time sleeping?" Mimir probed carefully. There was something off about the way Baldur kept blinking against the sunlight and adjusting his position. Less like he was having a hard time falling asleep and more like he was trying to avoid it.

"...bad dream," Baldur admitted after a long pause. Then, "Is it bad if you have the same dream a lot?"

"Depends on the dream. Could just be you have something on your mind. Dreams are funny like that." Maybe by now he was old enough to truly be affected by his father’s moods, or his mother’s...situation in general. "Why don't you tell me about it, yeah? Maybe we can work it out together."

Baldur hesitated again before sitting up. "...it's cold in the dream. Really cold. I think I'm in Midgard and I can hear Mama crying." Baldur wrapped his arms around himself, shivering as if he could feel it. "I'm lying on the ground and I can't move. I think I've done something bad, but I don't know what. And it's snowing." He wrapped his arms around himself more tightly. "I think I'm dead? But I don't really know."

That would be distressing enough on its own, but it became more so when Mimir remembered the day Baldur was born. The runes on the tray.

The mark of death.

Mimir swallowed past a sudden surge of nauesa. If there was one thing he was good at, it was hiding his true thoughts, and that was a lot easier to do with Baldur. "Has something been bothering you lately?" he asked. "Anything...happening with your parents, perhaps? Sometimes a dream like that just means you’re worried about something else.”

He should know. He’d been having the same dream on and off since Týr died: hanging from the Jotunheim travel gate by the neck, struggling to breathe, his blood dripping down into the snow.

Baldur shrugged. “Papa seems mad about something but he won’t tell me what. He says I don’t have to worry about it. And Mama’s sad a lot.”

That sounds right. “Do you want me to try talking to one of them for you? If you’re worried about bothering them...well, it’s sort of my job to bother them.”

Baldur thought about it. “Can we talk to her together?” he said quietly.

“Of course we can. Whenever you want to.”

It was probably for the best. Freya meant well, but mothers could be a bit much when they were worried. If Freya started fussing, the poor boy might just feel more overwhelmed by whatever it was that was bothering him. Mimir’s presence might be able to stave off any excessive concern.

Even if there was a possible reason to be concerned, the boy didn’t need to be subjected to that.

They didn’t end up talking to Freya that day. She was away on Valkyrie business for a while, and despite his initial fears of sleeping, poor Baldur ended up napping underneath that tree, Mimir keeping watch over him. Fortunately, it seemed like a friendly presence was able to keep away any nightmares. Mimir was glad to be of service for something actually useful for a change, not just soothing paranoia and trying to keep everyone from killing each other.

When they did finally speak to her the next day, Mimir saw the sparks of fear in Freya's eyes, bordering on blind panic. He thought he would have to intervene, to keep her from scaring the poor boy further, but she only hugged him and thanked him for telling her. She gently reassured him that she was sure it was only nightmares, but she’d find a way to help him sleep better. It was good to see, but Mimir knew in his gut that wouldn’t be the end of it.

“Why don’t you go to my room and gather those things for me? I have to talk to Mimir about something.”

There it is.

Mimir kept smiling pleasantly until Baldur was out of the room. He even waited a bit longer, just to make sure that he was out of earshot before speaking again: “So, what do you...?”

Freya sat down heavily in the nearest chair, both hands pressed over her mouth. Mimir froze, his eyes first darting away, then towards her, not sure what to do. She recovered quickly, at least, straightening up, taking a deep breath, and looking at Mimir.

“I need your help.”

Four words he never thought he’d hear from her—though it made sense that since she was finally asking, it had to do with Baldur. Of course, Mimir would do anything for him, and he owed Freya more than he could ever properly repay, so there was only one answer: “What do you need?”

“You understand, Odin can’t know anything about this.”

Of course he can’t. That didn’t necessarily deter him, though. “I’ve kept secrets from the Allfather before. I can figure it out.” For a moment, he wasn't sure Freya believed him. She seemed surprised, at the very least. "What?"

"I just thought…"

"Thought because I'm his advisor that means I tell him everything to avoid his wrath? Sometimes not telling him things is the better path. And besides, I'm allowed to have my own life." For now, he thought a bit grimly. "I can swear an oath on whatever you'd like, if it helps. I know some very binding ones."

She looked like she was considering it, but shook her head. "There is a spell of protection," she said. "Something that could keep him safe from...that which has been foretold." The fear returned to her eyes, again chased away by resolve. "It could take some time before I've figured it out, but if I had some items from Vanaheim, it would help immensely."

Oh. That was why she really needed him, and absolute secrecy on top of that. It wasn't just about keeping some more obscure Vanir magic from Odin (which was already an understandable reason). With the state the Allfather had been in lately, if he found out she'd gone back for anything related to magic, even if it was to protect their son, he'd be furious. There was no doubt in Mimir's mind that he'd start the Long War again if he had even a suspicion of threat from Vanaheim. It would be too risky for her to go back. Mimir, though...

It was doable, he wouldn't lie. Risky, but doable. He might have to dust off some of the old faerie magic to get to a travel gate, but he could pull it off. Getting there wouldn’t be the only problem, though. "I can get out of Asgard, but depending on what you need me to get...if there’s anything that will keep your brother from skewering me on sight, I’d appreciate it." He wasn't joking, either. Freyr had no reason to like Mimir, and even if he'd lost his blade years ago, he did still have that boar. "Don't want to rely too much on my ability to talk my way out of a situation."

"Of course. I'll make sure you're left alone while you're there." Freya stood finally. "How soon can you leave?"

"Depends on Odin’s moods. Just get me safe passage, and I’ll do what I can. I know the ways in and out by now." His palms suddenly felt sweaty at the thought. "Think you could have a word with Sigrun, though?"

"Why?"

"If Odin kills me for this, I don't want her sending me to Helheim. I know, worthy death and all that, but…" He tried to smile, even though it was only half a joke. "...maybe we could bend the rules this once?"

He was surprised when Freya chuckled. "I'll talk to her. But...maybe don't get caught?"

"Oh, trust me, I don't plan on it. I just like having a backup plan."

He'd need a lot more than just the one to get through this trip. Mimir just hoped that Freya was right and that this would work. The boy didn't deserve some terrible fate.

Then again, fate rarely cared about what was deserved.

Mimir had an interesting relationship with what they knew here as the Norns. Dealing with the flow of destiny had been part of his career as an advisor for a long time (Oberon being the only one who didn't seem to care that much). Of course he’d had to deal with seers and prophets, with trying to plan around fate, or, in rare cases, avert it. But no god or king he’d worked for went to the lengths Odin had. Watching the god do whatever he could to avoid his fate at Ragnarok, and seeing all the pain his meddling caused made Mimir wonder if they should be more cautious. If their success would only bring pain somewhere else—or perhaps not even work at all.

He thought about saying something. In hindsight, he should have. But guilt stalled his tongue, drove him to simply walk away from the conversation. Freya was only here because of him, increasingly trapped, with only one person in her life that brought her true joy. He couldn't stand by and let her risk losing that.

He owed her that much.

[screechthewriter]

it must be so lonely knowing what you know | a god of war fanfic

part two of seven:

The boy was named Baldur, and he quickly became the second most tolerable person in the whole of Asgard. He was an even-tempered baby and a shockingly well-behaved toddler (the occasional mischief and moment of stubbornness aside). Freya tended to keep him close; Odin didn’t object, so long as he was allowed some time with his son.

And, occasionally, as had been the case on and off with Thrúd, sometimes he was passed off to Mimir.

Today was one of those days. Odin had gone to oversee something in Midgard, and Freya was handling Valkyrie business. Sif was busy as well, which left Mimir the only one available to watch the boy. Mimir was of two minds about the situation. On the one hand, it was preferable to handling Odin. On the other hand, who knew what Odin might do without Mimir there to try and intervene?

He tried not to think too hard about that one.

“So, how come you’ve got horns and no one else does?”

Children were nothing but questions, but Baldur someone managed to make them sound innocent and sweet rather than invasive. “I’m not from around here,” Mimir explained.

“Ohh.” Baldur nodded, as if that explained everything. “Where are you from?”

“Where do you think I’m from?”

Baldur’s nose wrinkled as he thought it over. “Alfheim?”

Mimir barely bit back a laugh. He didn’t think the boy would be too offended, but he was just a child. No sense hurting his feelings. “Why do you say that?”

“I’ve seen pictures of the Dökkálfar. Some have horns.” Fair enough. “You haven’t got wings, though.”

“Wish I did sometimes. Can you imagine, me flying about?” Baldur giggled at the thought. “No, I’m not from Alfheim. I’m from Midgard, but I’m from a part of Midgard that’s very far away.”

“Do they all have horns there?”

“Only some.” He had a sudden memory of being about Baldur’s age, his horns just little nubs, staring out the window at the nearby sea loch, listening to the faint birdsong in the distance—or what he’d thought was birdsong. He wouldn’t learn the truth for a few years yet. “I was a bit of an odd one growing up. Guess I never really stopped being an odd one.”

“Why’d you leave?”

Well, that was a long, complicated story that involved explaining the intricacies of life in the Faerie court. Best to just simplify things, he figured. “Just needed a change of pace, is all. You want to see the rest of the realms one day, don’t you?” Baldur nodded eagerly. “It’s the same thing, really. Nice to get out, meet new people, sometimes work for them.”

Again, Baldur nodded as if that made perfect sense to him. Mimir couldn’t tell how much he really understood; young gods and demigods always seemed wise beyond their years (though how much further beyond their years varied, in his experience), but Baldur still only had the life experience of a lightly sheltered child. It was difficult to tell how much those two balanced out.

“Can you tie knots?” Baldur asked suddenly. “Týr usually helps, but…”

But Týr had been spending more and more time on Midgard. Mimir suspected it was to stay away from Odin, though the Allfather had other ideas about that. Mimir shook the thought away. “I can certainly try. What do you need knotted?”

Turned out it was a bracelet, something with wooden beads clumsily painted that he was making for his mother. Between Baldur half-remembering how Týr usually knotted them and Mimir having some experience in making the odd charm or boon, they were able to finish the bracelet. Baldur beamed brightly at the finished project. “When’s Mama coming back?”

“Not sure.” Freya made a habit of lingering during her Valkyrie duties, what Valkyrie duties she was still allowed, at least, but that had been before she had a child. “Shouldn’t be too much longer. I don’t think her friends will want to keep her away from you too long.”

“Why don’t they ever come to Asgard?”

Mimir bit back his urge to tell Baldur that he should ask his father about that. “They’re pretty busy with the souls of the dead. I’m sure your mother will bring you along sometime. I know Sigrun’s been asking about you.”

Fortunately, Baldur was still a bit too oblivious to ask how Mimir knew Sigrun was asking about him. He was still in the stage where he thought Mimir knew everything without any kind of effort on his part. Mimir was flattered, really, but there was a bit more work that went into being the smartest man alive that the boy didn’t know about yet. Maybe one day, he’d share some of his secrets, if the boy stayed normal and sane.

Wouldn’t that be nice?

The sound of a door slamming somewhere nearby made Mimir flinch. Baldur, oblivious to the gesture, straightened up. “Mama?” he called out.

Not sure we should be going to find her even if it is your mother, lad… But Baldur took off, bracelet in hand, before Mimir could stop him. Mimir tried to catch up, but he was speedy for being so little. Please, please, don’t let whatever he’s running into be anything terrible…!

The sound of yelling increased as they approached the door. Baldur, either desensitized to the sound or too intent on getting his gift to his mother to care, used all the strength in his little body to open the door. To Odin’s credit, he did stop mid-sentence when Baldur came in. Freya stopped as well. It was difficult to tell what that spark in her eyes was—she shoved whatever it was deep down when she saw her son. “You’re both back!” Baldur said excitedly. He ran to Freya’s side and held out the bracelet. “I made this for you, Mama.”

Frey’s face softened, somewhat, though Mimir could still see some of what strange emotion in her eyes. “Oh, Baldur, thank you,” she said. “It’s lovely.”  She slipped the bracelet on as Baldur ran to greet his father as well.

Mimir glanced Freya’s way once he was sure the Allfather was occupied. What happened? he mouthed.

Freya shook her head immediately. Not now. Not here. That just made Mimir more nervous than before. He couldn’t tell if she wasn’t going to tell him at all or if it just too complicated to explain with Odin still in the room. He wasn’t especially keen on either. While he knew that he wasn’t entitled to know about their martial issues, it did make him feel a bit better to know what was happening with Odin.

"Glad to see you back, Hávi," Mimir said politely. He would have asked about Týr, but something in Odin's gaze stopped him. The Allfather's one good eye lingered over Mimir's eyes—not making eye contact, Mimir realized, but looking at the eyes themselves. The Bifrost crystals the giants had gifted him.

Something he had in common with Týr.

"Anything you need from me?" Mimir said instead, ever the picture of a polite and helpful advisor.

Odin stared him down for a long moment. It was a favorite tactic of his, one Mimir was used to most of the time, but today he had to clasp his hands behind his back to keep from anxiously fidgeting. "Thor may require your assistance later," Odin said finally. "I will let you know."

"Of course, my lord."

Ugh, not Thor. He was arguably more agreeable than his father, less paranoid at the very least, but he was loud, brash, a proper pain to keep in check. Mimir really hoped that it wouldn't be necessary, especially not when he had other things on his mind.

Something was wrong. He couldn't say for sure and there was no way to confirm his suspicions by asking Freya, not while Odin was still in the room. But his gut feelings were rarely wrong. And the look on Odin's face…

I have to get to the bottom of this.

Mimir spent the next few hours checking every place in Asgard where Týr usually spent his time. They were all abandoned. Not only that, but anywhere Týr might keep personal items was eerily empty. Looked like they had been for some time, in a few instances. It was as if the war god had cleared everything important out before he started spending time on Midgard. But...why? To what end? And how had Mimir missed this?

He was considering making a trip to Midgard when he was intercepted. "There you are," said Thor. He looked...honestly, terrible. It wasn't uncommon for the thunder god to look like he'd just been in a fight, but whatever he'd gone up against today looked like it had managed to hold its own for a while. "I need you for something."

Damn it. "Always happy to help, of course," Mimir said, even though it was a lie. “What are we doing?”

“Going to Midgard.” Thor turned and started walking away. Mimir had to jog to catch up; the god of thunder had a very long stride. “We’ll have to go by another way, so keep up.”

Another way? Was something wrong with Týr’s temple? Mimir almost asked, but bit his tongue. It seemed that Týr was still a sensitive topic. He wasn’t sure he wanted to put his foot in that without having a good idea of what was going on.

There were, at least, other ways to get between realms if you had the right materials. A bifrost, the right travel stone, a quick jaunt between realms, and they were on their way. Thor stayed silent, aside from the occasional quiet curse as his injuries bothered him. “Everything all right?” Mimir asked warily.

“Don’t worry about it,” Thor grunted. “You’ll see soon anyway.”

That just made Mimir even more nervous.

It wasn’t long before they were through a travel gate and into Midgard. Mimir wasn’t sure where they were, but he could tell something was wrong. The air was heavy, distressed, and there were barely any enemies around. Thor kept walking forward. “You’ll like this,” he said.

Mimir had a feeling he wouldn’t, but he followed anyway.

Eventually they broke free of the trees, and to a cliff overlooking the Lake of the Nine. Týr’s temple was…

Mimir felt suddenly nauseous at the sight. The temple had been destroyed. He could see the column of smoke, even from there. Mimir turned to Thor, his eyes wide. “What…? What happened to Týr?”

Thor grinned, toothy and full of malice. “Check the bag.”

“…wh-what…”

“Check the bag.”

It wasn’t a request anymore. Mimir’s hands trembled as he opened the bag. It took him a moment to realize what the contents were.

A hand. Severed about halfway up the wrist. A hand that he didn’t recognize, until he saw a very familiar ring.

Mimir yelped and dropped the bag. Thor laughed, loud and boisterous, as if it were all just some ludicrous prank, and not…

No, no, they wouldn’t have, they wouldn’t have.

“I’d be careful who I spent time with if I were you,” Thor said, some laughter still in his voice. He slapped Mimir on the shoulder and kept walking. “C’mon. Let’s go.”

They left the hand hanging from the last remaining travel gate to Jotunheim. Mimir’s own hands were still shaking when they arrived back in Asgard. He didn’t ask Freya directly when he arrived; one look was all he needed. She saw the thinly-veiled panic and disbelief in his eyes, and responded to it with a somber look.

Týr wasn’t coming back.

And suddenly, Mimir felt very, very alone.

[screechthewriter]

it must be so lonely knowing what you know | a god of war fanfic

part one of seven:

"Ah, hello, sorry to bother everyone, Odin just wanted me to check in on-"

"GET OUT!"

Mimir had never fled a room faster in his life.

He hadn't actually wanted to run this particular errand. It went against two hard learned lessons from his time as an advisor. First: always know when the person you're advising is in a mood. Melancholy, raging, sometimes even an excessively good mood: any of those could get you into trouble. If it seemed like they were in a mood, it was probably a good idea to keep your distance.

Second: pregnant women were very prone to moods.

Not that he was judging, of course; it seemed like the miracle of life was a very taxing process, and Freya had a lot more going on besides. But even if he could sympathize, he was not about to take the risk that one of those moods might end badly for him. He'd avoided her as much as possible during the pregnancy, and certainly would've stayed away from her birthing room if the decision was up to him.

But it wasn't up to him. It was up to Odin, and Odin had wanted an update on whether his new child was here or not. So, Mimir had put aside his misgivings and went to check. 

And that was the thanks he'd gotten. Wonderful.

Even that brief glimpse told him the child wasn't there. He could've reported back, but a half-hearted, Didn't seem like the babe is here yet, my lord would probably earn him another shout, and maybe something thrown at him. So, instead, he sat down in the hallway outside. Couldn't hurt to wait here for a bit...just relax for a moment...as much as one can relax with a woman giving birth nearby…

Sad to say, but it was better than being around Odin.

He was only sitting for a few moments before the sound of footsteps drove him to his feet again. It was, at least, only Sif, trying to drag a fussing Thrúd behind her. "How is she?" Sif asked.

"Wasn't in the room long enough to say for sure, my lady," Mimir said with a slight nod of his head. He liked Sif well enough, better than her husband for sure, but she'd been a bit moody herself lately. (Probably had something to do with that giantess Thor insisted on seeing, not that Mimir knew anything about that, he minded his own damn business when it came to that, thank you very much.) It couldn't hurt to tread carefully. "They might be more receptive to you entering."

Sif nodded, examined the door, and gently nudged her daughter towards Mimir. "Watch her for a moment, would you?"

"Er…"

Too late. Sif was through the door. Thrúd immediately plopped onto the ground next to Mimir and stared up at him with a sullen expression. "...looking forward to having a new uncle?" Mimir asked.

"No," said Thrúd flatly.

Mimir laughed and sat down next to her. "Well, at least you're honest." He could understand why; poor Thrúd was the youngest in Asgard currently, used to all the attention that came with that. A new baby, especially a son of Odin, risked taking that away. "It won't be so bad. I mean, they don't really do much when they're first born, but you'll have a playmate once he's big enough. Or maybe she?"

Thrúd shook her head. "Mama says a boy."

"That right?"

"Uh-huh. The runes said so."

Ah. That explained why Odin had been so attentive lately. "Well, if the runes say so."

Now Mimir was wondering how succession was going to work, should Odin's attempts at living forever fail. Freya being his current wife might give the little man better claim, but Thor and Týr were there first. Mimir knew who he would prefer, but there were so many variables. Thor wasn't the leader type, but he was the power type...which one of them was older? He didn't know. They were both fully grown by the time he'd entered the picture, mothers long dead. Definitely not something he could find out easily, not without looking suspicious. Excuse me, High One, I was just wondering which of your now three sons would be taking over in the event that you died? Just idle curiosity and absolutely not any kind of plot, I promise…

Nah. Odin wouldn't believe that for a second.

Speaking of, though…

"Afi!" Thrúd shrieked as she scrambled to her feet.

Here we go, Mimir thought grimly as he stood again. 

Seemed Odin was in a good mood today, or at least he was when it came to family. He scooped up Thrúd in his arms and beamed at her. Mimir still braced himself; he might have been a loyal advisor and reasonably trusted member of Odin's council, but he wasn't blood. And, sure enough, when Odin turned his attention away from Thrúd and to Mimir, the harsher spark in his eyes was unmistakable. "Any news?" Odin asked.

"She was still, ah...laboring when I saw her," Mimir said. Not a lie, but it left out the bit where he hadn't seen much. "Sif's just gone in, though."

Odin grunted and glanced at the door. He wasn't allowed in; Freya had said something about old Vanir practices and no men allowed, though Mimir wasn't sure how true that was. Not that he was going to call her out on it if it was a lie. He wouldn't want Odin in there, either. “I don’t recall Thor taking this long,” Odin added under his breath, as if that were somehow Freya’s fault.

“Perhaps not, but little Thrúd certainly took her time. Didn’t you, lass?” Thrúd shrugged and leaned against her grandfather’s shoulder. “I’m sure everything is fine.”

Odin didn’t look like he believed it. “Maybe you should check again,” he said.

That wasn’t a question.

“…right. Er.”

Mimir would’ve leaned inside, but he didn’t want to risk Odin peering over his shoulder. So this time, he actually stepped inside, closing the door behind him and bracing himself for more yelling.

No one even noticed him.

Sif was holding Freya as the Vanir goddess wept quietly. For a horrible, horrible second, Mimir thought that something had gone wrong. But the midwife seemed unbothered, still tending to Freya as if this were completely normal. As Mimir listened, he overheard one name.

Freyr.

Family that should’ve been there.

When was the last time she’d even seen her brother?

Mimir swallowed past a sudden lump in his throat and carefully, quietly backed out of the room. “Baby’s still not here, my lord,” he said. He should have been more worried—the Allfather would certainly want to know why Mimir hadn’t been in the room that long. But that didn’t seem important now. Saying anything else felt like an invasion of Freya’s privacy. "Everything's proceeding normally, though. I think."

Odin looked annoyed, but left it alone. It was probably the best outcome Mimir could've hoped for, so he counted himself lucky.

He just hoped some of that luck made its way to Freya. She was strong, to be sure, associated with fertility among the Vanir, but childbirth was a tricky thing. Sif had been bedridden for a long time after Thrúd. Mortals died from it all the time.

Once upon a time, when he served a different court, he might have been able to offer her some charm or trinket for luck. Now, Odin would surely take such a gesture as hostile, somehow, and he doubted Freya would take it. So all Mimir could do was wait in the hallway and hope—not just that Freya's body survived the experience, but that her mind did as well.

Strong heart, my lady.

Mimir kept his post there, on Odin's orders. People came and went--Thor stopped by at one point, then Týr (a much more welcome guest). Sif left the room and returned a few times. Even Eir showed up, though Mimir was a bit surprised to see her there. The Valkyries didn't spend much time in the halls of Asgard these days, despite Freya's presence. (He had a feeling Odin had something to do with that, too, though he could never confirm it.)

It seemed like her arrival was a good omen. Not too long after, Mimir was jarred from near sleep by a loud, indignant wail.

Oh, thank goodness.

He was still nervous when he opened the door, unsure of what state Freya would be in. He wasn’t able to get a good look at her at first, surrounded as she was by the other women in the room, but when they finally parted enough for him to get a look, she looked…honestly, near-radiant. Exhausted, to be sure, but seeing her holding the tiny baby to her chest, gently shushing his tears down to a light fussing, looking at him as if he were the only important thing in the world…it was the happiest he’d ever seen her. He felt like proper shit when the sight of him drove some of that happiness from her face. “A boy,” said the midwife dutifully. Eir rested a hand on her queen’s shoulder and squeezed protectively. “I’m sure Odin will…”

He would. He’d want to come in right away. Him and all the rest.

“I can hold him off for a while,” Mimir said, “if that’s what you wish, Freya.”

That defensive look never really left her eyes, but she did, finally relax. “Please do. As long as you can.”

Mimir doubted the one kind gesture was enough to make up for all the trouble he’d gotten her into, but he was still glad he could do something for her.

The best way to hold Odin off was to simply keep him in the dark. He hadn’t come back since his last visit, Thor had left for Midgard at some point, and Týr wouldn’t tell, so all Mimir had to do was stay out of the Allfather’s sight as best he could. He bounced between his usual hiding places and the various side hallways where Odin rarely trod for as long as he could. He was a good judge of how long he could stay away before Odin started actively seeking him out. He could make it work.

That judgment told him after a few hours that, between the lack of news and the fact that Freya was nearing a full day since she’d first gone into labor, Odin would start getting suspicious. Any longer and it could go badly. Still, Mimir stopped by Freya’s room first. No harm in getting their story straight first. “Sorry to bother you, mi’lady, but I don’t think I can keep him away…”

No one yelled at him to leave this time, but Mimir still got the feeling that he’d walked into something he shouldn’t have. Freya was completely alone in the room aside from the little boy in her arms. She was looking down at him, her joy turned to grief. Again, Mimir feared the worst, but the boy was breathing when he ran to Freya’s bedside. Asleep, but alive. So why…?

“What do you want?” Freya asked, her voice rough and harsh, as if she’d been crying.

He caught sight of the rune stones before he could reply, scattered across a tray on her bed. He wasn’t the most proficient at reading runes, but he knew the basics.

And he knew the sign for death when he saw it.

Oh, not good. Even if he couldn’t decipher the rest, from the look on Freya’s face, it was bad. The boy seemed healthy, but that could change in an instant. And even if the death foretold was far off, she was his mother. What mother wanted the first bit of news about their newborn to be how or when they would die? As if Freya’s entire situation weren’t already so unfair.

Your fault. Your idea.

“…I’ll have to tell Odin soon,” he said finally, trying to keep his voice steady. “We can…say the boy needed some extra attention before he could receive guests.”

Freya nodded. “What what about the runes?” she asked, pained, judgmental, suspicious.

He wasn’t hurt by her tone. He deserved that. “I didn’t see anything, m’lady,” Mimir said gently. “And if I had, I wouldn’t have understood it anyway.”

She looked at him from behind a curtain of her hair. That radiant look was replaced by something dark, haunted, grieving for a moment that hadn’t even come to pass yet. But after a long moment of contemplation, she straightened up, the haunted look slowly turning into her usual guarded expression. Guarded, but…

“Thank you, Mimir.”

…perhaps a bit grateful.

Or maybe he was reading redemption where there was none. That did seem like something he’d do.

“Least I could do.” Mimir bowed slightly. “I’ll go fetch Odin.”

He took one second to take a look at the babe. It was difficult to tell, him being so young and all, but he thought he saw more of Freya in him than Odin. Same hair, at the very least. He seemed like a sweet lad.

Hopefully, that sweetness wouldn’t be burned out of him.

The rune stones were cleared away when he returned with Odin, and when the Allfather spoke of his new son, there was no mention of any kind of death. Keeping secrets from Odin was a dangerous business, but it was a risk Mimir was willing to take.

It really was the least he could do.

[screechthewriter]

Firestorm | a god of war fanfic

part four of four:

By the time Kratos chose a weapon, news of the beast’s locaton had reached the town. It had remained downstream and already attacked a boat. Unfortunate for the boat, but fortunate for Kratos. Now he knew how far he had to travel. They did not go by boat, to avoid the beast’s clutches; instead someone offered him a cart. He insisted that they turn around and leave the second he had departed. He could have had them stop further back and walked the remaining distance, but he wanted to save his strength as long as possible. The heat of the day still beat down on him, even in the relative shade offered by the cart’s canopy. The less time he spent outside, the more strength he would have to fight.

This is foolish, a part of him thought. A mistake.  You should leave, now, find your own way.

But he had already promised the town, and the part of him that still remembered how honor tasted wouldn’t let him run. Besides that, the sting of his remaining leg injury brought some spite to his mind.

Perhaps it was time that beast learned Kratos was not easy prey.

He waited until he cart was a safe distance away before approaching the river. He could see the wreck of the ship nearby. Bodies still dangled from the what remained, bitten in half. Perhaps was meant to be a warning, or perhaps it was saving the other half for later.

It wasn't going to get a later.

Kratos looked around the riverbanks. He wanted to lure it out; while the creature had been swift on land, it had seemed far stronger in the water. At the very least, it could hold its breath longer than he could. He wanted to deny it every possible advantage. Kratos picked up the biggest rock he could find, moved a safe distance away from the river, and hurled it in.

The first rock gained no response. The second, no response. When the water settled after the third rock landed, Kratos noticed bubbles nearby. A brief glimpse of two large nostrils poking up before settling back under the water.

Got you.

Kratos picked up another rock and threw it where the nostrils had emerged. This time, the top of the beast's head broke free of the water. Its eyes fixed on him. He could've sworn it was glaring. Kratos bared his teeth in response. "Come on," he said.

The creature started to sink back into the water. Anger seized him, driving him forward a few steps before his good sense took over. It could have been trying to lure him closer so it could seize him and drag him under. Lure it to you. Do not let it taunt you into something reckless.

Kratos stayed a safe distance away from the river, and started searching for rocks there. The first two were enough to provoke the beast into raising its head again; a third, fourth, fifth brought it closer to the riverbanks, its breath huffing repeatedly. “Remember me?” Kratos growled. He picked up a bigger rock. “I’ll best you this time...” He picked up another rock and threw it. “Come on!”

The rock struck the beast right above its wounded eye. It’s huffing turned into an enraged rumble. It drew itself out of the river, shedding waterfalls off its back as it emerged. It did not immediately charge him this time. Perhaps it remembered the final blow Kratos had given it before he escaped its grasp.

Good, Kratos thought as he drew the curved blades. Your time ends here, beast.

He ran forward.

Having swords was, as it turned out, only a minor improvement over fighting with just his fists. The creature’s back was almost entirely inaccessible, and trying to cut through the rest of its hide was difficult. He was making dents, but not drawing much in the way of blood. The fight quickly turned into a dance—Kratos dodging its head, its feet, every attempt it made to bite or trample him, cutting at any place that seemed to be a weak point. If he could wear it down, chip away at it until it was too weak to resist and cut deep enough to actually hurt it…

Of course, it wasn't so simple. Because the heat of the day was strong, and Kratos's leg still pained him, and there was always the risk that the beast would wear him down before he wore it down. Or that his borrowed weapons, sturdy as they seemed, would grow too dull to do any damage. Or break entirely.

Kratos tried to push those thoughts aside, tried to balance keeping his assault relentless with not wasting too much of his energy. His head throbbed, not just from the heat, but from something else. A wordless scream—the deep howl that he had been suppressing for so many weeks. The taste of blood.

The cry of the predator.

His focus slipped at the thought, allowing the beast to nearly crush him with one massive foot. Kratos was able to dodge out of its way, but in doing so, created an opening for the beast to try and run back for the river. The thought that it might escape, that all his work up until that point would have been for nothing, shattered his discipline. He rushed the beast, his heart hammering in his chest as he ran, weapons grasped in bloodied hands, not caring where he hit so long as he made it bleed…

And, of course, in his haste, he was not mindful.

The next thing Kratos knew, he was flying through the air, his chest aching for different reasons. He hit the ground, slid some distance upon landing, the hard dirt and grit of the earth scraping the skin of his back as he flew. The beast's head must have struck him; there was a cut in his side, not too deep but bleeding, likely from one of the tusks. He did not know where the borrowed swords were.

Fool, fool, you idiot.

Kratos half-expected to see the beast running for the river, but what he saw when he lifted his head was far worse. It had stopped, and was gathering itself for a charge. Of course it was; he was injured, on his back, head spinning, an easy target. If it killed him now, he could never return to torment it again. Kratos looked around for the borrowed swords, but what he saw instead…

Time seemed to stop. The sun went dark, replaced by blue moonlight above him and red fire in front of him. Dirt and sand felt like cold marble, contrasting sharply with the heat of the Blades. The embers in Kratos's gut threatened to consume him.

Would it really be so bad if they did?

It was not Athena who spoke to him this time. A different voice, slick like oil about to burst into flames. The same voice that had told him to kill all those years ago.

Ares.

Think of all we accomplished, Kratos. Think of all you could do.

The power of a god. The awakening of his lineage. All he'd had to do was…

Give into it. Give in as you did then.

A choice made long ago. The first choice. The wrong one. How many times had Kratos looked back and regretted taking the deal? How different might his life had been if he had relied on his own strength instead of turning to the gods for power? Even if he had died that day…would that not have been better?

It is inevitable. You were always meant to be a monster. I only showed you the truth of yourself.

Was it?

Take the Blades, give into his darkness, and he was sure to live. He had bested worse than this beast back in Greece and he knew he could again, if he only gave in. But to become the monster he had been running from all this time…

Yes. That was what he had been running from. The monster he had become. Maybe the monster he always was, but...how could that be? Were his memories of the past tainted by some misguided sense that he could be different, or…?

He heard a scratching sound just past the Blades. By the time Kratos was able to tear his gaze away, the sound had stopped, but the source remained. An image had been carved into the wall, marble collecting in shavings at the floor like wax. The art style was unfamiliar to him; the scene depicted, however, was very familiar.

Soldiers marching. The phalanx. Kratos among them, only distinguishable by the mark on his face. His life as it once was. Honor and discipline. Had it been fate that made him throw it all away, or his own pride and vanity?

Could he ever go back to that man?

The ground underneath him trembled. Oh, Kratos thought, his mind still spinning from fatigue, guilt, longing. That's right. I'm hunting.

Just like the boar. Just like the old days.

Something bumped against the back of Kratos's head as he pushed himself up. The spear was still strapped to his back. He had brought it along as a backup, not really intending to use it after last time, but between the spear and the Blades…

You know what you have to do, Kratos.

"You're right," Kratos breathed. His hand grasped the spear tightly. "I do."

He turned around.

The heat at his back was almost overwhelming, and the sight in front of him equally so. The beast was charging him. There wouldn't be much time to get out of the way. He stood on the knife's edge of life and death, with no guarantee of either. Just as it was before fate and the gods and his hubris had wrapped themselves around his throat.

He had almost forgotten what that felt like.

You'll die, whispered the Blades, like everyone that had ever tormented him. Ares. Athena. Zeus. His own stubborn, foolish voice. Don't deny your true nature. Don't be a fool.

"I'm twice the fool," he muttered back. He tasted blood. "I've always been."

If this was to be his end, so be it. He was correcting a mistake, doing what he should have done all those years ago: dying on his feet, with his spear in his hands. There was no one to bring him home on his shield, but he deserved that. His last punishment for his crimes.

He just hoped it was permanent this time.

The sounds echoing in his skull became clearer—no longer a deep scream, but the clattering of spears against shields. The voices of his old comrades.

The great call to glory.

Kratos’s eyes focused on the beast, a fierce, borderline mad smile appearing on his face. As his eyes scanned its body, searching for the next place to attack...

There.

The beast was bleeding, somewhere on its chest. He had worn it down. Kratos gripped the spear more tightly and braced himself. This time, he would not lose his grip.

The beast roared at him. Kratos screamed back as he charged, dodging low to better access the weak spot. He drove the spear up and through with every piece of strength in him, his determination fueling him as strongly as his unbridled rage had.

The spear sunk deep. The beast roared again, this time a high-pitched sound of pain. Kratos barely dodged its legs as it stumbled away, still keening in pain. Its momentum pulled the spear free, allowing the beast to bleed more freely. It was badly hurt, that much was clear, but...

 I have to finish this. Even an injured animal could still attack. And that aside...

Finish what you started. Kratos remembered the gruff voice of some older Spartan, his identity lost to time, but his words still clear. You think it’s suffering now? It will suffer more if you let it die slowly.

The creature had stopped nearby. It had already lost a great deal of blood. Its breath came in harsh huffs as it tried to struggle back to its feet.

Finish what you started.

Kratos approached the beast carefully. It didn’t have the strength to fight him; it wasted those last remnants on a single fruitless bite, one that caught the air a few feet in front of Kratos but did nothing to harm him. He could have let it bleed, but...

No. It had been a considerable foe. He owed it this much, at least.

The beast did not fight back as he twisted its neck. Kratos was grateful for that. This final blow took most of his remaining strength. When the deed was done—when he was sure that the beast was no longer breathing—he sank into the sand, his own breath coming in harsh bursts.

Is it really over?

The beast was not rising up to bite him in half, so it must have been. Kratos was even able to lean against its corpse with impunity.

He still tasted blood, of course, and his injuries still pained him, but it was nothing like the maddening sensations of before. The sun beat down directly on him, but its heat was not overwhelming. The Blades seemed smaller than before, burning less brightly. Almost...frustrated.

It seems I have won more than one battle.

The god of war leaned back against his quarry and laughed.

It had been a long time since he had any cause to do that.

.

The people of the town were grateful enough that Kratos was able to renegotiate his payment without complaint. Hide that thick would make for good armor, and he'd need it if trouble was going to keep finding him. It meant a slight delay, but that gave his side time to heal.

It also gave the Blades enough time to find him again.

Kratos was almost surprised by how frustrated he was—first with the Blades, then with himself. He had slipped. Allowed himself to become complacent. Thought that because he was able to resist their call once, it was over for good.

No. As he suspected, as he feared, this would go on much longer. Perhaps it was his punishment. A punishment he deserved. A harsh reminder of what he was and could be.

And what happens when I cannot resist?

"You seem very troubled for someone who's gotten what he wanted."

For once, Kratos was almost grateful for the old man's presence. It was a welcome distraction, if nothing else. "Not everything," Kratos said. The fact that he was leaving soon let Kratos be honest—if not fully honest, than at least partially. "Do you truly believe a man can change his nature?"

“It depends on what you mean by changing one’s nature. I’ve found that people do not always have the clearest perception of who or what they are. Especially when they are dogged by...” He paused and shook his head. “Ah, but I do not want to make assumptions.”

Kratos knew what that meant: he had something on his mind, but was choosing to hold his tongue so Kratos would be curious. Irritatingly, it worked. “Go on. Speak your mind.”

The old man’s eyes met Kratos. He expected to see a slight bit of triumph at having caught Kratos’s attention. Instead there was...sympathy, almost. “Sorrow,” said the old man, “seems to haunt your steps along with those blades.”

Kratos wasn’t sure how to respond, not at first. The use of his voice finally returned to him: “What makes you say that?”

“Call it a hunch. As I said, I am good at conflict resolution, and that often involves knowing why the conflict began in the first place. For you, I think, it is sorrow. And guilt” He gently tapped his stylus against the top of his tablet, considering his next words. “Those emotions...they can cloud your judgment. Cloud your perception of the world, as the ripples of water distort a reflection. What is it that you fear, Spartan?”

I fear nothing.

Kratos wished he could say those words, but they wouldn’t be true. He looked away, staring down at his hands, despite himself. Sometimes it felt like there was still blood underneath his fingernails. The blood of so many.

“Do you believe that your past will continue to repeat itself?” the old man asked. “Cause that sorrow to enter your life again, or give you nothing that could ease its sting? You called yourself a cursed man.”

“Because I am.”

“But will you always stay that way?”

Kratos laughed quietly, bitterly. “The path behind me says I will.”

“But what does the path ahead say?” The man’s tapping resumed. “From where I am sitting, either you are still bound by fate, in which case your fate may be different than what you realized, or you are not bound by fate, in which case you can change who you are now. Who you will be. Either way...”

“I will not know if I am trapped in the past,” Kratos finished with a quiet sigh. He could already tell that was what the old man was going to say. “That is difficult when my past will not stop following me.”

“That I can understand.” The old man glanced at the Blades. “You may have to live with them. I do not think there is anyone who can free you from them entirely. But, then again, I am not familiar with such matters. I do think...” He looked again, this time more carefully. “They do not seem to be controlling you in any way. That leaves much power in your hands, does it not?”

“...perhaps.”

It seemed far too hopeful a thought for Kratos. And yet it lingered.

The old fool did have a talent for that.

“Perhaps if you considered them a reminder rather than a punishment,” suggested the old man. “Looking ahead is important, but...it does not hurt to have a small reminder or two.”

“Perhaps.” Kratos was silent for a long while. When he did speak, even he was surprised by his words. They were honest, but...

“I suppose I owe you thanks.”

...not something he was in the habit of saying these days.

“I suppose you do,” replied the old man with a smile.

That was all he would be getting from Kratos, but the old man did not seem to mind.

.

The shield was not like the ones he remembered from Sparta—made of hide and not metal, not quite the same size. But it was close—round and solid against his back.

He had been without one for too long.

The Blades were buried back under sand and stone. They would find him again, Kratos was sure. But perhaps he could get a head start. The boat certainly seemed to be faster than going by foot had been.

“We were going to go north,” said one of the crewmen. He was, as it turned out, the only other man in the village who spoke Greek. Heavily accented and slightly broken, yes, but still Greek. “But if there was somewhere to the south you wanted to go...?”

Kratos had been weighing the pros and cons for the past few days. Going north meant risking Greece, or what was left of it. But south was just more deserts, more heat.

He’d had more than enough of the heat.

“North is fine,” Kratos said.

He would keep going north. He could go east from there. Give the ruins of his home a wide berth. Kratos did not know what awaited him there, but...whatever it was, perhaps he would be able to face it. Maybe the old man was right.

Maybe things could be different.

One of the water birds gave a soft, croaking cry. If Kratos didn’t know any better, he’d swear the white-feathered creature was watching him with blue eyes, its curved beak tracking his movement. Almost as if it were bidding him farewell from this place.

Kratos turned away and kept his gaze fixed on the horizon. On an uncertain future, but perhaps one he had some control of, if he only had the strength to control himself. He’d had that strength once. He would do what it took to find it again. For himself. For those around him, so he would never know the blood of innocents again.

Kratos might still live, but the Ghost of Sparta would stay dead—buried along with the Blades, no matter how many times and how many places he had to do it. He would see to it himself.

[screechthewriter]

Firestorm | a god of war fanfic

part three of four:

When Kratos arrived in town, he was greeted by more stares. They seemed genuinely surprised to see him alive. He ignored them, limping past and back to the old man’s house.

The Blades would return, he knew. When they did, he would bury them, recover, and move on. The plan had not changed. He would simply avoid going upriver.

Or perhaps downriver, if the beast was moving that way.

Maybe it would be better if I stayed away from the river entirely.

He was checking the injury again when the old man returned. There was someone else with him—a man who was only just starting to go grey. He seemed wary about being in the same space as Kratos. Kratos had planned to ignore him, assuming that he was some guest of the old man’s, but...

“My friend here was hoping to have a word with you,” the old man said.

“No,” Kratos said immediately.

“You haven’t even heard what he wants to say.”

Kratos glared at the old man. “Answer me this: has anyone survived that beast before?”

“You would be the first to engage it in direct combat and live.”

“Then I know what he wants. He views me as their best chance of defeating the beast and wants my help. The answer is no. I have other matters to attend to.”

The old man hummed quietly, then turned back to the visiting man. They had a brief conversation; the meaning of their words was lost to Kratos, but the conversation went on far too long for Kratos’s liking. Eventually, the old man spoke again. “Have you determined how you will be navigating the river?”

“I will not be navigating the river.”

“If you defeat the monster, there are those in this town willing to take you anywhere you wish to go. Free food and passage." The old man tilted his head slightly. "I can promise you, whatever you're running from, you'll outrun it faster on water than by foot."

Kratos stood, so suddenly that he should have collapsed from either pain or a rush of lightheadedness. The thing that kept him moving was his rage, a sudden stab of it coursing through his body at the old man’s words. "What concern is it of yours what I am running from?!" he snarled.

The visiting man cowered. He may not have known Kratos, known what he was exactly, but from the look in his eyes, he knew exactly what he was looking at. Something powerful. Something monstrous.

The old man, though…

Next thing Kratos knew, there was a wooden staff pressing against his chest, right over his heart. The old man stood much closer, blue eyes calm on the surface, with something...different underneath. Not fear, not anger...authority. He spoke first to the visitor, causing the other man to flee. Then…

"I will not be spoken to with that tone in my own home," he said calmly. His tone held the same authority of his eyes, calm and unconcerned. Kratos recognized it from his days in the agōgē. The teachers he feared and respected most were always the calm ones. The men who did not need to raise their voices to make their positions clear.

He might have hated hearing that tone here and now, from some mortal old fool he barely knew. But despite himself—despite all his other urges to the contrary—he could not bring himself to speak. Hear what he has to say, whispered some buried part of him, the young footsoldier of long ago. Just listen.

"You're right, Greek. It is none of my concern what you are running from. At the end of the day, I will continue on as I have regardless of whether you live or kill yourself. But…" His eyes examined Kratos's face. "...why is it so difficult for you to believe that I am simply being altruistic? Has there really been no one who has helped you with no hope of reward?"

Lysandra. Atreus. Orkos, to a degree. All dead. Kratos's mouth felt dry at the memories of them. Two gone by his hand, one lost to cruel fate. He could not even speak their names aloud.

"It is, of course, your choice. I cannot force you. Only remind you that you are in an unfamiliar land and could do with making some allies." The old man finally stepped back. "And ask yourself what you're really running from while you’re at it."

The old man's gaze slid from Kratos to a corner behind him. Kratos did not have to ask. He knew from the throbbing pain in his leg, the sense of foreboding gripping at his skull.

The Blades were back.

Kratos walked over to them, picking one up. It fit perfectly in his hand, comfortably, as if the hilt had molded to his hand. A vision flashed before his eyes: walking back to the river, driving the blade into the beast's skull, slashing its gut and letting the entrails spill out.

The blood…

Lysandra's blood, Calliope's blood, so much blood. He could already feel it on his skin, mixing with their ashes. The beast was just a beast, he knew that, but he had not used these weapons since Olympus. Had not fully tasted his rage since he destroyed his home. He buried the Blades like he buried his rage because if he tasted blood again…

Would he stop?

"Your people do not want the help of a cursed man," Kratos said.

He picked up the other blade and walked out the door. The old man did not follow.

It was foolish of him to stay outside, Kratos knew. The heat of the day still made him sick, and his leg would heal faster with rest. But he could not bring himself to go back. He sat in the meager shade of the rocks and stared out over the town, and the river just beyond it.

The river that could bring him either freedom or damnation.

Loathe as he was to admit it, the old man had a point. He had travelled south with no real plan, nothing on his mind except escaping his past. Instead, he was hunted, battered by the environment, and no closer to finding peace. Perhaps running from the Blades, running from himself and his darker urges, was to be his eternal punishment. Perhaps he should learn to accept that. That did not mean he had to bring further hardship on himself. He could find more efficient ways to run. Better ways.

Perhaps this river was one of them.

It is only a beast, Kratos told himself. His hands clenched and unclenched into fists. You have killed many like it before. It is an animal to be hunted. You do not have to…

You won't…

But could he really tell himself that? As much as he wanted to believe it, he didn't know if it was true. It seemed whenever he tasted blood, he couldn't stop. Man or beast, did it matter? Especially when the beast was as strong as this one?

He sat there as the day cooled. Even the lowering heat was not enough to soothe his mind. Eventually, when the chill turned from a comfort and to a nuisance, he returned to the old man’s home. The old man said nothing to him. Only continued scratching away at his tablet.

“...what’s so important that you have to write it down?” Kratos asked, despite himself.

The old man smiled slightly. “A great many things,” he said.

Kratos should not have been so annoyed back a lack of conversation, but something about that smile made him feel mocked. It was possible that was not the old man’s intent, but it was enough to make Kratos go to bed without saying another word.

Or at least, he tried to. Kratos had been sleeping lightly of late, his body rousing him every time there was a potential threat. There had been little to threaten him in this village aside from the beast, but he kept waking up. At the sound of strange birds. At the sound of a dog barking. One time at the sound of a cat that perched in the window and hissed at Kratos when he glared at it. Once, he thought he heard singing, crying...sounds he thought he recognized. But when he stepped outside to listen closer, the language was foreign to him, the tune unfamiliar. The crying baby not…

He stepped back inside and covered his ears until the weeping stopped.

When he slept for the final time that night, he dreamt of Sparta. Not in ruins, not aflame, for once, but whole. He was young again, darker-skinned, his forearms unmarred. Atreus crouched next to him, perpetually adjusting his grip on his spear, as he always did. "Personally, I think this is deeply heroic of us," he whispered. "Not at all stupid."

The boar had been destroying some nearby farmland, and nearly killed at least two helots that they knew of. There had been talk of organizing a hunting party, but when the beast had come too close to Kratos's land for his liking, he decided to take matters into his own hands. His only concession had been letting Atreus come--although he said letting as if he had any choice in the matter. The other Spartan would have come even if Kratos had told him not to. He likely would've had to knock the man unconscious and tie him up to keep him away.

"We'll be the talk of the town. Lysandra knows how to prepare boar, right?"

"There won't be any boar to prepare if you don't stop talking." Kratos elbowed Atreus in the ribs, as gently as he could. "You didn't have to come."

"Don't be stupid, of course I did." That slight grin Atreus wore before battle was as familiar to Kratoas as his own face. "Not that I think a simple boar could take the god of war, but…"

Wait.

No, that wasn't how the day had gone.

Kratos sharply grabbed Atreus's shoulder, half-expecting the illusion to peel away, revealing Athena, Ares, the Furies, Zeus. It was a trick. It had to be. So many had worn the face of his wife to try and appeal to him; using his friend was not out of the question. But there was no flash of light, no shift in the other man's skin; when Atreus looked at Kratos, it was his face, not some mask tearing away to reveal a sharp sneer and malicious eyes. It was just…

"You all right?"

But how? He'd been dead for years.

Then again, the dead did not seem to stay dead. Not in his mind, at least.

"Are we going to kill this thing or not?"

Kratos woke up then, his hand cramping as if he had been grasping a spear too long. Kratos carefully flexed his fingers. The ache faded quickly.

The dream did not.

Kratos tried not to dwell on dreams. They were, at best, mere nonsense, and at worst, a tool for his past to mock him. But this did not feel like a mockery. It felt like...

“You couldn’t have spoken to me sooner?” Kratos growled quietly.

He expected a clever remark from the old man, but it seemed he had already left from the day. It was only once he was sure he was alone that Kratos added, more softly, "You always were a fool."

Atreus did not appear to speak to him as Athena often did, but Kratos knew what his reply would have been. You continue associating with me, αδελφός. I think that makes you at least twice the fool I am.

He wasn't wrong about Kratos being a fool. He was just wrong about the reasons.

The sun was rising. The heat of the day would be intolerable soon. Kratos contemplated his options. Remembered the boar hunt. It had gone smoothly; they had not exactly been hailed as heroes, but people were grateful the beast was finally dispatched. He had not lost himself to anything.

There had been a time when he could fight without the Blades, without his rage overflowing into something monstrous, but he could not remember those days. It had been so long since he had ever thought not to use them. What had happened to him? Had his deal with Ares scarred him so greatly?

Or had he simply grown too used to the power they gave him?

Is there another way?

He wasn't sure. But, as he watched the sunlight outside grow harsher, he started to wonder if it was perhaps worth the risk. He thought of contingencies. If he fought the beast far enough away, if there was no one else around, no other targets to turn his rage on should it consume him…

He could live with himself if it were just the beast. But only if there was compensation.

And only if he did not use the Blades.

As he contemplated this, he heard a familiar voice outside. The old man was speaking to the younger woman. As always, when Kratos left the house and approached them, she glared. Kratos ignored her. "Can they guarantee me passage upriver or downriver?" Kratos asked.

The old man's expression did not change, not even to twitch into a smug smile. All the better; Kratos would have changed his mind out of spite if it had. "They can."

"Hmm." Kratos looked to the other side of town, towards the river, and sighed heavily. "I will need a weapon."

This town was too small for a large armory; Kratos would have to make do with what little they did have. Spears he knew well, and while the curved blades of their swords reminded him too much of the Blades, he knew they would suffice. So long as I do not try to throw them. "If this beast is anything like a regular hippopotamus," said the old man as he watched Kratos select his weapons, "it will be most active at night. Not entirely inactive during the day, as you know…" He glanced down at Kratos's leg. "Are you sure that will not hinder you?"

"It's fine." Even with his fitful sleep, it had healed well enough—not entirely, but enough. He would not let it slow him down. "Are you saying I should seek it out as soon as possible?"

"It's what I would do, for whatever that is worth." The old man was writing again. By now, the scratching sound was familiar to Kratos. "Have you killed something of this size before?"

"Killed bigger." It was a statement of fact, not a boast. "Why have you been helping me?"

The question had been bothering Kratos for some time, but if he was going to ask, now seemed the best time. He was sure the man would claim altruism again, something Kratos wasn't sure he believed, but instead…

"I have a talent for arbitration and you seem like a man in conflict," the old man said. "Sometimes a second set of eyes can make a problem clearer, but...you seem like a man used to doing things on his own."

For better or worse, the old man was right. Even when he still had living friends and family, they had to pester him to accept help. The phalanx only holds if everyone works together, Atreus had told him once. Admit it. You need me.

Of course, they'd been talking about Kratos's courtship of Lysandra at the time, and Kratos had been quick to point that out. In hindsight, the wider sentiment did have merit, just...not in that situation.

Perhaps things would have gone differently if  you'd been there, old friend.

Kratos gritted his teeth, trying to push back thoughts of the past. "I don't think this is a conflict you can help with."

The old man chuckled. "Oh, I wouldn't be too sure about that. You haven't met some of my friends." He scratched one final symbol into his tablet before meeting Kratos's eyes. "If I offer you some advice, will you at least listen?"

"Hmm...fine." He had a feeling the old man would tell him whether or not he wanted to hear it. At least this time, he was asking first.

"I have a feeling that whatever it is you are running from was not always there," said the old man, "that there must have been a time in your life before it. Take that as proof that it will not remain forever. Things may never be as they were, but…" He shrugged. "...the worst of it can pass, if you find a way to make it so."

Kratos did listen. He even considered the words.

He just as quickly pushed them aside, because he did not have time for the thought. He had to focus on other things. On what it would take to kill the beast.

Kratos did not say anything as he left the space, but as he did, he caught sight of the old man smiling slightly. As if he thought he'd somehow scored a victory.

Old fool, Kratos thought.

He tried to ignore the fact that the words had taken root around his heart. Clinging to it. Whispering a lie he'd never been able to make himself believe.

It will not remain forever.

It certainly did not feel that way.

[screechthewriter]

Firestorm | a god of war fanfic

part two of four:

warning: this chapter does contain stronger suicidal ideation/thoughts and a worsening of Kratos's auditory hallucinations.

.

He buried the Blades under rock and sand in a cluster of stones outside of town. It wasn't until he finished the task that Kratos realized there were eyes watching him. The eyes belonged to a boy, dark-eyed and dark haired as the others in the village were. He scrambled away when Kratos glared at him.

Only a child, Kratos told himself. He is only a boy.

Still, Kratos stacked another rock above the Blades' resting place, just to be safe. The boy may have been simply curious, but curiosity could be a dangerous thing.

When Kratos returned to the man’s home, there was another visitor—a young woman with lighter, almost golden eyes compared to the others, her dark hair adorned with a red ribbon, wearing the white robes with a spotted fur shawl. She was speaking to the old man in a language Kratos couldn’t understand. When Kratos re-entered, her eyes fixed on him, narrowing slightly.

He had seen that look before, many times. Open disgust. If he didn’t know better, he’d swear she knew who he was. Perhaps she distrusts all outsiders. A wise decision. The old man rested a hand on the woman’s forearm, speaking to her gently. Not quite the tone of a father to a daughter, but certainly the tone of two people who knew each other very well. Whatever he said, it did little to placate the woman. She glared at Kratos as she left as if her gaze could tear out his throat.

“She won’t be a problem,” said the old man, “if you aren’t a problem.”

“Hmm.”

The words almost felt like a reprimand. Kratos wanted to tell him there was no need. That he would only stay as long as necessary and leave. That he had no intention of doing anything but recovering his strength. But he owed the man no explanation, so instead Kratos sat back down in his corner of the small house, eyes closed, breathing carefully. Hopefully soon, the heat would stop feeling so suffocating. As it was, even the brief time he’d spent outside made him feel like he was being cooked.

You need to be more careful when you leave, he thought. You cannot afford this kind of weakness again.

Then, I should have gone north. Perhaps the cold would have been more tolerable.

The next three days were spent in much that way—resting, slowly and carefully consuming food and water, a little bit more each time. The old man let him stay, but they rarely spoke. He seemed to come and go without real reason. His...daughter? Some other family member? Regardless, she never came back into the house, not while Kratos was there. He saw her watching from outside a few times, still glaring at him.

She reminded him much of the cat he’d encountered outside the town. Same intense stare. Makeup around her eyes that ran down into her face. Not smudged; artful and deliberate. Kratos wondered what a woman like her was doing here. She carried herself with too much dignity to be from a small town like this. She was almost regal. Almost like...

The thought made his stomach twist. Kratos tried not to look at her for too long after that.

He was starting to feel better by the fourth day, well enough to visit the nearby river. It was large and deep, running past with a steady certainty. He dipped his hand in the water, feeling the current swirl past his fingertips. There would be benefits to following the river—source of water, source of food, an actual sense of direction. But there would be downsides, too. In a place like this, water meant civilization, and he was only staying among these people out of necessity. He also had no idea where it led. It seemed to flow from the north, probably from the same ocean he’d crossed to get to this place. He didn’t want to go back that way. But what else was there to the south?

The sound of muffled whispers drew him from his thoughts. Kratos turned slowly, just in time to see small heads dropping back behind some nearby plant life. Children, from the look of it. He thought one of them was the boy that had watched him bury the blades.

Just curious boys.

Kratos turned back to the water. “I don’t want to be followed,” he called out. They wouldn’t understand his tongue—only the old man seemed to speak Greek—but he was sure they would know he was speaking to them. “You should move on.”

He heard the frantic racing of some footsteps. When he glanced over his shoulder again, only one boy remained. Definitely the one who had watched him bury the blades. The boy stared openly now, a bit of fear in his eyes, fear overridden by stubborn curiosity.

Kratos could almost admire that. Almost.

“Go on,” he said, standing and making a dismissive gesture. “Leave me.”

The boy’s head tilted, a frown slowly appearing on his face. Kratos took a step closer, hoping to intimidate the boy. He thought for a second it had worked—the boy’s eyes suddenly went wide, his mouth dropping open in shock. But when the boy pointed, yelled something...

He’s not looking at me.

Kratos wheeled around. Something was displacing the water. Something large. Kratos had not seen a beast of that size since leaving Greece. Its grey head was armored with thick plates, and sharp tusks jutted from its lower jaw. As it emerged from the water, its eyes fixed on them, small ears flicking themselves to dry.

Will it attack? He did not know. Kratos kept his gaze locked on the creature, ready to move if it did, but not willing to make the first attack. Not until he knew what it was, how it fought. He could best it if he knew those things, but until then...

No. It was better to wait.

It was difficult to tell if there was any intelligence behind its eyes. They were dark, with rectangular pupils, like a goat. It snorted clouds of mist as it stared at him. Perhaps sizing him up as a threat. Perhaps sizing him up as a meal.

Don’t.

The creature could not hear his thoughts, or if it did, it didn’t listen. It moved with surprising speed out of the water, towards the river bank. Kratos heard a startled cry and the rapid footsteps of the boy fleeing.

Good. Kratos did not have time to worry about him. He clenched his hands into fists as the creature emerged from the water and rushed towards him, a low bellow resounding from its chest.

Come on, then!

His first blow did not slow the beast for long. A second was able to push it back towards the water, but again, it recovered quickly. Kratos dodged its first attempt to sink its teeth into him; the rush of air that came forth from its mouth smelled of meat and rot. A wave of dizziness swept over him, but not from the smell. From the heat.

Don't go near the mouth.

He tried to stay to the beast's sides, striking anywhere that could be a weak point--neck, stomach, back. Each hit landed, but from the toughness of its hide under his fists, Kratos could tell he was only bruising it at best. If he could climb it, perhaps, try for the neck…

Somewhere behind the beast's panting, he heard raised voices. Some of the men from the village had arrived. Many were already turning around to flee again, but a few remained, drawing weapons. Fools… Kratos growled in frustration, as much at them as at the beast. Get out of the way.

No matter. They could stay if they wished, die if they were so inclined. Perhaps their presence would be distraction enough for him to get the upper hand.

As he predicted, the beast was drawn away from him as the first spears were thrown. Most bounced off the creature’s hide; one even landed near Kratos. He seized it and lunged for the creature, jumping up onto its back.

The rest of it was armored. The eyes, though...

He drove the spear in deep. The creature bellowed in pain, throwing its head back. Kratos held on as best he could, trying to push the spear further. However, as the handle shortened and grew slick with blood, his grip grew more tenuous. That was the gamble: could he kill the creature before it dislodged him? He thought he could.

He quickly realized he was wrong.

The creature’s next attempt at dislodging him was successful. He might have been able to recover, had the force of the throw not sent him flying into the river. He hit the water hard enough to knock the air from him, and sank deep enough that, for a moment, he wasn’t sure which way was up. He was almost situated when the water around him was displaced, churning with the movement of something much larger.

Damn it, damn it...

The creature’s teeth latched around his leg, digging in deep, dragging him further down into the water. Kratos struggled against its grip, driving his free foot against its snout. The water around him was swirling with blood, his and the beast’s, mixing together into a red-black swirl, suffocating the light above him.

Or perhaps that was him losing consciousness.

Just give in. For a moment, Kratos thought he felt hands on his cheeks. Don’t struggle. You’ll only prolong the inevitable, Spartan.

He froze.

This is what you wanted, isn’t it? Peace? The chance to rest? It’s right here. Just let go...

No.

Stop fighting, Kratos.

No, not like this.

He kept kicking. The blows, rather than weakening as his body cried out for air, grew stronger with his frustration. Frustration that turned to anger. To fury.

Kratos screamed his last breath into the water, and brought his foot down with all the strength in him.

He felt something shatter under the blow. The creature released him, perhaps finally deciding that he was not worth the effort. Kratos swam for the surface. It was only the force of his rage that got him there; the second his head was clear of the water, the second his rage turned to confusion as he realized he had no idea where he was, the full weight of the encounter settled into his body. His leg was numb, his chest burned, his heart raced.

Seems you want to live after all, Spartan. How very curious.

He might have snarled, had his head not suddenly slipped back underwater. The current would take him if his injury did not. It might even take him closer to the beast again.

I have to get out.

It took some effort, but eventually he was back on the shore, coughing up the water that had managed to slip into his lungs. His leg was deeply cut—survivable, certainly, but painful. The burning in his chest would subside the longer he was free...he might be sore from the impact of the river, but he'd had worse. It was, comparatively, less terrible than being stabbed in the chest.

Twice.

The air grew hot as Kratos stood, worsening his headache and making the taste of blood in his mouth sharper. He thought, perhaps, it was his previous weakness returning, worsened by the pain of his wound, but as he stepped forward...

There were the Blades.

Kratos froze. The blood dripping down from his leg felt like lava. As he stared at the weapons, he could feel hands on his shoulders, voices taunting him in his ear. Athena. Ares. Zeus.

The Ghost of Sparta falls to some common beast. You knew what you had to do, but you were too much a coward to do it. Coward. Weak.

Kratos left the Blades and started walking. The voices followed. The heat lingered on his back.

You think you can outrun what you are? Become something else? You know you are nothing without it. Pathetic. Pathetic. You cannot escape, this, you cannot...

 “The others thought you dead,” called a voice.

The old man was there, his tablet tucked under one arm, a bundle of fabric in the opposite hand. “Then what are you doing here?” Kratos asked, his surprise at seeing the man somewhat banishing the heat at his back.

“I thought otherwise. You’ve been nothing but surprises so far.” The old man tossed him the bundle. “There was nothing to suggest this would be any different.”

Kratos barely caught it. He had to sit again to start bandaging the wound. “What do you know of that creature?” he asked.

“It bears resemblance to the hippopotamus,” the old man said, “though it is a great deal larger.”

“I have never had reason to fight a hippopotamus,” Kratos grumbled as he finished binding the wound. “Why is it here? Has some god sent it?”

“I don’t believe so. It is more likely that the beast claimed this place as its hunting ground.” The man surveyed the river with a calm eye, pulled out his tablet, and began etching into it again. “Very inconvenient for us.”

“Very inconvenient for you,” Kratos corrected. If all went well and he kept his head down, he would not be staying long enough for the beast to affect him. Kratos stood carefully; putting weight on the leg ached, but he would last the walk back. “Did you know of this creature?”

“There were whispers of boats having difficulty making their way upriver. I had other matters occupying my time, and did not investigate further. I am starting to think I should.” He tapped the stylus against the top of his tablet, nodded thoughtfully, then began walking away.

Kratos followed, despite himself.

The voices returned as he walked, becoming more disjointed with every step.

Why didn't you give in? You knew what you had to do. You could have killed it from the start.

Fool. Monster. You let it get to you. Clouded mind, clouded judgment, just like when you killed-

You're weak, Kratos.

Why do you keep running? I thought this was what you wanted.

It is what you wanted, isn't it? To be strong?

You wanted to die, didn't you? Then why not just let it happen?

What's wrong with you?

Monster, monster, monster, coward…

He stumbled, his injured leg driving him to one knee. Kratos pressed a hand against his forehead, his breath coming in shuddering bursts. It was so hot, he felt for sure he was on fire. The chain marks on his arms stung and screamed.

Go back. Pick them up. There is nowhere you can hide, Spartan.

"Stop," he whispered.

You cannot change. You know this. You will always be…

A few drops of water struck his forehead.

The sky was still clear when Kratos looked up. The water instead came from a slight trickle that had escaped from a water skin. The old man was offering it to him. "The heat can confuse the mind," he said quietly. "Gather your strength. You will feel better once you are inside."

As Kratos drank, the old man stood nearby. He was smaller, compared to Kratos, but his shadow still managed to block some of the harsh sun. A part of Kratos wanted to shun the kindness, to peel it away and see what deception lay underneath.

But the voices were quiet. His wounds no longer burned. It was respite he needed, even if he didn't deserve it. So, Kratos said nothing. Only drank, stood, and continued walking. This time, the man followed him.

Before they entered town, when Kratos glanced over his shoulder, he saw the man had stopped a few paces back. He looked out over the desert behind him, as if he could see something Kratos could not. Before Kratos could call to him, ask if he saw the beast again, the old man wrote something down and continued walking, as if nothing strange had happened.

I don't want to know, Kratos decided, and discarded any questions he may have had.

[screechthewriter]

Firestorm | a god of war fanfic

part one of four:

The animal had not come closer, but Kratos kept his eyes fixed on it.

It was not a lion; he may have been unfamiliar with the animals of this strange land, but he knew what a lion looked like. This was smaller, slimmer, spotted. Its rounded ears twitched slightly as it stared him down. Black streaks ran from the corner of its eyes down into the muzzle, like tear tracks. A beast perpetually in mourning.

They had that in common, he supposed.

He stood up from his crouched position, hoping the movement would startle the creature off. It had the claws of a predator, but it was smaller than him, and alone. It likely would not attack if it sensed he was a greater threat. The creature did not flee, or move in any way. It only continued to stare.

"...what?" Kratos said aloud, some irritation creeping into his voice.

The creature responded with a slight chirp. It was a strangely soft sound from a beast of its size, more like the small cats of his home than a large predator. Its tail swished as it finally turned its back on him. It loped away gracefully, almost carelessly. As if it had never considered him a threat at all.

Kratos huffed in laughter. He must have been further from Greece than he'd realized to have that reception. It was a strange relief not to be recognized. Even if it was only by an animal.

Even if everything else was still…

The intense heat on his back had returned. He had to keep moving.

A part of him wondered if the encounter had been a hallucination. He had not slept in some time; hadn't eaten or found water in almost as long. It was only his godhood that kept him moving. Godhood and fear. Fear of what lay behind him. Of what stalked him through this place.

Guilt. Greece. The corpses of an entire pantheon and countless innocents. Your fault. Your fault.

He shook his head. Keep walking, Spartan.

It was difficult to tell how much ground he had covered, if any. The landscape looked the same to him: sparse grass and rocks, stretches of sand, stretches of nothingness. Where had that strange, large cat come from? There was nothing here for it. It looked far too healthy to have been in this place for long. Perhaps I should have killed it, he thought, for the meat. Its fur, short as it was, would have been welcome as well. While the days were hot, the nights were colder than he'd expected, and he had little to keep him warm. Perhaps if he stopped, if he saw living humans…

His skin crawled at the thought. No. He would make do. Keep an eye out for another beast, make his move then. Even with his distance from Greece and lack of sustenance, he had strength enough to overpower an animal.

There was no need to put anyone else in danger.

.

If he lingered too long, the Blades returned.

If he stopped to rest, to eat, to sleep, the Blades returned.

No matter how far he sailed, how far he walked, no matter where he left them, the Blades returned. The physical manifestation of his torment. A reminder of why he was here.

Kratos, the God of War, the Ghost of Sparta, the Wandering Monster. Murderer.

It was inescapable. Pointless. But he continued to walk, because the alternative was worse.

He kept moving, because he could not live with what he had done.

.

Time vanished, sometimes.

It happened more and more the longer he was awake. Kratos would traverse large swathes of desert without remembering how he did so. The empty spaces terrified him. More than once he turned back to make sure nothing else had happened--to ensure there were no bodies in his wake, no path of destruction he could not remember starting. He had been lucky so far, finding nothing but his own wandering footsteps. This did not stop him from checking.

He only needed to be unlucky once.

His mind wandered as well, showing him things that were not there, people that should not have been there. The ghosts that haunted him stalked him through the heat: his wife, his child, his father. Athena most of all.

There is nowhere you can hide, Spartan.

Kratos shook his head fiercely and kept walking. His skin felt like it was on fire and his heart pounded in his chest. He had to move. Had to keep going.

What do you think you will find out here? There is nothing for you. There never will be again. You have burned everything.

"Enough," Kratos growled.

You don't really think you can outrun what you are, do you? It doesn't matter where you go or what you do, you will always…

"ENOUGH!"

He turned around to face her, but there was nothing behind him. Just the unending heat and unrelenting emptiness of this place. His stomach twisted inside him, as if trying to claw its way free. His head pounded with the beat of his heart.

How long have I been walking? Where am I?

When Kratos turned around again, he saw a bird.

He thought, for a long moment, that it was another hallucination. There shouldn't have been a bird here, any more than that cat should have been there. But then a new thought seized him: if there was a bird, there may have been water, shade...at the very least, perhaps the creature before him was edible. He approached carefully. The bird stared at him intensely before walking away.

Kratos followed.

He could have pounced, but his legs barely had the strength to keep him moving forward. If he attacked recklessly, he might scare the bird away before it could lead him...where, exactly? Salvation? Was he really putting his potential well-being in the hands of a bird? The thought was almost enough to make him stop, turn away, keep walking, but the sight of something up ahead changed his mind. Something growing. Green.

Water.

This time he did run, past the bird and towards the sight. It solidified into something real: the sound of running water, growing things all around him. Kratos allowed himself a sigh of relief before he went to the water. Clear. Safe to drink, though he still would have tried if it weren't. He barely had the self-control to drink slowly. Do not make yourself sick. It will only slow you down further. Recover your strength, then keep moving. 

The water was cool. He allowed himself one moment of indulgence, splashing it over his neck instead of drinking, plunging his face in for the chance to escape the unrelenting heat. He held his breath until his lungs felt ready to burst, then held a bit longer.

Self-preservation won, despite everything.

When Kratos lifted his head, the cat was back.

It lay just upstream, watching him with half-lidded eyes. Another creature sat with it, one Kratos did not recognize. Despite the fur covering its body, there was something strangely human about the shape of its face, and especially its blue eyes. He had never seen its like...in paintings, perhaps, by people who had traveled far from Greece to trade, but never before in person. It picked through the cat's fur, as if searching for pests, but its eyes never left Kratos.

Kratos slowly moved up to a crouch.

He may not have known what these creatures were, but meat was meat.

The cat moved as he did, going from lounging on its side to sitting more upright, body tense and ready to spring. The man-like creature stayed where it was, watching him with calm eyes. Kratos could almost swear that it was watching him curiously, as if wondering what he would do. But no. That was not possible.

It is only an animal, he told himself, and lunged.

Both creatures scrambled away, far more quickly than he could have anticipated. Kratos went for the man-like creature first, as he hoped its calmer demeanor would make it easier to catch. Fortune was not on his side: the creature scrambled up a tree before Kratos could get close. He could have tried to climb after it, but the cat was nearby, so he pursued it instead.

Predators do not have your stamina. He could run it down. He was sure he could run it down. Sure until the chase went on for longer than it should have. Sure until it seemed that the creature was staying just out of arm's reach when it could have escaped. Taunting him, not running away.

Rage began to build in his chest.

Had it not been for that rage, he might have realized that the chase was pointless--that he was expanding energy he didn't have, that he should turn around, return to water, recover in a place he knew was safe. But he was blind to all logic, blind to everything but the beast in front of him. He ran, even as sand began to swirl around him, partially obscuring it. He could only see its tail bobbing in front of him as it ran. A flag amidst the shades of red and gold.

He ran until his legs gave out.

When he hit the ground, his face struck stone. Not the irregular stone of a boulder or hard ground, but...streets. A town? He tried to lift his head to look around, but his body was too weak. His lungs burned. He could only roll over onto his back, his mouth filling with sand as he struggled past his exhaustion.

Foolish, he thought. Foolish.

What else might he have done, had weakness not finally taken him? Who else might he have hurt? Who might he hurt now, given the right circumstances? 

He had to leave.

Kratos forced himself upright. His vision blurred.

The ground gave way beneath him.

.

"Foolish," repeated a voice, though this time it was not his own.

The floor beneath him was smooth and cool. There was shade, torchlight, a cool night breeze. He knew this place. The Halls of OIympus. His one-time home. The place that he had destroyed. Athena sat on a nearby bench, watching him with cold, dead eyes. Marble eyes. That was how she appeared to him now: a being of stone, gold paint filling the cracks in her form. Leaking from the hole in her chest.

"What exactly are you hoping to accomplish, Kratos?" she asked. "What are you trying to find?"

Kratos tried to turn away from her, but those cold eyes kept him transfixed. His forearms ached. The chains were back, tightening around him like serpents. "What do you want?" Kratos growled. "Why won't you leave me alone?"

"Oh, Kratos." She leaned forward, resting her chin in her hand, a mocking smile marring her face. "You'll never be free of me."

Her golden blood turned red.

"You'll never be free of any of it."

Kratos tore his gaze away from her. His body shuddered violently as he gasped, eyes finally opening, seeing…

.

"Hmm. Finally awake, I see."

There was a man in a chair nearby.

Kratos sat up and looked around. He was inside a small house, laying on a bed just barely big enough for him. The man--greying sparse hair, dark skin, the many wrinkles that came with old age--only made fleeting eye contact. His gaze mostly stayed fixed on the tablet in his lap. A stylus scratched at its surface, carving away thin ribbons of wax. There were already small pies of shavings on the floor, melting in the heat. "Where am I?" Kratos asked, his voice cracking from thirst.

"Someplace safe." The man carved something else before making longer eye contact. His eyes were blue, startlingly blue. Blue as the sky outside. Blue like… "It is a strange sort of man who travels in a sandstorm."

"It was an accident." Kratos brought his legs around so he was sitting on the edge of the bed and breathed slowly. His arms itched. He was surprised to see that they had been bandaged. "Did you…?"

"It seems your weapons are as strange as you," said the man. "I cannot think of a warrior who would willingly use a blade that bit them."

It was then that Kratos saw them, leaning against the wall, next to his folded-up cloak. Two blades, and two lengths of chain coiled beside them.

They had found him. Again.

Every other time, his reaction had been rage, but today he was too tired for it. Despair pressed against his back like the sky pressing against Atlas. "Fool," Kratos said quietly. Of course they were back. Why did he ever think - ?

"You're not from around here."

It was and wasn't a question. You would have to be blind not to see Kratos was a stranger to these lands, so the man was not asking. But the statement was made as an invitation. Tell me more about yourself, it asked without asking. A game Kratos would not be playing. Not today. Not ever.

"I am not," he said firmly. He stood shakily. The motion made him dizzy again, but he did not collapse. "I am leaving now."

"And going where, exactly?" The question halted Kratos's exit, made him clench his hands into fists. "You will not get far. This is a very isolated village, and you seem…" The man retrieved a walking stick from its place against the table and poked Kratos's leg with it. "...in desperate need of rest."

The gentle pressure was enough to make Kratos stagger. He caught himself and turned around, teeth bared in a silent growl. The man met his gaze, entirely without fear. Like a teacher waiting for a student to come to the right conclusion.

"...I cannot stay here," Kratos said. Why did I admit to that? "Your people will not want me here."

"And why is that?"

"That is none of your concern, old man."

The man huffed in quiet laughter and added something else to his tablet. "Regardless of what you think, staying is your only option. There is not another town for many miles, and you are ill-equipped to make the journey along the river. You can continue to wander until the sands take you, or you can rest. As for whatever it is you are running from…" The old man's head tilted slightly, his gaze lingering on Kratos's forearms. "...in my experience, it is better to be open to the path ahead than obsessed with what lays behind. What's done is done, and there are greater dangers your obsession may blind you to. Or…" He finished one of the symbols carved into his tablet. "...greater opportunities you may miss."

The words lingered in Kratos's mind, trying to worm their way in. There was, perhaps, some truth to them. In another time and place, he might have believed them, but…

No. This man knew nothing of Kratos's past. Nothing of who he was or what he'd done. Foolish, foolish, foolish…

Kratos turned and walked out of the house.

He did not make it far before stopping.

There were people in the streets, more than he'd expected to see. Many stopped to stare at him, the clear stranger in their midst. Kratos saw suspicion, fear, and...curiosity. The latter bothered him more than the first two. At least those people seemed to have some sense. He took a few careful steps forward, but had to stop again as the heat of the day struck his body. His skin felt like it was on fire. He stumbled backwards, barely catching himself on the doorway he'd just walked through.

Someone called out something. Kratos could not understand the words, but he could hear concern in the person's voice. He ignored the call and stumbled back into the house, falling to his knees once inside.

The old man had not moved from his seat. Kratos met his eyes, waiting to see if he had anything clever to say. When he did not…

"I need water," Kratos finally admitted.

"Jug on the shelf behind you." The old man resumed writing as Kratos stopped, breathed, waited a moment before trying to stand. He was able to stay on his feet long enough to retrieve the jug and sit on the bed again. "Forgive their curiosity. We don't see foreigners here very often."

"Hmm." Kratos took a long, slow sip from the jug. The water inside was slightly warm, but better than nothing. His head felt clearer after a few sips. "This river you spoke of. Where does it lead?"

"A great many places." The stylus scratched against the wax. Surely, he should have filled it by now? "Where exactly are you trying to go?"

Kratos did not have an answer. The old man did not seem surprised by this. "Well. Regardless." The old man stood, still holding the tablet. "They will not mind your presence as long as you don't cause trouble. If you rest, recover your strength, you may be able to make it to the next town. Or wherever it is you are trying to go, once you've figured that out."

The old man was right. Kratos was loathe to admit it, but he was right. The Blades had already found him, and they would be on his heels again in an instant in this weakened state. Perhaps if he rested, hid them well someplace, then left...maybe.

Maybe this time he could get away.

He knew in his heart it was not true. But it was the one piece of hope he was unable to escape. "Fine," Kratos said, keeping his eyes fixed on the Blades. "Fine."

The old man raised an eyebrow, scratched down something else, and said nothing more.

[zannolin]

the wrong kind of dysfunctional by @screechthemighty has lived in my brain for like a week now so i had to do a doodle for the part that gave me chills <3

[bittybonbon]

“Kratos?” Faye said.

His eyes fixed on her, but not on her. She wasn’t sure what caused it—maybe the low lighting in the space, maybe the remnants of the dream still clinging to his mind, or maybe he wasn’t really awake at all. But when he spoke, what came out was a name she’d only heard spoken once, and that one time so wrought with pain that she wasn’t sure she wanted to hear him say it again.

“Lysandra?”

AAAAAAA Based on the great fic “darling, when you're fast asleep / i feel your dreams begin to bleed” by @screechthemighty it’s short but it hits you right in the gut :’)

This was supposed to be a doodle but it got out of hand lmao

[screechthemighty]

@starlightbebright​ submitted:

😩 okay I couldn’t help it so here’s fanart for the newsest chapter.

AHHH??? That freaking rules, thank you so much!!!

(The fic/chapter in question for anyone who doesn’t have context.)