Six years since Ragnarök and Fimbulwinter had long since ceased. Peace was now steady. A world without Odin made it easier for Kratos to pretend he was full mortal instead of half God. Monsters in Midgard were rare, and sometimes even placid. And with Atreus off creating his own story, his own destiny, and the Council of Nine–with only eight acting members–now formed, he embraced his transformation into becoming the “ornery old man wandering the forest alone,” as Freya once affectionately teased. God of War he was no more; instead, replaced was the Bringer of Peace, Ender of All Wars. But violence and hatred were inevitable. No matter the realm, no matter the land, no matter the Gods and no matter the mortals, war always had its place. As did peace in times of suffering. The difficulty came when finding a balance between them, peace and war. Often the inclusion of Love made the two intertwined.
And though the nine realms were now in a state of peace, war still rages within some. Raiders formed in Midgard not too long after the creation of The Nine, those who attack villages and slaughter the innocent. Nothing more than extremist, allowing false faith to guide their tyranny.
“Not much further, I don’t think,” a gentle voice spoke through Kratos’s heavy cloud of thought. Gersami, a girl not much older than Atreus. He thought only of Calliope when looking into her innocent eyes. Her face, normally pale and thin, was green and puffed with worry; she was the peace within war, the innocence.
The raiders invaded his home and, in the name of the dead God Odin, attempted to take him while he slept. They were easy to fend off. But while clearing them out, he found a group of survivors hiding beneath a bridge nearby: his neighbors, who were not Gods but had plenty of good men to defend their village. We were overrun, someone said. They came in the night, said another. So many dead, said a third. He promised to guide them to Týr’s temple where Mimir or Freya, or someone else from the Council of Nine, would be able to soothe their worries in a way that Kratos could not. Freya’s gentle hands, her warmth in moments of bitterness, hysteria… It was especially comforting.
“Yes,” came Kratos’s stoic response. The sun was rising and the port near the temple was emerging from the morning mist. He docked and the other boats followed.
“Hey there, handsome. Just poppin’ by to see me?” said the familiar dwarf from her workshop.
“Hello Lúnda,” Kratos greeted dryly.
“Give them weapons here. I’ll see what needs fixin’.”
“I do not require any updates.”
“Alrighty. You know where I am if ya do,” she said. “Our fine lady’s up at the Temple, if you’re lookin’.”
“Thank you.”
He led the survivors up the steps and into the temple to hand them off to more capable hands than his own. The council was in session: Tÿr sat center with Sif and Freya on either side of him. Grýla was on the far left, her large form and even larger chair occupying most of the space. Accommodations were made to assure each member was comfortable, no matter their shape or size. Mimir, resting between Sigrún and Hildisvíni, had a high stool with a singular pillow to cushion his severed head. Durlin’s chair was structured similarly with small steps to allow him to come and go as he pleased. A ninth and empty chair was next to Freya where the last member, should they ever find one, would be seated. Nine different chairs representing the nine different realms.
He halted. Freya was the first to catch his eye. And the first to look away when his gaze, surely, became unbearable. Something unsettling boiled within him; conversing with her would be no easy task. Not after…
Tÿr shared a few last hopeful words–something about Freya’s long journey awaiting her, and to take caution of the winds changing–before the meeting was adjourned with a quick bang of Durlin’s hammer. Kratos was glad, in that moment, that it was Sif, not Freya, who took charge in standing at his side to comfort the mortals. But, nevertheless, his focus remained on Freya talking with Mimir as Sif listened to the people’s sighs.
She could still not look at him.
The Nine, of course, were well aware of the raider attack and were already taking action to assure their safety. Sif was guiding them all outside again when abruptly,
“Majesty, a word.” It was Gersami, sounding fidgety. Unlike herself, not that Kratos knew the girl well. He knew she had been in love, once. A comment made in passing without much thought weeks, maybe even months, ago; Kratos did not care for her to elaborate. Girls–no, children–her age Love in the same way water tumbled off cliff sides: chaotically without stability, without guidance. Freya, the Majesty she was referring to, turned to her with near surprise at being called by her once Queen status, and Kratos stepped aside to allow the girl to pass. “Please,” she said, sounding desperate.
“Of course,” said Freya gently. She never refused her people’s words. Not once.
And Kratos stepped outside with Sif and the others to allow the two to speak privately.
“...It is but a day’s journey. You will arrive before nightfall,” Sif explained to the people surrounding her, all seemingly competing over who could be the loudest.
“What about the folks still out there, huh? I can’t just leave my girls!” said someone from the crowd, apparently the champion of his people as everyone seemed to quiet, for a moment, and mumble their agreement.
“Councilmember Hildisvíni and I will be going to the forest in search of more survivors. If you wish to stay and join us in their rescue, you are more than welcome to. But, I warn you, the journey may not end with a happy reunion.” The crowd continued their frantic rambling. Sif endured it with a great calmness Kratos could only respect, not follow. “Those who wish to go, you will be guided by Chaurli here.” And Chaurli rose from the waters to greet the mortals, to greet Kratos.
Sif continued her speech, and so did the people, as Kratos made his way over toward the creature. “Hello, old friend.” He patted the wet skin near its eye and it blinked as if they could understand each other. He was not his son, so animals, to him, were simply that: animals. But he greeted the creature with kindness and respect regardless, because Atreus, he knew, would do the same.
The doors of the old temple opened and a frail-looking Gersami emerged with Freya at her side. Last night’s tragedy made her sickly. And, he quickly realized, there was no sign of her father. The two women shared a warm but quick embrace before parting. Then, Gersami managed a natural smile when facing Kratos once more, her hand taking hold of his. “I should think I’ll look brand new, a whole different person, the next time we meet, if we should ever be so lucky.” Calliope glimmered in her eyes.
He managed a gentle grunt and helped her, along with the others choosing to leave, climb atop Chaurli, who, in the many years since Ragnarök, had been transformed from home to vessel.
He watched as the animal slowly floated on, thinking only of the day he became the Bringer of Peace, the day he once again had to say goodbye to the child he loved dearly. But… he knew this girl not. Not in the way he knew Atreus, not in the way he knew Calliope. He looked away, turned from the fading tortoise and moved on with his day.
Freya was standing near the entrance to the Temple, allowing him to have his space. Space that he did not need. Her mouth opened to speak. She hesitated when their eyes met, then they both looked away quickly. His stomach clenched, aching to move on from this moment, this awkwardness that suddenly surrounded them. He hummed to urge her to continue with… whatever needed to be said. In the eyes of many it sounded more like a grunt, a harsh demand to either speak or get out of his way, but he knew she understood. She always understood. But instead of speaking, she turned to enter the Temple, waving for him to follow. He did.
Mimir, atop his stool, greeted Kratos: “You’ve had quite the morning, haven’t you?”
It all came back to him suddenly: Wax, his wolf, warning him of invaders with her howls; raiders kicking open his door as he flew out of his bed and called for his ax; blood spilling out of them when he slit their throats; killing the others, one by one by one, as they invaded his home. They wanted to die for a God long dead rather than live for themselves. All he did was grant their wishes. “Nothing I could not handle.”
“Oh, there’s no denying that, brother.” Freya lifted him from his stool and placed him on her hip. “I don’t imagine we’ll have many troubles in Svartalfheim. Except maybe the Grims. And the Bergsras. And I do owe Lúnda some hacksilver that she wont stop griping to me about–but they should be easy enough to handle.”
“You are going to Svartalfheim,” said Kratos to Freya, who could still not look at him. “What business do you have there?”
“The same business as always, brother,” spoke Mimir.
Tÿr’s search for a ninth and final member of the council remained ongoing. Freya’s constant insistence that it be Kratos came to a halt after… after what happened in Vanaheim. And he avoided Tÿr enough to never hear his speech on the matter. Kratos was no politician, especially being a foreigner, and he told them such. Their next target was Sindri, who, from Lúnda’s gossip, had apparently already denied them twice.
“He has already given you his answer,” Kratos said simply.
“Yes, but he hasn’t said no to you yet, brother,” said Mimir as Freya opened the mystic gateway.
He groaned. But, despite himself, entered the portal after them.
Awkward silence loomed around them as they waited for the door to the other realm to open. Freya still avoided his eyes. Mimir cleared his throat to fill the silence. The gateway, it seemed, was taking longer than usual. They remained silent–until, Mimir burst: “So, you kissed while in Vanaheim.” Kratos' heart skipped at the mention of it; they all, he had thought, took a silent vow not to ever mention it again. “Friends kiss each other all the time. Not with such vigor as you two, but…” The gateway opened in the distance and they hurried off toward it as Mimir blabbered on: “Did I ever tell you about the time I locked lips with Thor? It was after we had a few, of course. He thought I was his wife. I thought… Well, I’m not sure who I thought he was. I suppose I was too drunk to care.”
“Mimir?” came Freya’s stern voice. The light from the gateway blinded them as they entered the new realm.
