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fanficsiwillneverwrite · 2 months

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posted this on ao3, idk maybe it’ll have better traction here ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

Dark clouds gather as he ventures forward out of the forest. A plant opens and Kratos throws his axe before it spits out the poison. Thunder rumbles in the distance and an all too familiar bickering echoes just around the corner. He pushes on with a reluctance in his step. The commotion ceases when he reveals himself, jumping from the ledge onto the dirt path where the children await his axe to lower the nearby bridge. A hard shove follows an ignorant scoff as the pair race forward when the bridge drops; twenty years since Ragnarök and war still rages within the most mundane moments.

A nest of Nightmares awakens at their hurried steps. Kratos summons his axe as the creatures charge. Gersemi hits a few with the fire from her hands while Býleistr, in a nervous panic, attempts to ready his bow. Kratos destroys the nest easily with one hard throw, and the Nightmares evaporate. But a lone Nightmare remains and spits poison at Býleistr, who remains distracted by his bow. Gersemi shoves him roughly to the ground, then kills the Nightmare with a small puff of fire. Long golden hair and eyes, one of mud and the other of the sea; only a girl of three and ten, she is, in its most simplistic form, destruction.

“You did that on purpose!” Býleistr, the youngest of their litter, yells out. His hair is curly and the color of coal with dark skin and a short stature, unlike his sisters.

Gersemi rolls her eyes. “You mean, save your life? Yeah, I can honestly say that’s a bad habit I’m looking to break.”

His bow now with arrow, Býleistr shoots at her. Kratos stops it midair, then throws it to the ground. “Enough.” He brings Býleistr easily to his feet. “Gersemi, do not be aggressive when assisting your brother.” At that, the boy sticks out his tongue to vocalize this small victory. And Kratos yanks the bow from his hand. Lightning strikes. A soft rain begins. “You must be more vigilant. If your bow is not at the ready”—he pauses—“if you are not ready, the enemy will have the upper hand.”

He releases the boy and returns his bow. Býleistr hesitates, then looks away. “I just… I don’t have an instinct like you guys do.”

Gersemi laughs. “That instinct is called being a God, meinfretr.”

Býleistr growls with clenched fists as thunder grumbles somewhere behind them. Kratos is quick to guide them back along the path. He jumps and begins his ascent up the cliff. “You do not need the power of a God to have good instincts.” His children follow, racing for second place with Gersemi earning the title. “You need only discipline.”

“And a brain,” mumbles Gersemi.

“Then how come you have it?”

Kratos hums at their sibling babble as his feet are planted once more on solid ground. A plant nearby expands but he hits it with his axe and it explodes prematurely. “You will learn in time, Býleistr,” he assures after a moment. After all, it is only recently that Freya allowed him to have the responsibility of owning his own bow and he is only a boy of one and ten; he still has much to learn.

The wind blows harder and the rain grows heavy, so they quicken their pace. Home is just past the closed gate locked by a magical palisade, but the Celestial Altar is on the other side.

Býleistr attempts to climb up the gate toward the small gap. He slips on the wet metal rail, then falls indelicately down onto the palisade.

“Working on your instincts, huh?” questions Gersemi with crossed arms and a mocking tone.

“Shut up.” He stumbles off it and falls to the ground. He stands after a moment, once again assuming a climbing stance. “Give me a boost? I’ll change it to night, so you can lift the gate.”

“I… do not think it wise,” says Kratos gently. The boy can not yet hold his own against a nest of Nightmares. He is not ready for such independence, especially with a locked gate separating them. “We will take the longer path.”

“Let’s just do it his way,” says Gersemi. And Kratos turns to her for clarification. “What? If he dies, we can get whatever kills him to use the altar in his place. The creatures here in Vanaheim aren’t as dumb as they are in Midgard.”

“Yeah—wait, no,” interjects Býleistr. “I’m… I’m not gonna die, okay?”

Kratos sighs. The storm grows heavier with each passing moment. The longer path may not be the safest option in this weather. He gives in, as there are no other options. He hands the boy the scepter and then lifts him up to squeeze through the gap in the gate. “Go straight to the altar,” he instructs, keeping a careful eye on the boy through the closed gate. “Do not delay, boy.”

“Yeah, yeah…”

He disappears into the heaviness of the storm. Even Gersemi looks worried at losing sight of him. “Býleistr, do you hear me?” Kratos grips his axe when there is no answer—he will freeze these metal bars and shatter the gate open, if he must; he awaits the scream.

To his relief, there is a howl and the palisade disappears as the sky darkens. And the boy’s voice echoes under the storm, “See, I told you I—”

A harsh pop silences him.

“Ouch!”

Thunder roars.

“Býleistr!” Kratos opens the gate and they hurry after him. He lays on the wet ground, clutching his arm. His clothes are ruined now with mud and plant guts. “What has happened?”

“It’s that stupid plant. I thought you killed this one yesterday.”

“They grow back, dumb-dumb,” says Gersemi, lifting him up off the ground. “Maybe it’s not the right time to bring this up, but having good instincts include knowing when you’re about to step on deadly plants.”

Býleistr sticks out his tongue in retaliation, but winces in pain once Kratos begins examining his injuries. Gooey, red bumps now mark his arm. Poison, in its most ugly form. “Come—we are nearly home.”

He calls to Freya when they reach the house: a creakywooden structure formed around a glorious old tree. She and Hnoss are at their side in an instant, guiding them inside. “What’s happened?”

“What’ya think?” says Býleistr frantically, clutching his injured arm. Hnoss forces him to sit—and he cries out in pain as her cold hands make contact with the poison.

“Is anything broken?” Freya asks Hnoss.

“No,” Kratos tells her.

Hnoss’s hands glow as she begins the healing process. The girl is the opposite of her twin sister in every way, despite looking identical: while Gersemi creates fire and represents destruction, Hnoss represents healing and soothes pain with water.

“Kratos, what happened?” Freya asks again in a sternness only meant for him.

“Those dumb plants! That’s what happened,” Býleistr tells her, his face red in rage and humiliation. The storm outside matches the boy’s own mixed feelings with its chaotic howls and rumbles.

Freya is at his side in an instant. She kisses his uninjured hand and lets him squeeze her own as a release.

“You must be more careful, vennen,” Hnoss tells him in her most gentle tone as she continues to work on clearing away the poison from his arm.

“Let it be known that I hate these poisonous plants. And I hate Vanaheim,” declares the boy, still blinded by his ailment. Tomorrow, Kratos is sure, the boy will be praising it. “I hate it!”

“All of this could have been avoided, I am certain,” claims Freya. She looks up at Kratos with eyes of rancor. It never truly goes away. “Where were you when this was happening?”

He sets his axe down on the wooden table between them. “Behind the gate.” And time feels suddenly slow as their silent battle begins.

Or, perhaps, it never truly stops…

He hears mumbling from the other side of the room—Mimir, trapped beneath a cloth probably thrown carelessly in the moment. Gersemi moves to uncover him, and he breathes out his thanks.

Býleistr is no longer enraged, no longer behaving like the storm outside. “It doesn’t hurt as much now,” he tells his mother. The poison is fleeing from his body, being sucked out by healing water.

“Good.” Still, she holds onto him lovingly, easing him through the transition of aching wounds to itchy blisters. He attempts a scratch: Hnoss smacks his hand away. “I still don’t understand why you were left alone.”

“The gate was blocked,” says Gersemi. “He was the only one who fit through the gap. It’s no big deal.”

“No big deal?” Her attention turns to Kratos. “You said you’d keep an eye on him. You promised me he’d be safe.”

“He is a boy. He will make mistakes.”

“Aye, brother,” agrees Mimir. “And we must allow him to make them.”

“Plus, he’s weaker than the rest of us,” adds Gersemi, “not being a God and all. It takes more time with him.”

Býleistr sticks out his tongue again. “I’m better than a God, you halftroll. I’m a Giant!”

“All I mean is—mistakes are bound to happen,” clarifies Mimir. “He is just a young lad, after all. He can learn something from this.”

“I know!” Freya says. Býleistr’s eyes go wide in shock at his mother’s aggressive tone. And she hurries away to retrieve bandages for his arm. Kratos moves with her, watching her carefully. The storm outside shakes with the house. Thunder growls. The winds moan. Baldur has been gone so many winters and yet the wound feels brand new. She stops to catch her breath, bandages tight in hand. He makes to comfort her, but hesitates. “Kratos… I know,” she tells him quietly, tears in her eyes. She rubs her face. The makeup smears. It is as if no time has passed.

Býleistr is the first to speak up: “I just need… what was it you said, Father?”

“Discipline,” Kratos says after a moment.

“Yeah, that’s it. Discipline. And then I can avoid poisonous plants with my good instincts.” He speaks it proudly, as if that is the reason his mother suddenly recoils.

Freya manages a gentle smile as she dutifully returns to her son and begins wrapping his arm. Kratos follows. And she works quietly as their children cautiously look on.

“Freya,” Kratos pushes. Her focus remains on the bandages, working delicately down the boy’s arm. “It is time.”

And she finally looks up.

“Time?” questions Hnoss.

“For what?” asks Gersemi.

Unable to answer, Freya flees. They all turn to Kratos expecting answers. He does not give them any, instead following Freya out into the storm. And Hnoss hits her brother’s hand when he attempts to sneak in another scratch, then takes over for her mother.

Mimir clears his throat to fill the sudden silence. “Er, time for a story, I suspect…”

The wind blows harsh, but they stay dry beneath the tarp dangling between the rooftop and a branch up high on the tree. Freya cradles herself for warmth as she looks on at the magnificent storm. Kratos cautiously steps forward. “You did not need to come after me,” she says, but makes no effort to shoo him away.

He hums, simply offering her the fur on his back as warmth. She nods her thanks, then looks back out into the storm. In the distance he spots the poisonous flowers shrivel in hiding as the hard rain punctures its opening. This will be a lesson for the boy; he will be more cautious next time he ventures out.

“I overreacted in there,” admits Freya. “I saw Býleistr’s pain tonight and thought only of Baldur. It’s selfish of me, I know…”

“No.” He places a comforting hand on her shoulder. She does not shrug it away. Lightning flashes, revealing the stain of tears on her cheek. “It is not.”

“I don’t want to repeat past mistakes, Kratos,” she says.

“Which is why we must tell them.” He shifts, finally turning to her. But Kratos is the one who snapped his neck and he is the one who robbed her of the right to choose. The responsibility is his. “Which is why I must tell them. It is my burden.”

“Our burden—more mine than yours, truthfully,” Freya says. She refuses to be corrected. It is an argument that is continuous between them. “We will tell them together.” Thunder rumbles behind them as if in agreement. “But… in the daylight. I don’t want this to be the last thing they hear before they close their eyes.”

He hums in agreement. The wound still cuts deep, despite everything. It will never go away.

The rain calms. And the distant flower from earlier opens again and spits its poison out onto a unsuspecting creature passing it. Freya turns to Kratos and kisses him. Despite their wounds, despite their past, they stand together, united.

They find the children gathered around Mimir when they return inside. He is distracting them with stories, as he so often does: “…and when we reached the village, we realized Váli’s men had already taken over. No survivors, except for two babes”—Hnoss and Gersemi look at each other and smile, for this is the tale of how they were found, all those years ago—“protected by their mother until her dying breath. She saved you two that day, she did. And she’d be mighty proud of the Godesses you two’ve become. I know I am.” He moves quickly on to Býleistr’s tale, so not to leave him out, only slightly reacting to Kratos and Freya joining them at the table, “And who could forget about you, little brother. The tiniest Giant my glowing eyes had ever seen, abandoned by your own kind—”

Býleistr scrunches his face. “Abandoned?”

And Mimir hesitates, suddenly realizing the density of his words. “Oh, did I say abandon? I meant… well, obviously I meant to say that you were, erm… forgotten? Is that a better choice of words?”

“No, Head, it is not,” Kratos says.

The girls both scatter up the wooden ladder to their room at their mother’s silent signal to leave, while Býleistr remains unmoving at the Head’s harsh words.

“Reverting back to calling me Head, are you, brother?” Mimir says. Kratos lifts him so they are eye level. And the head gulps. “I suppose I deserve it.”

“It is Atr—Loki’s story to tell,” Kratos argues, placing Mimir back onto the table to be near his son.

“Because he’s the one who found me?”

“He brought you to us,” offers Freya gently. A boy of only three with nothing to call his own. Atreus did not wish to leave him that way, so they took him in. Little is known about the Giants or his past, but the boy remains curious and hopeful Atreus will one day return with answers.

Freya guides him now to the ladder his sisters just climbed. “We will talk more in the morning, minn kæri. But, for now, bed time.”

“Don’t worry,” Býleistr says as he climbs up the wonky ladder, his bandaged arm leaning against the wall for balance. “I know I wasn’t actually abandoned. My kind are Giants. We see into the future. They knew you two would be looking after me. And there was obviously a reason they left.” He stops at the top bar, curious eyes gleaming down at the man he calls Father. “Right?”

Kratos glances at an unsure Freya beside him before nodding. “Right.” He hears his daughters in the room above them, arguing over their mother’s distress and who caused it. They will talk more of it in the morning.

#fanfiction #fanfic #ao3 fanfic #god of war fanfiction #god of war ragnarok #god of war #gow #freya #kratos #freytos #kratos x freya #kratos and freya #writing #my writing #warflower #is that the ship name?

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