Chapter 11:
Kratos:
They returned before the sun had begun to fall from its zenith, a spearful of fish over both of their shoulders.
The… priest… was at the front of the house when they arrived. He met Kratos’ eyes, smiling. “Welcome back- quite the haul.”
Stark answered, the younger man grinning, proud as he showed off the seven or so fish he’d speared out of the near frozen waters. “Yeah, we did good. I think Mr. Kratos just scared the fish enough to jump onto the spear, cause I dont remember it being that easy.”
Kratos himself sported another six on his own javelin, enough to feed all of them for another day.
The priest chuckled, which again fueled the possibility that there were jokes being made at his expense. Or perhaps he was simply being paranoid. “That’s good. Bring them here and let's get to work on scraping off the scales.
“Sure.”
As the priest pulled free a knife, Kratos assumed he would be preparing the fish: scaling, gutting and such. And so he placed his spear down, leaning it against the wall, the catch of the day still dangling from it, leaving the man to his task as he moved to enter the tiny cabin.
Entering, he heard the rustling of pages.
Kratos could admit, even if only to himself, that he was a man who had never known how to express his emotions very well.
If it was not anger, he was not excitable. Not in the way Mimir, Atreus and most others he’d met were- and anger was an emotion he certainly did not allow himself to express or control him as much as possible. He’d been down that road before, and he never wished to travel it again.
Oftentimes, he wished he could feel as they felt, act as they did. Brief moments where he understood that connection were more difficult than it needed to be for him.
He’d felt that in the very early days after Faye’s death in regards to Atreus. Wishing he could be the father the boy needed.
Such feelings were less common these days. For all of his own shortcomings and difficulty, Mimir and Atreus both understood him, and he them.
But still, on occasions (such as now) he wished for the ability to express how he felt more adequately, even if it was just for the simple joy of turning a page.
“Brother! Brother!” Mimir cried like a giddy child. The book, resting on a simple stand of sticks and rope crafted by Stark, rustled ever so lightly as its pages turned with invisible hands. “Magic! To turn pages! No more spoons for me!”
The head looked as though the declaration made him king of all the Nine Realms, and Kratos felt a small smile tugging at his lips. “You have learned their magic then? Good.”
“Just a bit; The lady Frieren and Fern explained that with no body, what magic I have is extremely limited. This is about all I can do, but by God this is perfect.”
As if to emphasize the point, the head smiled brightly as he turned to the next page, the parchment crinkling almost happily in its sound as it obliged.
Kratos released a sound, a grunt that he hoped the head understood meant he was pleased for him.
He cast his eyes to the window. It was still so strange to see glass, something reserved for kings. And so clear, too. And yet, even common homes like this small cottage had it. “The Blizzard is letting up. We should be able to resume our travels by tomorrow.”
“Ohh, well that’s good.”
“Mistress Frieren, we can’t just play all day!”
The girl’s voice made Kratos lean slightly, catching sight of her in the snow. From the sound of her voice, she was once again chastising the elf.
Kratos wondered at times which one actually lead the three before they’d arrived. The relationship was odd.
The elf herself, and Atreus now that he noticed, said something back, as she continued to ride the rather large spirit Tortoise that was, he deduced from their excitable chatter three or so days ago, hers.
She’d named it ‘Shelly.’ He was fairly certain the word must have had a silly meaning or some such given her large, too pleased with herself grin.
The large, ethereal beast waded through the snow, its bulk carving a wide furrow into the cold. It was about the size of a pony. A very slow, rotund pony. In its wake, plant life grew as if it were spring.
Fern shook her head in dismay, her own beast watching quietly at her side. Kratos had never seen its like; It was some kind of cross between a rodent and a dog. Mimir had heard the monk, Kraft, call it a Honey Badger, whatever that was.
Long ago, Kratos had wondered why the boy kept summoning wolves when he could call forth any manner of spirit beast he wished. Mimir had told him that one naturally called on the animal their own spirit most in tune with. It was easier, and the beast would be more powerful.
He heard the rustling of pages again behind him and a thought flitted across his mind.
“You can read their language now?”
“Oh. Not quite yet,” Mimir admitted easily. “They actually have two languages. One mostly fer their magic, while the other seems more commonplace. The Lady Frieren is helpin me learn their ‘magic’ script, and the Lass and Lad are helpin with the more common script. Why do ya ask, brother?”
Kratos grunted, and the cabin fell into silence.
“What’s botherin ya, brother?” Mimir asked more seriously.
The head knew him too well by now.
He reached into the satchel bag behind him. It was made in this land, that fabric a sturdy canvas that would last long after they’d left and returned home. He pulled free the book on Monsters the Guardswoman had given him. The book whose pages were woven together so fine, he wasn’t sure a human hand could do it.
Releasing a sigh through his nostrils, he marched across the room, replacing Mimir’s book and placing the other there on the stand.
“What do you see?” He demanded.
Mimir hummed, and Kratos caught the smile slipping onto the man’s face as the pages obligingly turned.
Then, after a good ten seconds, the Head found what he was looking for.
“Oh.”
Those glowing Bifrost eyes turned to Kratos, who nodded.
The God of War grunted. “Yes. ‘Oh’.”
“A Hydra.” He kept turning pages. “Minotaurs. Cyclopes… You think we’re in Greece?”
“No,” Kratos said with a shake of his head. “The plants, the climate: none of it fits. But the Gods. Not all are dead. Some may have fled here.”
“How many survived?”
“Many. Aphrodite, Apollo, Artemis, Hestia, Dionysus. The muses.”
“Just because you didn’t kill them directly doesn’t mean they couldn’t have met their fates in other ways.” The head paused. “But I get yer meanin. These Monsters were unique to Greece, and yet there are forms of them here. The Hydra was made by Poseidon, wasn’t it?”
“No,” Kratos corrected, then narrowed his eyes in thought. “Poseidon tasked me with destroying it; the beast had grown powerful enough to challenge his absolute control of the sea.”
“Could be that he made it and lost control of it later?”
Kratos nodded. The Gods would be so foolish. Poseidon was not far removed from Ares by blood or temperament.
“Well… either way-” Mimir’s eyes flitted back to the pages, turning them back to the Hydra page. “This seems different from the beast of your homeland. Less heads. And the legs look like they can support it on land.”
“Differences or not…” Kratos trailed off biting off the words that almost escaped. “How can this be?”
Mimir held his silence for a moment, thinking.
“Well, you might be right,” he finally said. “Survivors might have come here. It's certainly the easiest option, but there are, potentially, others,” he hedged.
“Such as?”
The head hesitated. “Honestly brother, it's mostly speculation and conjecture, but… think about it. Greece was filled with Magic when the Gods died, and all that magic had to go somewhere. It may not have died with them. This might just be echoes, or vestiges.”
Kratos resisted the urge to sigh through his nostrils.
“We just don't know enough,” the head lamented. “Perhaps when I can read their script. Learn more stories. There might be more clues there.”
He heard the others outside again: Stark’s voice, near the door, calling close enough for him to hear. “You pick a name yet?”
“Not yet. I want one that fits her,” Fern answered him, her voice descending into a low mumble. “And certainly something that isn’t like Shelly for a turtle.”
The boy laughed.
“You’re worried about Atreus,” the head said, pulling his attention back.
Kratos resisted the urge to snort. He was a father. He would always worry for Atreus.
But this was different.
“He does not know everything I’ve done,” the God of war whispered. “If he learned of it… all of it…”
“He’d look at ya differently.”
Kratos didn’t need to nod. Mimir had the right of it, as he usually did.
If the survivors of the Pantheon were here… if Atreus learned of the true extent of the atrocities Kratos had committed… he wasn’t sure what terrified him more.
The thought that, as Mimir said, his son would look upon him as a Monster.
Or… that it would change nothing at all.
Both things scared him.
“I wish to find our way home,” he rumbled.
“Brother…” Mimir sighed. “Why don't ya think of this as a blessing in disguise?”
He looked at the head, his eyes demanding an explanation easily enough.
“One day Brother, the lad will leave home. He’ll make his own path, and that path might very well take him to Greece. Perhaps this would be a way to tell him things your way.”
“I will not lie,” he affirmed. He would not build on a foundation of falsehoods. He would never be that kind of God.
“Not lie,” Mimir agreed. “But tell things on your terms. Explain things. Better you than your enemies.”
“Hrm.” Kratos didn’t dismiss the idea. It had merit, even if he would have preferred to simply be home.
But unfortunately… even if he was home, Mimir was right. One day, Atreus would make his own way. And his path might take him to Greece. And he may very well find things there the God would rather remain buried forever in the darkness of the past.
“Just think about it, Brother. For now, you have time, and that's more than many can say.”
Again, the head was right.
Kratos moved towards the fireplace. There was enough wood to make it burn for more warmth for at least three days. Kraft - if Kratos understood things correctly - had insisted that even if they left tomorrow, they needed to leave this cottage waystation in a condition to receive its next visitors.
And so he, Stark, and Kraft had gathered a surplus of wood, Fern had dried meat, and Frieren had conjured a field of medicinal herbs. All were stored in place now.
So throwing a few more logs on the fire, Kratos hoped to make the cottage interior warm enough to relax. Because while he could endure the cold, that didn’t mean he couldn’t enjoy the heat of the flame.
“By the way Brother; I found out something interesting.”
“Hm?”
“The elves. Well- these elves, here. Ours only live for a few centuries. But Frieren, and I imagine Kraft too, they’re old, brother.”
“How old?”
“Older than you at least-” The head said.
Kratos turned his head to look over his shoulder at Mimir with a raised eyebrow.
If the head could nod, he'd be doing it now. “Aye, by a few centuries in Frieren’s case. Kraft I’m not sure, but he looks like a grown man, whereas Lady Frieren looks much younger than him.”
Older than him… That was… difficult to believe.
In fact he-
“I… do not recall how old I am,” he admitted. He’d stopped counting, somewhere past three hundred.
“Greece happened roughly nine centuries ago, give or take a decade. Which means, you’re knocking on somewhere around a millenia, Brother.”
“And Frieren is older than that?”
“Aye… at least if I’m understanding things right. While circumstances might be different, mayhaps you can ask her for advice, or Kraft.
Vividly, Kratos remembered the icy, cold look in the elf’s eyes as she commanded the creature to behead itself. A look that was different from his cold rage of centuries past, but all too familiar in the callous ease with which it viewed death.
“Miss Frieren!”
The door was thrown open, and the elf waddled in, still riding her tortoise, a rather stupid smile on her face.
“I never have to walk again!” She declared giggling as the spirit turtle continued its slow, inexorable march into the abode. It easily dominated the tiny space, its rider giggling like a fool while the tortoise looked far too pleased with itself, as much as such an animal could look pleased.
“Uhh, its making plants on the floor!”
Utterly ridiculous.
“Well…” Mimir trailed off. “Older doesn’t necessarily mean more mature…”
Kratos snorted.
—
That night, as they huddled and shared a meal around the fireplace, Kratos listened with one ear to half understood conversations.
“Flying? You think I can learn flying?”
“If you can use our Magic, I don't see why not. It’d actually be an invaluable skill for an archer. You have the potential to be quite versatile in your skillset.”
“Yeah no kidding. Not to mention the lightning arrows and summons. If you can multitask, you’ll be a real powerhouse.”
-
“Mimir; I’m curious. What other stories do you have from your homeland?”
“Trade for Trade? I tell you one, and you tell me one?”
“Of course.”
“Well let's see- Ahhhh, yes. I’ve told you some of our Gods. Let me tell ya the story of how Skadi, the Giantess, learned to laugh again, by tying Forsetti’s testicles to a goat and smacking it hard on the behind-”
-
The words flowed like mead in a hall around him, only half understood as he ate in silence.
Then, a touch on his arm.
“Mr. Kratos?”
The God of war opened his eyes, turning his gaze towards Fern, who held out her hand.
He thought of rejecting her for a moment. He did not like the idea of others prying into his mind, even with a seemingly benign spell like this one.
But then, curiosity won him over. It was rare for the girl to approach him.
So, he held out his hand. The touch of her fingers ghosting over his palm.
“Yes?”
Fern stiffened where she sat beside him. “W-well… Everyone was engaged in conversation, and it seems rude to leave you out of it. You seemed lonely.”
The God of war startled, surprised by the girl's sentiment and consideration.
He took a moment, wondering how he should respond. “You are… very kind. It does you credit.”
The girl didn’t quite puff up with pride, but a small smile flitted across her features, pleased. “Master Heiter always said if you can help someone, you owe it to yourself to try. Even in small ways.”
That name; Heiter,” he nodded. “I’ve heard it before. Was he your father?”
Fern shook her head. “He was… a good man.”
Kratos was unsure what to say. He was never one for conversation, usually letting others fill in the silences if they wished. So he prompted her into doing just that.
“Tell me of him.”
Her features softened, and he could tell just by looking at her, she delved back into fond memories as she spoke.
Kind. Honest. Gentle.
He was not her father. But she spoke of him as if he were.
“You remind me of him sometimes.”
That he could not believe.
She must’ve sensed his incredulity, even through his silence. “You’re quieter. More serious. But when I watch you with Mr. Atreus sometimes…” She shrugged. “I don’t know. It’s stupid, maybe.”
“No,” he said. Even though he did not believe she was right, he understood a well meaning sentiment. “Thank you.”
She smiled, and as the conversations drifted through the air from the others, they ate and watched in comfortable silence. (X)(X)(X)Whoops, I didn't press the Publish button yesterday. My bad. But here we get a nice quiet moment between Kratos and Mimir and then Fern/Mimir.