Chapter 22:
Mimir:
The City of Vorig was quite grand, in its way. Tall walls, with buildings that grew up like a towering layered cake, a river that circled it on three sides leading to a grand lake on its south eastern side.
It was beautiful really, straight out of a painting, and the idilic scene only added to the calm feeling of peace that followed the group now that questions had been answered and minds were, mostly set at ease.
Sein was still reserved, and cold to a degree that saddened Mimir truth be told, but there was nothing for it but to let the Priest process in his own time and in his own way; he would come to terms with what had been revealed when he was ready, and if that moment never came well, Mimir would be sad, but it would do no one any good to force the issue.
In contrast, Stark had adjusted fairly seamlessly to what had been revealed, his profuse apologies to Kratos aside, even now he walked side by side with Atreus, with the boy scratching at the back of Gratitudes ears and Atreus telling him exactly how appreciative the blue Ox was to his efforts.
Fern for her part was as inscrutable as ever, but her actions often displayed her mood and he’d caught her once or twice walking besides Kratos and Kratos not minding her company, it was as solid a declaration of continued good will as a speech in a public Forum would be for the both of them.
And then for Frieren- it was like nothing had changed at all really.
Infact; the truth of who they were, that they were Gods, the reality of the Soul, of afterlife, it seemed only to serve as evidence to the existence of their Journey’s ultimate goal-
“There it is-” The elf sighed as they crested what was the final hill between them and- “-Vorig. This would mark just around the halfway point between us and Aureole.”
“Halfway?” Fern’s voice sounded dismayed. “This… really is a long journey.”
“Still, it’s a good place to restock on supplies.” The elf declared.
If Mimir would have paid a bit more attention he might have noticed that Fern took a quick breath to say something, alas, he didn’t and so, the subject of supplies brought up the thought of finances and so, he spoke right over the girl with a question that had been niggling the back of his mind.
“Lady Frieren-” He began. “I’m curious.Why do you accept… well, frankly, seemingly useless Grimoires and spells as payment so often?”
He had his own theories of course; but it often times helped to hear it from someone themselves, it was usually enlightening.
“There are quite a few reasons. But no spell is truly useless.” She said.
Not a direct answer; a dodge, interesting.
“The spell that let you turn pages for example, when you couldn’t do it.” Frieren nodded. “Many would consider that spell useless. But you needed it.”
“A fair point.” He conceded, smiling. He did love that spell, he even still used it now. Large fingers with no feeling weren’t particularly dextrous. “But is that truly all? All spells are useful and so they must be learned?”
She was silent for a moment.
“It’s a hobby.” She finally said. “Before I took it up… My life was rather uneventful.”
Mimir’s head rose. “Ahh.”
The Elf turned to look at him, blinking somewhat owlishly. “What is it?”
Mimir smiled at her. “You’re still young.” He answered, as if that explained everything.
Frieren raised an eyebrow that had the barest hint of incredulity.
Mimir shrugged. “Immortals… need purpose. Even silly ones.” He explained. “The years become eternal, and our immortality a curse otherwise.”
“Its not silly.” She defended and there he could almost hear the pout in her voice. She really was young. .
He smiled. “No. You’re right… still. It is true… we don't do well without purpose.”
“Sounds like you’re speaking from experience” She said, turning it around on him.
He nodded. “Aye it’s- oh!”
A horse drawn; well, it wasn’t exactly a cart, far too fancy and it didn’t look like it was transporting, no it had a person inside.
“That’s a Noble’s carriage.” Stark muttered.
Carriage. What an odd name. And it was something used by the nobility- that made sense. Horses were expensive and the craftsmanship of the wood was quite exquisite to his eye.
A man stepped out, red of hair and missing one eye, with a patch over it, followed by an elderly gentlemen, dressed in the way servants to noble’s did dress in this land.
“You there.” The Noble barked, and it took everyone a moment to recognize that he wasn’t actually addressing Kratos, or Frieren, or even Mimir. No.
The man was talking to Stark.
The Noble approached the boy past the point that it would be considered intrusive and looked him up and down, even as Stark moved to take a step back.
Then the Noble and his servant started… well… touching the very startled boy.
“EXCUSE YOU!” Stark squawked “WHAT?”
“Good physique-” The Noble spoke as if he hadn’t heard Stark at all. “His features match, Height nearly identical.”
Then without preamble, the man stood up, stared Stark dead in the eye and placed his hand on the boy’s shoulder.
This was quite bizarre even by Mimir’s lofty standards.
“Get in.” The man said with the air of an individual who very very rarely heard the word ‘No’ directed his way. Mimir knew the type.. “We’ll discuss things at my mansion.”
Stark looked utterly flabbergasted.
“DOES ANYONE CARE TO EXPLAIN!?”
—
They did, in the end, acquiesce and get in the man’s carriage to go to the mansion… well… Three of them rode the carriage. Fern, Stark and Atreus. Stark because he was a person of interest, Fern because she did not wish to leave Stark alone with the strange nobleman and Atreus because he’d never ridden in a carriage before.
Neither had Mimir… but he was fairly sure his body would crush the transportation device with his weight.
The rest of them rode in Brok and Sindri’s cart.
The guards did not give them trouble, not even checking at the gate, and the Manse they were led to was truly something to behold. It had enough room to possibly fit all the Gods of the Aesir, perhaps some of the Vanir too.
There were at least fifty staff that greeted them by his count, all bowing towards the Noble who led them inside. The room they were escorted to was large, well furnished, the floors were polished wood, the columns of the walls Marble.
It truly was a beautiful home and Mimir couldn’t help but admire it’s architecture now that he could actually see so much more of it than he would have from Kratos’ belt.
“What is your name lad?” The Noble finally asked after they’d sat down and tea was served.
The Servants did infact give Mimir a few odd looks, but he didn’t begrudge them that, he would now forevermore be a strange sight for all.
“My name is Stark.” The very glum and confused boy answered.
“Lord Orden sir; you cannot hold us without reason.” Frieren stated calmly and the words surprised Mimir.
“Oh- is this some form of arrest?” The words slipped out of him before he really recognized he’d spoken, it was all so odd that… well… even he was a bit off his normal poise really.
If it was an arrest; it was certainly the most unique version he’d ever seen- cultures truly could be very unique. Offering tea to arrestees.
“It is not.” The Noble said, before turning his one eye to Frieren. “You know me? It seems I need no introduction.”
“This Mansion belongs to the Orden Family.” Frieren explained and the name sparked something in Mimir’s memory. Orden was one of the three great families of the North; at least according to his reading. They were the southernmost family of the three, and thus were considered the last line of defense between the Demons of the North and the rest of the south.
Frieren’s voice dipped into a dry, somewhat annoyed tone. “Your Grandfather was pushy too.”
The Noble raised an eyebrow but dismissed the words quite readily, turning towards Stark once more. “Let’s get down to business, I have a proposal for you Stark, and I’ll pay well for your services.”
Frieren then stood from her seat. “No offense intended Lord Orden, but this is absurd and we do not have time for it. Stark; we’re leavin-”
“Mistress Frieren…” Fern held up five miserly copper coins in one hand, staring at her mistress with a rather pointed look.
Frieren looked at the coinage. “What’s with the coppers?”
“That would be the last of our funds.” Sein answered drily, taking a sip of tea.
With an admirable level of poise, dignity and feigned aloofness, Frieren rather primly took her seat once more. “I suppose we can hear you out.”
—
“The Resemblance is uncanny.” Mimir muttered
“This is my son, Wirt.” Lord Orden explained as they looked on the rather sizable portrait of said son; a son that looked so much like Stark they could have been twins. “There was a battle recently-” The man said. “Wirt… did not survive.”
“I take it that this is the crux of your proposal.” Frieren said softly.
“Hmm.” Lord Orden nodded. “Vorig is a fortress city. One of the keystones to the defenses of this land. Morale, the spirit of our men must hold, and it wont do that if word escapes about Wirt’s fate before we can recoup and retrain men to replace those we lost.” He turned his gaze towards Stark. “Three months from now, a soiree is to be held at the mansion. If Stark poses as Wirt, the world will see he is alive and well.”
The man sighed through his nostrils. “We clean him up, teach him etiquette and dance… no one but very close family will know the difference.”
“What’s your offer?” Frieren asked.
“Ten Strhal Gold.”
Fern grasped Frieren’s arm and Mimir overheard her heated whisper. “That’s three meals a day for a full year!” She excitedly hissed.
“H-hold on!” Stark suddenly shouted. “I’m not your guy! Everyone is gonna see this giant freaking scar on my head-”
“Wirt led the battle and is now recovering as far as anyone knows.” Orden answered. “That is an honorable battle scar… proof of deed.”
Stark flinched.
“Mr. Stark.” Fern said. “We could use the money.”
Now the boy looked miserable, knowing he was going to say yes.
“Sweeten the deal with a Grimoire!” Frieren suddenly demanded.
“You can have your pick of the library once we’re done.” Orden declared before turning to his manservant. “Gabel. You will oversee the boy’s etiquette and dance training.”
For the first time since the conversation took off Atreus patted Stark on the shoulder. “Good luck.”
“You will join him.”
Mimir saw the brief moment of utter confusion on Atreus’ face before he blanched and turned, staring at his dead serious father.
“What!?” The boy squeaked.
Kratos was unmoved. “A man must know to dance as well as fight.”
The poor boy spluttered, like he couldn’t quite find the words. “Y-you dont- That’s wha! You dont know how to dance this dance!”
Kratos nodded. “Very well. We will join.”
Mimir dearly hoped there was some spell to freeze a moment in time for one to recall forever. Because Atreus’ face in this moment (and likely Mimir’s as well) was truly priceless.