"You have found your peace?" Kratos asked. Thunder rumbled nearby. The heavy rain and the many beasts along their path made the journey back down difficult; after fighting off a family of Grim, who seemed to thrive in the weather, they decided to wait for the storm to settle before continuing, seeking shelter inside a grotto halfway down the mountain.
"I have," Freya said. She did not need time to think. Their eyes met again and… she turned away quickly but Kratos did not. Her attention turned to the rain, her hand reaching for it as if it were a great delicacy. "It should be you sitting in that chair," she said suddenly, abruptly. He looked away as she faced him again. She wanted–expected–him to join the council the moment it formed. But he refused the title, many times. Politician he was not; politician he would not become in these foreign lands.
"I will not," he said, a bit too harshly for his own liking. He hummed his apology.
She touched his arm. "You have a voice here, Kratos. Use it."
He turned hotly back to her and–there was that whiff again, her scent–flowers, daisies; and sweat from their long journey. Mixed with the rain and other odors in nature. He could argue with her, tell her why he did the things that he did. But she knew him almost better than he knew himself. She knew all of his lines, all of his disgruntles.
The moment passed, the irritation faded. The rain was still falling. And she did not remove her hand from his arm.
She kissed him in Vanaheim, unexpectedly, after… and he did not pull away. He was the God who killed other Gods. More importantly, he was the God who killed her son. He could not change that–would not change that. But, she was not looking away. Not like before.
They came together easily, naturally. He touched her thigh, she rested her hand on his waist, perfectly molding into each other. The kiss was hesitant, gentle–lips simply brushing together, again and again and again until she melted into him. They parted, for a moment to catch their breath, and their eyes met once more. The harsh wind, the falling rain moved around them, but they remained still. Kratos hummed, finally, and she nodded her approval for them to continue. He guided her down, his kisses more urgent, less wavering now; she fervently matched his movements. He gripped her thigh, her legs parted, and…
"The choice will be mine, Kratos," Freya whispered to him. "Whatever happens, whatever the future holds for me, for us, it is I who decides my fate." He answered her with a muffled groan, moving to kiss her chin, her hair, her neck. And she grabbed his face firmly. Her brown eyes screamed up at him, a desperate plea he knew too well, begging for him to agree. "I get to decide this time."
In the distance, white light flickered, followed by the gentle rumble of thunder. Kratos nodded. "Yes," he said, shifting off her slightly so they were side by side. She draped her leg over his hip and he grasped her lower back to pull her closer. "You will decide."
Pushing garments aside, skin scraping against the rocky surface–he kissed her the entire time, even when the rain stopped and they were gasping for air. Her release came quick and quiet: she tightened around him, pulled him deeper inside, then whimpered softly in his ear, sounding more animal than Goddess. He would follow her quickly.
"Kratos. Oh, Kratos, don't…" Freya spoke in a daze when his thrusts became more frenetic, his breathing becoming heavy.
He pulled away just before his release, understanding her mumbling. To bear the child of the God who killed her first, it was a cruel fate to anyone looking in. She grasped him firmly, her hands pumping until his seed spurted out onto her stomach. He collapsed beside her.
Storm clouds faded and the sun shone brightly above them. Kratos steadied his breathing. Silence surrounded them now, almost haunting them, and he wondered how to move forward. In Vanaheim, she simply left after their kiss; they did not speak of it again. She now smelled of flowers, sweat, and sex. If they should never speak of this again, it would be a scent that haunted him for the rest of his days.
She tittered and he turned to her, wondering what could be so humorous. "You smell like flowers now," she told him quietly.
He smirked. Their fingers intertwined.
They cleaned themselves, then continued their journey down the mountain. The air was different after the storm; the creatures along the path were few and easy to manage. The way they moved together, the way they spoke, was forever changed. He helped her jump from the cliff, catching her as she fell, even though both knew she was perfectly capable of landing on her own. And she touched his back to steady him against the wall as they moved across the ledge. It was different… It was pleasant.
Lúnda and Mimir were deep in conversation when they arrived back at her shop. The two quieted as the couple approached. "Glad you made it back in one piece," said Mimir, as Kratos secured him to his belt. "That storm was quite ferocious."
"Yes," said Freya softly.
"No Sindri, I see."
"He did not want the position," said Kratos, glancing at Freya. But that was a battle for another day.
He removed his axe for the dwarf to sharpen. "Need anything else?" asked Lúnda when she completed the task. "Need some of that armor polished? Maybe just something to soothe your lips?" Her eyebrows rose and her eyes pointed at Freya. Mimir paid his debts with gossip about Vanaheim. Clearly. He would have a word with him later. He took out his payment, wanting only to escape her incessant chattering. "Eh, free of charge today. Mimir here was nice enough to pay more than I asked him to."
Kratos growled, placing the hacksilver on the table anyway. "Others do not pay for me."
They moved on to the gateway and Mimir sniffed. "Have you been rolling around in daisies, brother?" he asked.
"Mimir," said Freya.
"Aye, lass?"
"Shut up," Kratos and Freya said in unison as they entered the portal. The severed head quieted. Bright light blinded them. Home was just a few steps away.