The snow was numb on his face and so cold that it felt hot. No more death, he vowed long ago when he was only a boy, still mourning his mother. When he killed the man trying to kill him: the face he made as he took his last breath; the face he made as his frozen body rose again. The moment father killed Baldur. And when he saw the light fade from Brok's eyes, he promised himself again and again and again. No more death.

How did they even get here? In the snow with his foot crushing his lower back?

Was it because he killed Modi? Maybe if he hadn't killed Thor's son, then father wouldn't have killed Baldur. Fimbulwinter would've never started. And Brok would be here, alive, drinking lousy beer and teaching him words no honest man would ever repeat–

A kick, a grunt, a snicker brought him, briefly, away from his thoughts. He clutched his stomach, his bruised lungs begging for air, searching for some kind of release. He heard the swinging of Váli's flail and closed his eyes, ready. No more death , he thought, removing his sword from his belt and swinging. Váli stumbled back, clutching his now bloodied cheek. And Atreus stood tall, breathless, tired. It had been a long journey back to Midgard, and an even longer battle with Váli, who, it seemed, was in a constant state of vengeance toward him. His mistakes from his youth haunt him even now—they haunted him back then, too.

But no more death, no more death , he would vow, he would beg , until his last breath. He spit the blood from his mouth when the God did not immediately retaliate, thinking maybe–finally–the fight was over. "Are we done here?"

Váli breathed, a hard sigh. And, for a moment, he had a look of defeat, of sorrow in his bright blue eyes. Eyes Atreus knew from before. Desperation he had seen before, long ago. A vision of hands strangling Freya's neck flashed before him. But the look faded, quickly, and he swung halfheartedly. Atreus summoned his shield before any spikes penetrated his stomach, sending him flying into the air. He landed with a hard "Oof!" among branches and leaves a few acres away. Birds chirped in the trees above him, frightened by the sudden disturbance. He waited to see if Váli would continue; and when there was nothing, only the birds above him, he knew the God, once again, vanished. "Okay," mumbled Atreus, tottering his way back up, "guess now we're done." He stretched, popping bones back into their rightful places.

They'd been fighting for almost a year now, each battle always ending in a draw, for neither had the will to kill the other. That was what Atreus told himself, at least. He was Baldur's younger brother, Odin's son, out seeking revenge on Loki, the God who destroyed his family. He was never known to linger though, always arriving with the intent to kill but vanishing when the time came for it. He was no killer, no fighter–at least not without cause–but he was no friend, either.

He was young, maybe even younger than Atreus. They hadn't met in Alfheim. And Odin never mentioned any other sons but… Odin didn't seem like the type to boast about any of his children. The first attack was some time ago, in another land ruled by other Gods. He then kept at it. Again and again, and again. He was driven by vengeance without the proper strength to wield it—he could see his father saying that to him, with a stern look and a hard grunt afterwards.

But Váli was not the reason for his return. He touched his necklace, stroking the arrowhead with his thumb. A deep dread filled his soul before a rustling in the bushes behind him brought his attention back to Váli. He gripped his sword, preparing for another swing.

Sword clashed with axe–and sparks flew–as he came face to face with familiar plucky eyes. "Father," he said, immediately letting his guard down.

His father softened. "Atreus." He tossed his axe aside to bring his son into a warm embrace. His touch, the familiar scent of his father: mostly sweat and blood… and, is that, flowers? It brought him home instantly. He closed his eyes, feeling, for the first time in a long time, safe. "Have you completed your journey? You have found the Giants?"

He pulled away, the dread returning to him. "Well, not exactly," he said, rubbing the back of his neck. Following dead end after dead end, it had been six years since he started his journey and felt as if he were still only at the beginning. And then he was pulled away, forced to return to Midgard, when it felt like he was finally on the true path to finding his people, in a place so unlike his homeland. All because of prophecy. All because of fate. All because of a silly dream he had.

His father sensed his hesitancy. He summoned his axe and returned it to its holder behind his back. "We will discuss it later," he said, understanding. "Come. Let us return home."

" Home ," Atreus echoed. He followed his father as he started down the path. The forest around him felt familiar while also feeling so brand new. Something felt off: the birds in the trees instantly told him, even before he invaded their space. "It's quiet," he said, and his father hummed in agreement. He thought, at least by now, there would be villages, people returning, and more animals. The weather felt cold, but not like before, not like it was during Fimbulwinter. "Where is everyone?"

"There was a village not far from here," explained his father. "Raiders attacked and burned it to the ground several months ago. I thought you were them. I thought they might have returned." Atreus felt his stomach tighten; he would tell him about Váli, later when everything else was settled and he was sure Freya wouldn't… He didn't want to think of it. Couldn't . Not now. Not when he just got back. "Survivors were transported to a safer location near the mountain where the Nine could protect them."

"The Nine? Angrboda told me about them." He remembered she told him about her grandmother, Grýla, joining the Council. "Her grandmother's a member, isn't she? How did they manage that?"

His father hesitated. "It was… difficult."

Atreus could only imagine the great battle that must have ensued when finally confronting Grýla. Fighting her was not an easy task, and he was just a kid. Angrboda made amends with her grandmother some time ago. She probably had some part in recruiting her. "Who else joined?"

"Sif. Beyla. Hildisvíni. Durlin," he began listing their names, all of whom Atreus couldn't wait to see. It had been so long, and he missed them dearly. "Mimir." Some more than others. "Tÿr." He hummed, then clarified: "The real Tÿr." He hopped down the snowy overhang and landed with a grunt in the heavy snow.

A brief sadness filled Atreus as he followed his father down, then guilt for what happened to Brok. For what happened to Sindri. "You found him? Where?"

"Odin imprisoned him in Niflheim. We freed him shortly after–"

A disgruntled troll awakening from its slumber silenced his speech. He summoned his axe while his son drew out his sword as the troll rose from the snow. The troll swung its totem. Both Atreus and his father rolled opposite from one another to avoid it. His father aimed his axe at the troll's stomach, and the creature stumbled near Atreus. He swung his sword to sever its arm; it fell still gripping the totem. As the creature tumbled forward, his father moved swiftly to decapitate it. The troll dissipated before their eyes. His father grunted, satisfied.

"You are stronger," noted his father, sounding almost proud.

"You've only said seven," said Atreus as his father collected the loot the troll left behind.

"Hm?"

"Of the Nine," he said. "There's still two spots left."

"Freya"–he said her name so delicately–"is the eighth." Discomfort settled in his stomach. Should he tell him about the prophecy? Maybe he could help. Maybe he could stop it.

They continued in the direction of home . It all felt so familiar: the wind, the trees, the muddy snow, it was like he never left. But something felt off. The wind, the trees, the snow, even father, they stayed exactly the same, minus Fimbulwinter… No. It must be Atreus, Loki , who changed. Twenty now, he was nearly a man, and barely, he felt, a God–with stubble on his chin, which took about six months to finally look unmannered. He experienced more life than he had the nerve to share with his father.

"And the ninth?" he said when his father did not continue.

They entered the cave, a cave he had entered many times before, but it felt smaller than he remembered. He hunched lower, squeezing his way inside. He grew in the six years since Ragnarök. Taller than his own father, even. If Brok could see him, he'd say he looked more giant than man now. He was a Giant…

"They do not have a ninth," his father spoke, his voice echoing as they moved inside the cave.

He smelled the flowers again, he smelled Freya, as they emerged from the cave. "You should be the ninth."

His father grunted, turning away.

A wolf he did not recognize with white fur and brown eyes greeted him instantly, as if he were an old friend, licking his face and sniffing his clothes. "Wax," Atreus echoed her name back to her. He turned to his father. "Kind of a funny name for a wolf, don't you think?"

His father hummed, almost in agreement, as he started up the hill, a trail of wild flowers guiding him to the wooden house. His rough hand touched a singular daisy among the bed of flowers beside him, stopping to examine its delicacy, then continuing on as if he hadn't. "I did not name her."

Atreus watched him for a moment, his eyebrows raising as he suddenly realized but… Wax started tugging at his sleeve and whimpering for him to start moving. He patted the wolf's head, and they followed him up.

Home looked almost brand new: the grass looked brighter and longer than he remembered it ever being, even before Fimbulwinter, and the snow felt less invasive. Freya must have cast some sort of spell to keep the plants from dying.

And he replaced the damaged wood, finally. Knowing dad, it probably collapsed on him before he felt the need to fix it. It looked stronger, more sturdy than before. Freya must have also had some part in refurbishing, because green vines inhabited the rooftop and dangled off the edge. He even had livestock: a singular goat with four horns instead of two, eating grass in the gated area where they often used to train. Lastly, there was a garden near the mystic gateway. He thought of his mother instantly: a hunter, not a gatherer, and a slight undesired aggression settled within him. She wouldn't recognize this place. It wasn't her home anymore.

"Come," said his father, leading him toward the house, "we will–"

"I'm here because… of Freya," he confessed abruptly, which made his father stop and turn to him. Wax continued on up toward the house, cheerfully vocalizing her excitement.

His father stood silent for a moment, before softly asking, "What do you mean?"

Atreus hesitated. "Angrboda spoke of a dream she had."

"A dream?"

"A prophecy, actually," he elaborated, "about… Freya. I dreamt it too, but–"

He fell silent as the door to the house opened and Freya exited with Mimir at her hip and a basket of food dangling from her arm.

"Do my eyes deceive me or is that… no? It couldn't be." Freya unhooked him from her hip and lifted him for a better view.

"Hey Mimir," he greeted.

"Little brother! I'd hug you if I still had my limbs." His eyes look up at Freya. "Do me a favor, lass, and give this lofty fellow a hug for me."

Her embrace felt warm, motherly even; almost like… He pulled away before the thought bloomed into anything unwanted. "So, I take it this means you've found the Giants?" Mimir continued.

He shifted awkwardly. "Well, um, no…"

"Mimir," came his father's calm order for silence.

Freya nodded in understanding, moving toward the mystic gateway. "We're dropping off supplies for Sindri. We shouldn't be too long."

"You're going to see Sindri," said Atreus, following her. "How is he?"

Their last encounter was at Ragnarök, and it didn't exactly go as he hoped. Sindri turned angry, vengeful after Brok's death. And Atreus was the direct cause of his pain.

Father hummed his answer. Freya bowed her head, avoiding his eyes. He felt something twist inside him: guilt, remorse for a past he could not change. If it hadn't been for… If he hadn't…

No more death.

"Well, tell him hi for me anyway."

Freya opened the gateway and a familiar bright light beamed out of it. "Sure thing, brother," said Mimir, now back on Freya's hip.

Freya smiled before her attention returned to his father; a sparkle in her eyes appeared as she gave him a wordless farewell. Father nodded, then grunted his own goodbye. Goddess and severed head disappeared into the light soon after.

Father's eyes still lingered on the now closed gateway. It must have happened right after he left. They never talked about that stuff. Intimacy was sort of Mimir's expertise. What would mom think?

"Come on," he said, setting any unwanted feelings aside and opening the gateway. "There's something I need to show you."

He opened Jötunheim and his father followed him into the blinding white light. They stood awkwardly, awaiting for the portal to open.

"You are well, Atreus?" his father asked eventually.

"Yeah." Something bubbled inside him. So much change. And he wasn't even acknowledging it.

"And… you are eating?"

"Do you love her? Freya, I mean?" It was abrupt, he knew, but he needed to know. Not just for his own sake but for the entire nine realms.

"I do," he answered quietly, almost guiltily after a moment.

"Good," said Atreus. His father looked up at him, surprised. "Maybe… you can convince her not to go through with it."

"Go through with what?"

The gate opened and he exited. His father followed.