Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Freya moved through the hanging curtains of the longhouse with a frustrated swiftness that Kratos could sense as though it were his own. The tension bristled off her in waves, and though his instinct was to follow close, he was mindful to keep a respectful distance. The rest of the council members were not so considerate. 

Sif and Hildisvini were at her heels, their voices mingling in a sharp, grating cacophony that made Kratos bristle.

It was still a strange, uncomfortable position for him; reclaiming a title he had long sought to erase. A voice to be heard within the council Freya had toiled over to assemble. 

Even so, his words remained as sparse as they were before, no matter his place at Freya’s side, and he did not know what to make of the clamor of voices overlapping. 

His hands itched for the certainty of a weapon, something to channel the energy coiling within him.

Sif’s voice cut sharp above the noise, drawing Kratos’ attention. “We agreed it would be for the benefit of everyone,” she pressed, her eyes fixed on Freya with the intensity of a blade. “Not just the Aesir. Not just for the Vanir. For the realm.”

“We wouldn’t press the issue if we had any other choice, Freya,” Hildisvini said, his voice quiet and grim. “It’s not something I take any pleasure in suggesting.”

He had heard talks of it in the past week; the soil would not yield as expected. The crops in the outer villages were withering. He saw the tension tightening in Freya’s shoulders with each new report from the farmers, the deep furrow of concern and confusion in her brows when they spoke of each failed harvest. He did not know then, and still he did not know now—why.

He remembered each journey they had made together to the outer villages. The way Freya would bend to the earth; the way her fingers would burrow deep within the soil, coming away with dirt under her nails. The way her shoulders had trembled by the end, the sweat building at her brow from the effort it would take for her to push her magic into the soil.

“We survived Fimbulwinter, and Ragnarok. We can survive this,” Freya insisted.

“We had fewer mouths to feed then,” Hildisvini replied. “We can’t rebuild if our people are starving.”

Kratos noted the subtle hesitation in Freya’s expression—a brief pause, the tight purse of her lips, the furrow in her brow deepening. Byggvir and Beyla had yet to offer their opinion, but the tension from them hung in the air like a looming storm.

Sif’s voice struck again, each word more cutting than the last. “Think of it as a consort. A lover. Just that. Nothing more.”

Freya's reply was sharp, almost brittle. “I will not let anyone else choose my path for me again. If I must do this…then Vanaheim chooses for itself.”

Kratos paused, furrowing his brows deeply when the realization came to him. He took Mimir from his belt and held the bard close to his face, his voice a deep, incredulous rumble. “What are they speaking of?”

“It sounds to me as if Vanaheim’s in a bit of a dry spell,” Mimir muttered. “The land’s fightin’ against the farmers. The soil’s..er…not quite as fertile as it ought tae be.”

Kratos eyed Mimir warily. “What are they expecting of Freya?”

Mimir coughed faintly, and Kratos thought for a moment that the head was blushing. “Well… fertility.”

He gritted his teeth. “That does not explain anything.”

“Well…” Mimir coughed. “Well. I think you can imagine what it might entail.” His bifrost eyes rolled towards Freya. “There are certain er… rituals that serve tae revitalize the realm’s productivity. Rituals that require a fair bit of… intimacy with another.”

Kratos’ gaze hardened; his grip on Mimir’s rope tightened. “They would press Freya for marriage… again?”

“Not specifically marriage,” Mimir muttered. “But I suppose it would be ideal.”

Kratos grunted, and felt the disapproval curling his lips into a scowl. “Have they learned nothing?”

“Clearly not.”

Kratos watched Freya intently. Her shoulders had drawn upward, nearly to her ears, and he could see the rapid flick of her eyes as she surveyed the room. That look—he knew it all too well. Freya was preparing for a battle she didn’t want to fight, one she’d fought time and again in her own way.

The moment came when the voices quieted, and Kratos finally spoke, his deep baritone cutting through the thick air. “These are... traditions, are they not? Traditions can be changed.”

Freya’s sigh came after a tense silence. She seemed relieved, as if she had expected him to abide by the council's opinion. "In any other situation, yes," she admitted, a grimace twisting her lips. "It would be easy enough to... remake our beliefs. To adjust them to our needs." She tipped her head. "But this... is beyond mere tradition."

Kratos' brows knitted in confusion. He had seen traditions torn apart by war, by survival itself, and reforged anew by necessity. How could this be different? 

Slowly, he asked, “How would this…heal Vanaheim?”

Freya’s voice softened, heavy with a deep-seated weight. "Our blood is bound to the land. People speak of Odin creating the realms from Ymir's flesh, but it was not just him. My father... his father before him...Vanaheim came from their flesh.” She sighed, and it was a sound heavy with grief. “I am the last of our line. Without new blood, Vanaheim may wither and die. It will become a barren wasteland, and our people will starve into extinction.”

“It has endured all this while,” he grunted. “What has changed?”

It was Sif who replied. “The heavier population, for one.” She looked between him and Freya, and gestured towards the broad expanse of the council room’s high ceilings. “Vanaheim hasn’t had time to recover from the einherjar occupation. The destruction of an entire realm shakes the roots of Yggdrasil itself.”

“The farmers along the outer villages have been struggling,” Hildisvini said. “The weather has been harsh; the soil won’t yield the way it should. Even with Freya’s magic, it would be a temporary solution at best. We cannot keep pushing her to expend her magic and energy on nurturing the soil.”

His question went to Freya, low and grim. “What is expected of you?” 

Freya sighed, pinching her brow between her fingers and kneading. She seemed to be steeling herself to respond; and the sight made a deep wave of protectiveness surge in his chest. “For now…we’ll hope that a physical connection will be enough.”

He frowned. “It needs you to…lie with someone?”

Freya’s cheeks colored, and it was a great struggle for her to meet his gaze. “I’m a fertility goddess,” she said, rather helplessly. “Fertility rituals are expected.”

“And this…will help Vanaheim?”

Freya tipped her head. “We hope. If we’re lucky, it should sort itself out, once I reconnect with the land. If not…”

“If not?”

Hildisvini stepped forward and laid a comforting hand on Freya’s shoulder, squeezing gently. His words were soft, almost rueful. “It may require a…continuation of the bloodline. Lands aren’t always tied to blood, but Vanaheim has always had a deeper connection to its people than the other realms. Without Freya’s bloodline, it…falters.”

Kratos frowned, the knot of unease in his chest tightening. “Your brother,” he began, though the words felt oddly hollow, “he did not wed?”

Freya’s eyes darkened with a mix of regret and resignation. “Freyr was not one to be tied down, as he put it.”

Mimir cleared his throat, and Kratos set the head carefully upon the closest table. “Aye, given his history with past romances, I imagine neither matrimony nor monogamy suited the lad.”

Freya nodded faintly. “Despite his reputation, Freyr was…careful. A hopeless romantic, remember?”

Kratos’ lips pressed into a thin line. “And he did not sire children?”

“None that I’ve seen. None that I’ve felt.” Her voice faltered, and she looked away, the weight of her words hanging between them. "If there were any…Vanaheim would have called to them. It shouldn’t be this desperate."

Quietly, reluctantly, he asked, “...what of Forseti?”

Freya went still, her breath sharp as she turned her face away as if he had struck her. He watched the elegant line of her throat shift, the hard swallow of grief that ate even at her words. “Forseti wants nothing to do with Vanaheim.”

“Perhaps it’s best it stays that way,” Hildisvini muttered quietly, squeezing Freya’s shoulder once more.

Kratos' fists clenched at his sides. The council’s proposition had seemed hollow to him at first, but now the gravity of the situation bore down on him like a weight he hadn’t anticipated. “It is a heavy price Vanaheim asks of you.”

Freya’s gaze met his, a mixture of sadness and determination. “It’s not just a price anymore,” she murmured. “It’s duty.”

Kratos’ jaw tightened at the word. Duty. How many times had he been bound by that word, shackled to it like a chain around his throat? And now, Freya—once again being asked to give of herself for the sake of others.

“Forgive me for being a mere head on a belt, but I think I speak for us all when I say that doing anything for the sake of mere ‘duty’ isn’t all it’s cracked up to be,” Mimir drawled. “Especially not when it involves brokering marriages.”

“No one said anything about marriage,” Sif retorted. “We’re just asking her to fuck someone.”

Kratos cast a glare in Sif’s direction. The tension between them was no secret; the simmering resentment from his role in Thor’s death. He was at least assured in the peace that had built between her and Freya. But precious little it had done to the prejudices that lingered between the Aesir and Vanir from Odin’s rule. 

“They ask too much of you,” he growled, turning his gaze back to Freya. “To take from you what is yours. Your choice. Your freedom.” The words spilled from him before he could stop them, a rare outpouring of his own feelings, tangled with the thought of her being forced into another prison of obligation.

Freya’s lips twitched in a faint, sad smile. "I’ve had little of that for a long time."

The knot in his chest tightened again, and a strange, unsettling weight grew in his belly. He imagined Freya, plucking some man from the masses. A mortal. Frail. Someone who lacked the strength, the resolve to guard her back should the need arise.

“How do you choose?” His question came out rougher than he intended.

Freya sighed, her voice softening as though the admission pained her. “Vanaheim will guide me. But first, I’d need to find the men willing to think of accepting the responsibility.” He saw her mouth curve into something wry and bitter. “Or me.”

He grunted incredulously. “They would be fools to deny you.”

Freya blinked, a faint flush of color darkening her cheeks. She peered at him strangely for only a moment before her eyes flickered away, almost shy. “And yet,” she said softly.

Kratos could not shake the image from his mind. Freya, with another. Freya, bound by yet another chain she did not deserve. “…Are you certain there is no other choice?”

Freya hesitated, the silence in the longhouse stretching between them. “None that I know. But perhaps.”

Sif cleared her throat, glancing between them with a distinct gleam in her eye. “Well, why not make it easier on yourself?” She gestured towards the stack of parchments on the table; the stack he recalled Freya pointedly ignoring for several days. “Hold a tourney.”

Freya blinked. “A… tourney?”

“Yes.” Sif grinned. “Let the suitors fight for your favor. It’ll be more entertaining than reading through scrolls. And it’ll give you a chance to see what they’re made of.”

Kratos’ scowl deepened, his arms crossing over his chest. “This is a mockery.”

Sif raised an eyebrow at him. “And yet, it would solve the problem. One winner. One suitor. Freya gives her favor, and we move on.”

Kratos grunted. The idea of watching men fight over Freya like some sort of prize was distasteful, but perhaps more tolerable than the thought of Freya facing the courtship of each man alone. “And what happens to the others?” he rumbled, his voice low and challenging. “When they lose?”

“They leave,” Sif replied simply. “Simple as that. No harm done.”

“You assume they would accept defeat so easily,” Kratos growled, stepping forward. “To surrender the title of a goddess' consort. To admit failure when the stakes are so high.”

Sif's mouth curved. "I wasn't aware Freya's honor was yours to defend so passionately." She cast a sliding gaze in Freya's direction. "Where else do you put that passion of yours?"

Kratos moved without thought. Very suddenly he found himself face-to-face with kohl-lined eyes and ink-tipped fingers. He froze in place, staring down incredulously at Freya as she laid the cool palm of her hand against his chest with unrelenting strength. Her eyes were dark with warning, her disapproval like a plunge of ice into his gut.

Her voice was low, her eyes speaking. “Don’t.”

Kratos pursed his lips, peering down at the flex of her hand against his pale flesh, then up to Sif. The Aesir watched him with a smirk, though it was more wry than triumphant. 

“Kratos,” Freya chided, and he drew his full attention upon her.

She peered up at him expectantly, arching her brow with a barely contained impatience. He knew the look well; though it was usually softened by fondness. 

He scowled, glaring sidelong as he rocked back on his heels. He grunted once more, deep and harsh. 

She let out a heavy breath of relief, her fingers sliding away from his skin, and he tipped his head with something close to petulance. When her hazel eyes lifted to him again, they were soft and tired. “This may be the best option we have.”

Kratos’ jaw tightened, but he said nothing more. From behind Freya, he saw Sif's expression shift into something thoughtful, almost suspicious. Her crystalline eyes darted from Freya to him, then back again, and he felt the muscle in his jaw tighten at the rising curve of her brow.

"All I'm saying is that this doesn't have to be as painful as you think," Sif said, almost placatingly. "Just...choose someone." Her gaze sharpened on his face. "Anyone."

Mimir, perched awkwardly on the table where Kratos had set him, cleared his throat. “Well, if we’re tossing out suggestions, perhaps we ought to be looking for other solutions rather than rushing Freya to the altar, aye? There’s bound to be something else. Magic, blood rituals, a bloody great relic hidden in some forgotten corner of the realm. Trust me when I say that marriage is most certainly not the only solution.”

Hildisvini sighed, though his expression softened. “We’ve explored the possibilities, Mimir. There’s little else that—”

“There is always something else,” Kratos interrupted, his tone cutting. He turned to Freya, his amber eyes burning with a heat that prickled uncomfortably close to the surface. "Do you choose this?" he asked quietly.

Freya's breath hitched, the furrow in her brow deepening. "I don't know," she murmured. "I don't—" She shook her head, shouldering past Kratos in a rush of wildflowers and seidr. “I need air.”

It sat heavy in his throat—an apology, perhaps, or simply just to call her name. Instead, he kept his words behind his teeth and watched as she disappeared behind the doors of the council chambers. He stood in the fraught silence, glaring between the Aesir and Jofurr.

“You should not have pressed her,” he rumbled.

Sif’s brows arched high over her forehead. “We shouldn’t have pressed?” she scoffed. “We’re not the ones making this harder than it needs to be.”

Kratos curled his lip. “I am speaking truth. Freya should not be forced to choose from a crowd of men simply for their victory in tournaments.”

“We understand it isn’t ideal,” Hildisvini said, with a look of warning cast in Sif’s direction. “But the choice is out of our hands.” He gestured towards the abandoned parchments almost placatingly. “These are good men, Kratos. They would treat her well; even if only for a night.”

“That is not for you to decide,” Kratos growled. 

“It’s not for you to decide, either,” Sif replied, folding her arms. “We want Freya to choose to her own tastes, but we can’t wait forever.” She peered sidelong at Hildisvini, and Kratos narrowed his gaze at the look that passed between them.

Kratos grunted, snatching Mimir from the table as he spun on his heels. It was pointless to press the matter when their minds were already made. So he did what was most natural.

He went to Freya.