Archive of Our Own

If someone had only heard tales and songs of snow, they might think it were as soft and comforting as a feather bed. That its surface was a gently shimmering cloud, and its depths held only a comforting coolness. Such a substance made for a lovely fantasy for those who endured sweltering summers and mild winters. It was a shame that it did not exist.

In reality, snow resembled a creeping plague more than it did a soft mattress, slowly infecting all with its illnesses. Trees bowed and broke beneath its burden, grass suffocated in its depths, and man and beast alike felt the crystalline cold penetrate their flesh. Heedless of their strength, age, or will, snow could destroy a man with a slow, heavy hand. It was a ceaseless battle. 

So it was that Kratos found himself gathering fistfuls of the accursed substance, crushing and flinging it away with a frustrated roar. Even in the height of the day, sheltered by a rocky overhang, the snow had smothered his campfire. Steam rose from its remaining embers, ensuring it couldn’t be rekindled, as the snow melted and dripped mockingly. 

He snarled and glanced at the fresh deer carcass where he had laid it. It would only be a matter of time before the cold consumed that as well. 

It was fully dark before Kratos had the deer dressed and partially butchered, his lips fixed in a scowl. The halting, rigid movement of his limbs might have been due to barely-contained rage, but the truth was that the constant cold had slowed even his limbs. His grimy fingers had weathered and dried as though they’d sustained long hours of sunlight, and his exposed skin constantly smarted and ached. 

Properly treating and stretching the hide took several days before it was usable. It was an almost futile task which Kratos’s crude touch was unsuited for, as neither strength nor force of will could tame it into submission. He finally managed to shape it into a serviceable piece to lay over his bare shoulders, and by then the small knife he'd found had dulled and bent. Kratos maintained it as well as he could, refusing to even glance at the easy solution buried in a shallow grave nearby. The freshly-disturbed earth lay bare of snow in a small radius, forming a muddy puddle to proclaim its presence. 

One morning, as the snow once again marked an early start to its cruel and unrelenting assault, Kratos peered through the forest contemplatively. He watched the flakes drift and fall, so small and delicate, then reached out a hand to allow them to alight upon his fingers. But the sight of his own ghostly skin, set upon by small white flecks, caused him to jerk it back as though he'd been burned. It was one thing to see the blight upon his flesh daily. It was another to be surrounded by it, to watch it fall and cling to him like the ashes which still haunted the darkest corners of his mind.

The new day had a distinct feel; a sharp scent which burned the lungs, a harsh glare, a malicious bite of wind. But what made his surroundings so distinctly alien was the silence. The forest was nearly devoid of life, and what remained had vowed never to speak. Any errant noise was stolen. Swallowed up by layers of powdery white. 

That was why Kratos leaped to his feet at the sound of distant screaming. 

He glanced suspiciously about, while the drive to act surged through his limbs. He glanced at his small shelter and fire, knowing he couldn’t afford to wait for the danger to come to him. He set out at a jog, feeling the wind snatch at his legs and fingers, and tug at the patchy beginnings of a beard upon his cheeks. Snow crunched beneath his sandals, reminding Kratos of its presence with every step. When the beginnings of a small settlement came into view through the trees, he nearly balked. Considering all that he’d done to carefully avoid such sites, the small bit of safety and solitude he’d managed to carve out, there was very little which could drive him towards a populated area. But the sound of people yelling over beastly roars did just that. 

In one of the larger clearings between low wooden homes, a bloody battle was taking place. Kratos vaulted over the smashed remnants of a building to get a better view of the monstrosity responsible for the carnage. A massive creature with mottled gray skin was swinging its oversized arms at its attackers, catching blows from blades and clubs on the bony growths along its back and forearms. A handful of men hacked uselessly at it, while many more cowered, fled, or died in the mud. 

But what seemed to hold the rampaging ogre’s attention was a lone woman, tall and quick, who swung a battleaxe with the well-practiced ease of a skilled warrior. Her fur-clad limbs were thick and graceful, bearing her through the fight with a grim determination. When she caught sight of Kratos hovering just beyond the chaos, she locked eyes with him. 

“You there!” she called. “Can you wield a blade?” 

Kratos had never heard this woman’s voice before, but he knew its like. Despite the lack of excessive volume, her words carried easily, bearing a familiar resonance which was made to be heard over the roar of battle. There was self-assured authority in the grit of her teeth, the shrewdness of her gaze. Her question was a command. 

Kratos scowled at the sight of an elderly man being thrown to the ground, his screams cut short by the impact, but didn’t budge from where he stood. 

“If you’ll not fight, then at least get the others eastward!” She dipped below a gray, flailing limb as she spoke. “Your home will soon be destroyed as well, if it still stands. Go! ” 

Kratos watched for a moment longer, heard the creature growl at her in a grating language, then glanced back in the direction he’d come from. The order to retreat hung heavy in the air. Another man died while he considered. 

He grumbled, flexed his hands, then charged forward. The mud swallowed up his battered sandals with each thudding footfall, and reluctantly parted to offer Kratos a shortsword when he bent to pick it up. The towering ogre did not notice his approach, but it did notice its hamstring being cut free with a filthy blade. It roared, and rounded on its new opponent, the massive head tossing about madly.

“Get back, woman!” Kratos called as he steadied his footing. There was scarcely a moment to breathe before the ogre began slamming its fists into the ground, barely missing the pale god. He rolled and dove through reddened brown puddles, eyes narrowed and searching for an opening. But his reaction was preempted by a battlecry, and a surge of blue light from behind the ogre. 

It flailed and turned, showing the layer of frost now caked over its backside, the skin cracking where it had been burned. The woman pressed her attack, swinging the axe in powerful arcs which traced softly glowing lines through the air. Hot blood steamed when it hit the ground. 

“Switch!” she called, as the ogre went on the offensive in her direction. It was noticeably sluggish, but its long arms still necessitated careful evasion when attacking. Kratos reacted instantly, leaping forward and plunging the sword into its back with a mighty thrust. As he withdrew and began hacking at the stumpy legs, his face a mask of concentration, he nearly missed the woman’s warning. 

“Dodge!” came the powerful voice. Kratos caught sight of her hefting the axe high over her head, then chopping down into the ground at her feet. When a wave of ice speared upward from the strike, Kratos heeded her command and dove to the side. The jagged shards continued through where he’d been standing, piercing the ogre’s feet and throwing debris aside. 

“Careful, woman!” Kratos snarled. If she’d heard him, she gave no indication. Her attention was on the ogre as it stumbled back on bloodied legs, wailing with rage. The woman gritted her teeth and harried it, attempting to stumble the creature. When at last she succeeded, sending it sprawling on its back, Kratos was ready. He coiled and sprung, jumping high into the air with the sword firmly in both hands. With a low shout, he stabbed downward and bore his weight behind it, piercing through one of the ogre’s eye sockets. His feet pummeled its shoulders, and his hands held firm as the blade hit bone. The ogre convulsed, its arms flailing in the snow, then fell still. 

Relinquishing his hold on the shortsword, Kratos straightened, his back heaving with breath. He turned to see the warrior woman drop to one knee, clutching her arm where it bled. 

“Thank you,” she said quietly, her ragged breath clouding the air. They were the only two left standing among the ruined and abandoned cabins. The return of the wintry silence lent perspective to how brief the clash had been, though it looked as though the woman had been fighting long before Kratos had appeared. 

He said nothing in response, and turned to leave. 

“Wait!” The woman braced herself against the axe, and pulled herself to her feet. “Who are you? Why have you not fled with the others?” 

“That is of no concern,” Kratos replied, walking back toward the forest. The woman followed. 

“Perhaps not to me,” she said, “but you are clearly no ordinary man. Whether you intend to or not, you will draw attention from the gods.” 

At that, Kratos halted and scowled. 

“I don’t know why you’re here,” she continued, “or where you learned to fight like that. And I don’t particularly care to. But the gods will. Their ability to disrupt lives is matched only by their paranoia, and they do not take kindly to perceived threats.” Her lips thinned, and her jaw set into a hard line as she spoke. “I know firsthand.” 

“Then be grateful for what help I provided. It will not happen again,” Kratos said as he resumed walking. 

“I can offer you protection! Blind them to your presence. I know the ways of the old magic, and it has kept me safe for many years.” Her long, dark hair fell into her eyes as she spoke. “They will undoubtedly learn of your presence otherwise, no matter how careful you think you are.”

When Kratos did not stop walking, she cut ahead of him and stood firmly in his path, a determined glint in her eye.

“This realm will only grow more dangerous in the coming months, and I need all the help I can find to defend it,” she said, holding out her uninjured arm. “My name is Faye.”

Kratos stared down at it for a moment, his amber eyes utterly implacable, then stepped around her. Faye lowered her arm with a frustrated huff. 

“If you change your mind,” she called at Kratos’s retreating back, “follow the frozen stream southward. I’m camped near the white-barked trees.” 

Kratos carved a wide path through the fresh snowfall, and disappeared behind a ridge without looking back. 

***

It didn’t seem possible for the nights to become any colder, nor for the wind to burn sharper. But nearly a week later, Kratos’s already grim expression seemed to have hardened at the turn the weather had taken. He had been in the strange northern lands for several months, yet his situation had only worsened the longer he’d been there. In those months, he’d discovered many times over that the pantheon’s curse of being unable to take his own life had persisted long after their supposed death.

Midgard was a far cry from Kratos’s native Greece. Whether that brought him discomfort or solace, it was impossible to tell. But he made no effort to leave. His knife broke, his food ran out, the embers of his fire were smothered, and each day the smattering of terrified refugees veered closer to stumbling upon his camp. The foreign wilderness rejected Kratos at every step, yet he did not leave. 

It was only when his remaining provisions were stolen that he reconsidered his course of action. Whether it had been out of malice, or common desperation, the perpetrators were long gone by the time Kratos returned from another unsuccessful hunt. He snarled and seethed, but did not pursue the set of footprints leading eastward. Instead, he looked to the noontime sun, and followed it south. A muddy pool glared at his retreating back. 

The scant few hours of remaining daylight were insufficient for the trek, but the waning sun proved to be a generous boon. When the crunching of frosted plant matter along the riverbank had shredded through what remained of Kratos’s sandals, he halted and scanned the surrounding forest. The river’s clouded ice wound through a wide cavern, and a distinctive orange glow flickered off its smooth surface. Kratos followed it, his thudding footfalls echoing off the jagged black rock when he entered. 

“Who’s there?” called a voice from within. A familiar silhouette stood where the cave widened and opened once more, her axe at the ready. Faye relaxed when Kratos neared her, and stepped into the firelight. 

“You might’ve warned me,” she said, lowering the axe. “By all the realms, you look worse than the people fleeing flood and famine.” 

Kratos glowered, but said nothing. 

“Well, come warm yourself by the fire. I still have some meat left.” Faye beckoned with a thick-fingered hand, and led Kratos toward the flickering light. A carefully-constructed tent of weathered yellow canvases had been erected in the partial shelter of an overhang, just outside the cave mouth. Though it was partially open at both ends, the stone-lined fire pit within had filled the thick, layered canvas with its warmth. It was easily the warmest Kratos had felt since arriving in Midgard. He wasted no time settling himself on one of the thick logs placed beside it. 

Faye followed him in with a smirk, and leaned her axe against a wooden barrel. Without the layers of furs she’d been wearing during their fight with the ogre, it became apparent how very different she was from any woman Kratos had known. She wore a masterfully stitched skirt of turmeric yellow fabric, thick boots, and a leather shirt which left her arms and part of her stomach exposed. Though others may have sneered at such attire, the prioritization of mobility over bulk was not lost on the Spartan warrior. Indeed, the practicality of her clothing was a welcome sight in a strange land. Faye’s defiance of the winter’s chill held the weary grit of one who had been tempered by its wrath. 

But what set Faye so far apart was the physique which lay beneath. She boasted thick, roping muscle which bulged plainly through pale skin, and looked as though each day since her birth had been spent training and fighting. She was not a comely woman; her face was thin and narrow, with a large chin and forehead protruding below locks of dull brown hair. Neither her lips, nor her eyes, nor indeed her form were softly rounded, like the hundreds of other women Kratos had known in his long life. Faye was harsh and angular. Worn and tough. And she was undeniably the most beautiful thing he’d seen in years. 

She swiftly prepared a mixture of fish, salt, and root vegetables in a wooden bowl, then offered it to Kratos. He withdrew his hands from where he’d been warming them against the fire, and looked at the food with suspicion in his eye. 

“What would you have of me in return?” he asked. 

“Nothing,” said Faye with a small sigh. “At least, not for now. There is much to be done, but it can wait. Eat. Rest. We’ll speak of it in the morning.” 

Kratos accepted the bowl, and began devouring it with a single-minded focus. The roots left a purple stain upon his lips and fingers. 

“Do you have a name?” asked Faye, settling herself on a log opposite him. Her icy blue eyes watched him carefully, but Kratos didn’t so much as glance up from his meal. “If you’ll not tell me your name, I’ll have to give you one. How about Fárbauti ? Or Snjókall?”

“Snjókall…” Kratos murmured, meeting her gaze. 

“It means ‘snowman’,” she said with a half-smile. “What else could walk for miles clad in nothing but a skirt in the dead of winter? Or blend with the snowdrifts so easily? Well, aside from the…” She motioned to her right chest and shoulder, mirroring the location of Kratos’s bright red tattoos. Though Faye had tattoos of her own, the straight lines of neat runes running along her neck and arms were not nearly as conspicuous. Kratos frowned. 

“How do you speak Greek so well?” he asked. 

“I speak several languages. It’s something of a necessity for me. I’ve known travellers of many races from many lands, and made it my business to learn their tongues.” The characteristic clarity in her voice could still be felt in their casual setting, and the origin of her well-practiced cadence became apparent. 

“And how did you know I spoke Greek?” Kratos asked, pausing after swallowing a bite. His deep brow and hooked nose lent him an imposing look in the low light. An uncomfortable silence stretched for several seconds. The fire crackled and danced between them. Suddenly, Faye’s lips stretched in a wide grin, and a low, halting chuckle escaped her throat. 

“How could I not?” she asked. “You couldn’t be more obvious if you’d tried.” She gestured to the skirt which covered Kratos from knee to navel; though torn and dirtied, the traditional gold meandros pattern along its edge was still clearly visible against its deep red fabric. “Even across a clearing in the heat of battle, there’s no mistaking that.” 

“Hm,” said Kratos with a nod. He returned to his meal. 

“I can help you patch that, by the way,” Faye continued, “and get you a proper set of furs. If you plan on remaining in Midgard, you’ll not last long without them.” She stood, and stretched, favoring one arm where it had been wrapped in clean bandages. “Perhaps you would benefit from some language lessons as well. But there will be time enough for that later.”

Faye plucked two thick bedrolls from a neat stack of ten others, and laid them on opposite sides of the fire. It was clear from the well-beaten earth in the tent’s center that she’d recently hosted larger groups of guests, which explained the massive amount of food strung up to dry from the eaves, and the multitude of sealed barrels and clay pots. When Kratos finished eating, he stoked the fire with logs from a covered stack of wood outside, earning a grateful nod from Faye. 

They spoke little during the remainder of the evening, as both seemed more comfortable with the tranquility of silence. Faye fell asleep instantly when she curled upon her furs, the axe resting peacefully by her side. But the Ghost of Sparta lay staring at the glow of firelight upon canvas for several hours, as he lay unnaturally stiff amidst the relative comfort. The warm, still air lay like a blanket over his body. The snows could not smother him. But the lack of imminent hazards allowed his mind space to contemplate far more insidious things: doubt, regret, helplessness. All warred in Kratos's weary eyes, before he finally shut them and fell into a shallow sleep. 

***

“That isn't paint, is it?” 

The question caught Kratos unawares. But Faye had been throwing sidelong glances in his direction all morning; small wonder she finally voiced her curiosity. 

“I’ve seen men who paint their arms and faces before battle. They believe it will curry favor from the gods, or terrify their opponent. But that isn’t paint.” 

“No,” Kratos answered simply. The late sunrise graced the tent’s interior with a golden glow, and lent his skin an almost human tone. They breakfasted on smoked venison and berries, each enjoying a generous portion. 

“Hm,” said Faye with a pensive nod. “I had wondered.” 

Kratos didn’t answer the implicit question. And she didn’t press him for it. 

“There were a few among my people who would give themselves over to superstition in times of hardship,” she continued after a minute of silence. “Paint runes on any surface they could find, in the hopes that it would bless their passage. Not all of us are immune to such old traditions.” Faye motioned to the lines of her own tattoos. “But we like to think of ourselves as wiser than such things.” 

“And where are your people now?” asked Kratos. “Why are you not among them?” 

“Gone. Fled this land like so many others. I can’t say I blame them; it was the right choice. One that I should have made, too.” Her eyes fell as she spoke. “With the near-constant chaos these days, we no longer have the luxury of putting our own needs first.”

“What chaos do you speak of?” 

“Terrible things. Famine, rising floodwaters, mad kings, reaving dragons, and a hard winter to undercut it all. There’s talk of Ragnarök beginning within our lifetime.” Faye shook her head. “Not to mention all those who seek to benefit from others’ misfortune. Some say the dead themselves have come to prey on the living.”

“But we are safe here,” said Kratos, eyes narrowed. 

“As safe as one can be in Midgard. I cannot protect against all threats, but you will be outside the gods’ view. There is little else one such as you need worry about.” She raised a dark eyebrow, her pale face framed in darker hair. 

“You assume much, woman,” said Kratos dismissively. “I am-”

“Faye.” She cut him off. “My name is Faye. Don’t call me ‘woman’ again.” A clear enunciation sharpened her tone, but the gleam in her eye wasn’t spiteful. When she continued speaking, her demeanor had the familiar air of one who commanded respect as naturally as breathing. 

“I’ve been called many things. Titles, nicknames, endearments, and far too many insults to count. Yet I am more than all of them.” She placed her hand to her chest and held Kratos’s gaze. “I am not solely a woman, as I’m sure you are not solely a man.” Faye allowed the understatement to linger for a moment. “Long have I endured such titles, and I’ve grown weary of them. Call me ‘Faye’, nothing less.”

“Very well,” Kratos replied in a low growl. The concession was as close to an apology as was possible for him. 

“There is power in a name. If one is called ‘wretch’ for too long, they eventually become one.” Faye rose to her feet, axe in hand. “With that in mind, Snowman, would you like to learn how to fish?” 

Kratos gave a small “hmph” at her jest. 

“I already know how to fish,” he said jovially. 

“ Do you?” asked Faye as she began gathering supplies. “How much ice do Grecian rivers typically have during their winters? A handspan? Two?” She smiled, and led the way out of the tent. “Perhaps you can show me how it is done, then.” 

***

The next few days were blessedly productive, and there never seemed to be sufficient daylight to achieve everything Faye needed. There was always more food to gather, prepare, and preserve, more wood to be chopped, more tools to be repaired or maintained. Though Kratos readily assisted wherever asked, it became clear that these particular aspects of survival were strange to him. Ordinarily, his only concern would be for his immediate needs, and where he could claim those from. But Faye seemed to be three steps ahead, preparing for a change in the weather before it showed any signs, or reinforcing the tent just as it began to strain. 

One morning, Kratos learned firsthand why she maintained enough supplies to sustain several families, when they stumbled their way to her doorstep. Four women, three men, and two children who were too young to walk on their own. They had been trudging all night, fleeing a midnight attack on their rural home. They’d had no time to gather supplies or even to dress properly for the weather, leaving them frostbitten and exhausted. Not a second was wasted as Faye invited them in, fed them, and tended to their injuries. 

Oddly, she didn’t ask Kratos to help. He didn’t offer. Instead, he loomed in one corner of the tent, watching the travellers warily as though he expected them to attack at any moment. Faye spoke the heavy tongue which was endemic to the realm, and seemed to be regaling her guests with a tale to distract them. She even succeeded in bringing small smiles to the children’s faces. 

But, as the initial relief of shelter and safety began to wear off, more and more furtive glances were cast in Kratos’s direction. A mixture of fear and gratitude restrained them from asking, but the question was there all the same: Who is this man?

Kratos did not know the answer. He gathered up supplies in a pack, donned the makeshift furs he’d been given, and met Faye’s eye as he left the tent. 

“I will return shortly,” he lied. 

***

Kratos struck out along the riverbank, following it past the numerous established fishing spots in the ice. It would have been far easier to use one of the holes which had already been drilled below the shadow of the cave, as Faye had shown him. But Kratos elected to trudge upriver, leaving heavy footprints as he did so, and released a low breath when the tent was out of sight. 

He made for a wide pool several miles away, where the water supposedly flowed calm and fresh in the springtime, glittering beneath a short waterfall. Faye had spoken fondly of its beauty. But in the winter, it was merely another block of ice set below spears of frost jabbing violently downwards. And in its center lay a pitiful struggle. 

Kratos hesitated when he heard a hollow thudding noise, but relaxed at the sight of a deer struggling to rise to its feet in the middle of the ice. Its long limbs were splayed awkwardly on the smooth surface, and the snow around it was swept away where it had thrashed about. It was only a yearling, small and sinewy. A short rack of antlers and wide, terrified eyes lent it a facade of innocence. 

Placing the bucket down nearby, Kratos examined the hoofprints by the riverbank. There had been others, mere hours ago, which had abandoned the young buck once it became clear he was trapped. His nostrils flared with a deep sigh as he gave the creature a shrewd look. In truth, they did not need the meat. They’d barely enough space to butcher and store a larger buck, which Faye had brought down several days previously. 

When Kratos stepped carefully onto the ice, the yearling began to thrash about with renewed vigor, joints and hooves knocking hard against the pool’s surface. There had been several occasions where the enormous man had nearly done the same, unable to keep his balance on a ground as smooth and flat as glass. It appeared that even those who were born and made for these cold lands could still fall victim to their cruelty. But the fear in the buck’s eyes was not for its dire plight; it was for the ghostly figure which advanced on him with a drawn knife. 

Kratos listened to the deer bleating once he reached it, his eyes implacable. He watched it pause to draw breath, exhaustion clear in its slow movements, before it fought the ice once more. He brought the knife down into the pool’s frozen surface with a swift motion, then braced himself against it while he firmly pushed the deer away with his foot. It slid easily across to the nearest bank, and had its cloven feet under itself in an instant. Despite the strength having left its limbs, it managed to trot away with only a slight limp, and did not spare a backward glance for its savior. 

The deer would likely live. All it had taken was a simple push. 

***

Faye found Kratos as the sun neared the horizon in the mid afternoon. Her face was drawn and morose, but her lips twitched in a slight smile when she caught the smell of cooking fish on the breeze. The pool had been far more fertile than Kratos anticipated, leaving him ample time to start and stoke a fire with the clay and bark he’d brought along. The fish were nearly ready, and might’ve fed three more people if they hadn’t both been famished. Kratos hadn’t eaten all day. And by the longing look in Faye’s eyes, it appeared she hadn’t either. 

“Might I join you?” she asked politely. Kratos gave a quick nod while he busied himself with the coals. “Those folk have glimpsed Hel in a single night,” Faye said as she settled herself. “That they managed to survive at all is astounding. The dead nearly bolstered their numbers.”

“The dead?” asked Kratos. 

“We call them ‘Draugr.’ When souls cannot pass into the afterlife, they are reanimated, wrought of fire and decay.” Faye shook her head solemnly. “Terrible creatures. I’d thought them distant legends, but it appears they’ve returned. Some guard the material wealth they accumulated in life, some lie dormant in their graves, but others spread their suffering to the living. They can die a second death, but it isn’t an easy task.” 

Kratos carefully withdrew two of the fish. They’d been boned and gutted already, and when parted from the hardened clay, their scales peeled easily from the perfectly cooked meat. 

“Which is why I need your help,” said Faye as Kratos handed her a bark platter. “Our guests wish to return to their home. But they barely escaped with their lives, and are in no state to fight.”

“Why me?” asked Kratos sternly. 

“Because I cannot do it alone.”

“Why you , then?” 

“Who else?” said Faye with a weary frown. “You have to understand: it must be done. Unless we wish to be overrun by fiery monsters which do not tire or fear, they must be dealt with. For our own sake, and for others’.”

The question still lingered in Kratos’s eyes, thrust into shadow by the imminent sunset. His heavy brow furrowed, but he didn’t pry further, just as she had oft refrained from doing. 

They ate the remainder of the fish in silence, huddling closer to the low fire as the ambient light dwindled, and an oppressive chill settled deep in their bones. No birds heralded the coming night. Nor did any insects. There was only the rigidly enforced silence. 

“Come, then,” said Faye, rising to her feet. “We must act swiftly if we’re to return before dawn.” 

“Now?”

“Now.” 

Kratos nodded, and began gathering the fishing gear. Faye stopped him with a rough hand on his arm. 

“Leave it,” she said. “We’ll gather it on our return.” She produced a worn, cracked scabbard hanging from her belt, and offered it. “You favor a shortsword, if I recall correctly?” 

“Hmm,” Kratos growled as he accepted it. “It will suffice.” 

They kept a decent pace as Faye led the way through the moonlit forest. With all the trees and undergrowth bare of leaves, the signs of a frantic and sloppy passage were plainly illuminated in the mud and snow. The family’s trail crashed through low branches and over icy puddles, then wove around immense boulders and deep snowdrifts. Time shifted the stars imperceptibly, as they watched with ruthless indifference. 

The farm rested in a rare, flat stretch of land which had been cleared of trees. A large house and storeroom stood black and still to one side, squinting at the moonlight. 

“Do you see them?” asked Faye, her breath clouding. In the shadow of the wooden home, a tiny orange glow bobbed with movement. Kratos nodded. A sharp wind kicked up dry clouds of snow from the flat field, and whipped Faye’s hair about her shoulders. She murmured a curse while stretching out her shoulder, and inclined her head toward the coming fight. 

“With me,” she said, striking out at a brisk jog. Kratos drew his sword and followed close at her left flank. 

When they came within earshot of the creatures, more orange glows appeared, marking where their faces should have been. Faye held her axe aloft, drew back over one shoulder, then hefted it towards the Draugr. It flipped end-over-end, the blade singing as it sliced through thin air, and lodged in a smoldering skull with a low crack. 

She did not cease her charge. Didn’t miss a step. Kratos, keenly aware of the four other enemies between ally and weapon, made to intercept. Faye would be fully exposed if allowed to leap into the fray unarmed, and her apparent recklessness came as a surprise. But even more surprising was how she rebuffed his offer with a wave of her hand. Or so it seemed. Faye held her left arm aloft conspicuously, and the frost axe came free of its own accord, then caught the legs of several Draugr as it recalled directly to her hand. It connected with a deep thud! , just as she came upon her closest opponent. She ended her charge with a small hop, a flourish of the axe, and a downward strike which sent a shock wave pulsing outward. A sound like shattering glass accompanied a deep boom, as though Faye had cracked open the very earth at their feet.

Kratos faltered, but quickly regained his footing and pressed their attack. He slashed at the snarling creatures with swift, calculated movements, occasionally ducking or sidestepping to avoid their crude attacks. The stench of burning blood and hair filled the night, as uneven patches of heat blazed like tiny forges. 

They weren’t skilled, but they were many. And their armor posed a challenge to the dull blade in Kratos’s hand. When he managed to pummel one to the ground, it took two firm stomps to its head to end its frantic writhing. The texture felt wrong beneath his heel. Was it armor they wore? Or protruding bone? 

Faye slashed at the Draugr she’d stunned or crippled before they had a chance to rise, but her attacks were noticeably sluggish. It seemed there was a limit to the wintry power she could draw from her weapon, and she’d expended much in her initial scattering of their foes. Kratos found himself balancing protection and offense in equal measure, keeping a shrewd eye on the fur-clad warrior at his side. 

The Draugr bled fire and smoke as they died, their screams echoing off smooth wooden walls. When he managed to grab one which had been maddeningly evasive, he surrendered to frustration and pried open the creature’s ribcage with a loud battlecry. As its body cracked and went limp beneath his grip, a sound like shattering glass caused him to turn around. Just behind his back, the final abomination stood frozen mid-swing, sword held aloft. The entire surface of its body was encrusted with a glittering frost, and the magical axe was lodged firmly in its side. Faye lowered her hand with a smile. 

They shared a brief look which expressed what words could not. Faye then recalled the axe, shattering the Draugr to tiny pieces with a satisfying noise. The smell of rot and burning flesh dominated the air. Faye released a loud breath, then allowed her shoulders to slump with exhaustion. 

“You continue to surprise me,” she said, walking towards Kratos. She motioned toward the remains of the Draugr whose chest he’d ripped open.

“I could say the same of you,” Kratos replied gruffly. “You might have warned me.” 

“And miss that look on your face?” Faye grinned as she closed the space between them. “Not in a thousand years.” 

She held out her hand. This time, Kratos accepted it, and they gripped one another’s forearms in a gesture which seemed deeply familiar to both. 

“Well fought,” said Faye. “And… thank you.” She looked up at him, eyes as hard and bright as river ice, and held his gaze. 

“Kratos,” he said. “I am called Kratos.” 

He searched her expression for any hint of recognition, but mercifully found none. Faye did not recoil in disgust, nor stammer with fear. Rather, she seemed genuinely pleased at having earned a small amount of his trust.

“Thank you, Kratos.” 

They returned just as the horizon began to fade from starlit black to deep indigo, disheartening in its inevitability. The dawn brought with it a growing dread that sleep was no longer a possibility. A full night exposed to the elements was hardly the worst foe Kratos had faced, but it tired and slowed him nonetheless. Faye, however, was shivering madly during the final hour. She vehemently denied the need to stop and rest, or to light a fire, each time revealing the clack of her chattering teeth. There was a hint of fear in her eyes, but not for the cold. 

Faye's relief was palpable as they entered her tent. The family had just begun to stir in their bedrolls, but were on their feet in an instant to tend to her. They stoked the fire, warmed a pot of mead, and rubbed down her reddened hands. Kratos remained well out of their way, ignoring the children's curious stares. 

When at last she was able to speak, Faye’s voice was surprisingly steady as she answered their questions. She gestured in the direction of the farm, then to Kratos, presumably explaining what they had done. One of the women wept and embraced Faye, while the men eyed them both with a mixture of uncertainty and awe. Several recited quiet prayers, others smiled and thanked them profusely, and the two warriors shared a moment of silent commiseration for their discomfort. While conversation bubbled up about them, Faye shot Kratos a look which conveyed their mutual desire for a return of their former solitude. There was a deeper understanding in that look. 

Had she known what Kratos did of his past, Faye might have looked at him differently. And had Kratos known what she did of his future, he might have done the same.

***

The family remained as their guests for a few days longer. Whilst recuperating from minor injuries, they were in high spirits, and began helping Faye as best they could. Many possessed expertise which Kratos did not, and lent their hands to cooking, baking, butchering, mulling, and mending. But none came close to Faye’s ability to mold function and beauty from nearly any object she graced with her weathered fingers. 

Kratos had experienced many of the arts; he’d heard countless singers and poets, lived in divine architecture, and tasted the pantheon's wine. He’d seen the greatest feats of engineering man and gods had crafted, wielded the finest weaponry in existence, and bedded the loveliest women in all of Greece. But each of those had merely been distractions; brief amusements which did little to inspire him as they were supposedly meant to. Where the life works of great artists had failed, Faye’s creations held Kratos’s attention. 

She was a masterful weaver, seamstress, tanner, and even a smith when the need arose. One would think from watching her bend furs and leather to her will that they were clay beneath a sculptor’s fingers. Having seen the destruction she wrought so effectively with her axe, Kratos watched her work with more than a little curiosity: the calm, methodical cadence of her actions, the cant of her wrists, the peaceful smile in her eyes. There inlaid the beauty of her care and consideration. 

After the families departed, Faye finally completed one of her many projects, and handed it to Kratos with a warm smile. 

“I am sorry it took so long,” she said. “They should fit you.” In her arms lay a pair of large, thick boots, lined with deep gray fur, and soled with boiled leather. They’d been carefully tied and reinforced in exactly the right places, and even had a red meandros pattern stitched along the calf. 

“Me?” Kratos asked. He eyed them for a moment, then took them from Faye’s hands. The graceless fumbling with which he examined them showed a nervous reverence for the days of work he’d seen her invest. And the look of relief as he slipped them on his feet expressed what his words did not: sincere gratitude. 

“They should last you a good while. I’ll tailor them if you need,” said Faye. She made a hasty exit, and busied herself outside before Kratos could reply. 

It was the first of several rewards for having slain the Draugr. A week later, one of the men made the trek from the farm to deliver a basket laden with offerings: mead, wine, honey, bone needles, cloth, arrows, and even a filleting knife. Faye accepted them all graciously, taking the time to recognize and talk about each item, much to the man’s delight. 

“Do they not need it more?” Kratos asked when Faye withdrew a bag of dried seeds. “Why bring us aid when they required it only days ago?” 

The farmer jumped, as though he’d forgotten Kratos was there, and looked between him and Faye. 

“We are not the ones who benefit most from it,” said Faye. “He wishes to be free of a perceived debt. This is his way of showing what our help meant to them: all the luxuries they would not have been able to enjoy otherwise.”

Though it felt strange to be discussing the man as though he weren’t there, it was clear he understood none of their conversation. Kratos almost looked pleased to be on the opposite side of a language barrier, for a change. 

Faye made excellent use of the gifts, allowing for occasional indulgences between her more prudent tendencies. The small shreds of comfort were a welcome reprieve from their daily work, and Kratos readily accepted them. Each day grew the slightest bit brighter. 

Only then did his nightmares return. They stalked Kratos's psyche as though lured by the scent of stability, filling each night with flashes of pain and blood. He relived the deaths of innocents he'd slaughtered, tasted dry ash upon his tongue, heard the gurgling screams of dying gods. One night, he saw Faye, weeping blood, as she stood calmly before him and spoke with Athena's voice. He could not understand her words. 

Kratos woke with a start, and accidentally kicked a table leg as he struggled to get his bearings. A small jar rolled free, and landed on Faye's chest while she slept. 

She surged to her feet in an instant, screaming in a heavy language Kratos had never heard before. Her voice seemed to resonate as though magically amplified, and her hair and eyes were wild as she took up her axe and looked about. 

“Faye! Calm yourself,” he called, slightly too loud to be soothing. “You are in no danger.” 

There were several tense seconds as she searched the darkness for signs of a threat. Her ragged breath filled the silence. Faye then wilted, exhaustion creeping into her posture, and rubbed her face with one hand. 

“Sorry, I…” she sat, legs curled almost to her chest, and shook her head. “Please do not wake me so suddenly.” Her voice had been reduced to a soft whisper, shockingly vulnerable without her usual commanding tone. 

“I hadn't intended to,” Kratos replied. “But the mistake will not be repeated.” 

Faye nodded, resting the axe against her shoulder. She said nothing more before settling wearily back onto her bedroll, while the shadows loomed near overhead. It wasn’t the last time Kratos was roused by ghosts. Horrid visions crept into his slumber, drawn to his sense of well-being like moths to a flame. The more their days became steady, fulfilling, and consistent, the worse his nights became. 

Both occupants of the little camp had a tendency to depart it for days on end, venturing as wide as was necessary to hunt, forage, and retrieve supplies and ingredients. Faye often traded with nearby farmsteads and villages, but Kratos suspected the primary purpose of her visits was to monitor their security. As the nights grew longer, and the snows deeper, the reach of Faye’s watchful eye became clearer. 

On one such day, Kratos chose to take advantage of his solitude by finally shaving his unkempt beard. The bristly, patchy hair had become too much of a nuisance to ignore, and a long-held habit drove Kratos to improvise with what he had available. The result was far from ideal. But it would suffice. 

The nostalgic feeling of smooth cheeks was cut short by distant echoes of yipping and shouting. Kratos armed himself and stepped outside with a deep scowl, staring down the snowy landscape as though he could frighten away the noise by force of will. Fate, it seemed, had other plans, and once again drove conflict and responsibility toward him. 

The sky felt thin and distant overhead, and while the rest of the forest kept its solemn vow of silence, the panicked screams drew nearer. The quieting effect of the winter snows meant the man himself wasn’t far behind the sound, and it was with a look of relief that Kratos saw he was pursued by two mundane wolves. 

The man, thin and laden with a heavy pack, shouted and waved his arms as soon as he saw the camp. He barely managed three words before he was pummeled to the ground. Kratos closed the distance swiftly, sword bare in his hand, but the wolf already had its jaws locked about the man’s throat, thrashing him forcefully. The second wolf bounded to intercept Kratos, cleverly choosing to remain out of reach of his blade, and snarled territorially at its new aggressor. Even through its thick fur and raised hackles, Kratos saw the outline of protruding bone. 

The dance of attack and evasion lasted only seconds before Kratos managed to grab hold of the wolf’s neck, but in that time the thin man’s screams were crushed between vice-like jaws. Kratos wrapped a thick arm about the wolf as it desperately attempted to wriggle free, allowing the vicious snarls to turn into high-pitched whines. It was just enough to draw the attention of its companion, before he flexed his arm and snapped its neck. 

The other wolf dropped its prey, and stared Kratos down with both eyes. Bright red blood dripped from its muzzle, and it released quick breaths in thick clouds. 

“Begone,” Kratos snarled. When he advanced, the wolf carefully pranced backward, watching him. It did not flee.

“LEAVE!” he screamed, raising the shortsword to throw it. The wolf dodged narrowly, and darted backward before staring down the massive god once more. Kratos harried and chased it several more times before it finally decided to retreat, and even then it pointedly stopped to glance back at him. There were many easy opportunities to kill it, but one starved wolf carcass was enough to deal with. He had no need for two. 

Kratos approached the solitary man where he lay face down in a puddle of his own blood, utterly motionless. He rolled him roughly by one shoulder, and scowled when he saw lifeless eyes staring through him. By the look of it, the man had already been rather unsuccessful in outrunning the wolves: he was unarmed, heavily burdened, and had fresh bite marks along one hand and forearm. Whether he’d attempted to interfere with the wolves’ hunt, or had been hunted himself, did not particularly matter to Kratos. But he did peer curiously at the man’s large pack. Why had he kept it while pursued? Had he been chased for the food on his back, rather than the meat on his bones? 

Kratos stripped the man of his belongings indelicately, and began rifling through each pocket for anything which could be of use. His disappointment was plain as he learned more of the rapidly cooling corpse in his camp: the man was a thief. He’d stuffed all manner of jewelry, coin, fabric, and other valuables into his pack, and it was clear they had been stolen from several different places. 

“Was it worth your life?” Kratos growled. The thief made no answer, and naught but blood left his lips. He was a mere puppet. 

When Kratos delved into the main compartment of the sturdy pack, a sudden surge of warmth gave him pause. He gazed into its depths in disbelief, then upended the contents onto the ground. Ornaments and ceremonial weapons clattered free, fine fabrics tore, but the clink of heavy chain drowned them all out. 

There, in the swiftly melting snow, lay a pair of jagged, blackened blades connected to lengths of chain by their short pommels. Each was notched and marred with heavy use, and radiated heat as though aflame. The smell of smoldering iron and charred flesh filled the air. Kratos swiped them aside with a low cry of fury, refusing to look at them as they clattered against a boulder. The chains settled in a long line through the snow, reaching longingly for their master. 

Behind the snarling anger, the targetless need to lash out, a small ray of hope left Kratos’s eyes. He stared darkly down at his forearms, where the deep burn marks began to redden and bleed. For he was a man cursed beyond measure: mind, flesh, and strength were bound to the misdeeds of his past. He’d known the truth, but had hoped he was wrong: the Blades of Chaos must always remain in his possession. The hand of fate was unavoidable. 

Kratos buried the thief by a small overlook, beneath open sky and sunshine. He buried the Blades beneath a massive boulder, among roots and worms. It was better than either of them deserved.

***

Faye returned to the tent late that night, while Kratos was still sorting through the contents of the thief’s pack. Much of it was useless, but he’d never seen Faye discard anything without careful consideration. 

“Either you’ve taken up tomb-robbing in my absence, or have managed to befriend a nobleman,” she said with a raised eyebrow. When she spotted the wolf’s carcass just outside the opposite end of the tent, bled and ready to be skinned, she chuckled. “Or perhaps you’ve been thrust into the unfortunate position of being a protagonist in some bard’s epic about the gods.” 

Kratos shook his head, and told her of the thief who had stumbled upon their campsite, careful to omit the true reason for his displeasure. Faye nodded as though she understood, picking over the ornate jewelry and pottery. 

“Gods only know how many families lost heirlooms to this man,” she said, examining each piece with sad eyes. “But fate was just today, it seems. Where is his body?” 

“It has been dealt with,” said Kratos curtly. “Can you make use of these treasures?” 

“I don’t intend to,” said Faye as she settled herself more comfortably on the floor. “They’re not ours to use. They should be returned to their rightful owners.” Upon seeing Kratos’s lips curving into a scowl, she waved her hand dismissively. “I won’t have us carrying them to every homestead in the realm to seek them out. I will simply spread the word of the thief’s actions, and return these to any who can adequately describe them. They’ll need to be secured elsewhere, though, to deter unwanted visitors.” 

She sighed and began wrapping and stowing the items carefully. 

“I trust your travels were productive?” Kratos asked offhandedly. 

“That’s one way of wording it,” Faye replied with a frown. “More of the dead have begun to plague the lands. I’d hoped we’d seen the worst of it already, but it appears I was mistaken. I put down three more of them only yesterday. Damned good fight, too.” She tugged her shirt up, revealing an herb poultice bound tightly to her ribs with a wide bandage. Splotchy purple bruises had seeped along the skin bordering the injury. She looked paler than usual, and winced as she tugged the clothing back into place. 

It was easy to forget how debilitating injury could be for mortals. Though he felt every blade and every blow, Kratos was no longer forced to live with their consequences. There was once a time when he had endured the long days of misery, waiting impatiently for his body to mend. The uselessness of such time was made even worse by the finite nature of his existence; what a waste it was to fall prey to small failures in combat, and to then pay for them as though they were a quantifiable debt. 

Faye, it seemed, felt the same. She hardly mentioned her injuries unless they limited her from accomplishing something. She was idle as seldom as possible, but did not worsen her recovery by attempting to exceed her limits. All the same, a small bit of frustration was clear in her eyes. It was an altogether prudent viewpoint which earned a touch of sympathy from Kratos. 

Days later, as he was assisting Faye by carrying logs back to camp, Kratos diverted his path slightly to avoid stepping on the thief's grave. Faye, not knowing it was there, strode straight across it. She gave a startled cry and drew her axe, causing Kratos to look back sharply.

They watched as a spectral form, glowing blue, emerged from the snow at their feet. Kratos dropped the logs with a rumbling thud! and curled his hands into fists. He did not attack when he saw Faye relax with a slight smile. 

“Húsvættir,” she said. “A simple spirit. It cannot harm us.” Faye released a breath and lowered her axe. The edges of the shimmering spirit rippled like light off a gentle stream, and the outline of his bones were the only definite feature of his silhouette. He began to speak with a voice which was faint, as though muddled by deep water. 

He spoke the realm's native tongue, and Faye listened attentively. 

“It's the thief,” she said. “I thought you said you'd taken care of the body?” She looked quizzically at Kratos. 

“I did,” he growled. 

Faye opened her mouth to reply, but was interrupted by the spirit. He spoke emphatically, with wide, placating gestures. His pitch was surprisingly deep and sweet when not screaming for his life. 

“What is it saying?” asked Kratos. Faye kept her eyes on the spirit, and translated. 

“He says he regrets his actions. He wishes he had been a better man.” The spirit began gesturing to Kratos. “He thanks you for your assistance, and does not blame you for the outcome. He… marvels at your strength.” She listened for a moment longer, before breaking off to look Kratos full in the face. “You wrestled a wolf?” 

“An exaggeration,” he replied curtly. 

Faye spoke to the spirit for a minute longer, before sighing heavily and relaying the conversation. 

“Such words are easy for one who has nothing left to lose. Would that he'd been so repentant in life, he might not have harmed others so.” She shook her head. “I'll tell him of our plan to return what he stole, and to give him a proper funeral. Perhaps then he can move on.” 

Kratos nodded, but his eyes darkened when the spirit began running his mouth once more. Perhaps there was a reason the wolf had torn into his throat so enthusiastically, if even death couldn’t silence him. 

“Fire blades?” asked Faye, her brow furrowing. “What blades?” She directed the question at Kratos with a stern look. The spirit continued speaking, his hands forming familiar shapes in the air as he described what he'd seen. 

Kratos left no opening for additional questions as he turned away, picked up the logs, and began walking briskly. His shoulders were hunched, and his lips thinned in a grimace, radiating frustration at the futility of it all. He'd thought his secret safely kept, the Blades hidden where none but he could reach. But no; nothing could be so easy. Behind his anger was a flicker of resignation, as the cold pressed heavy on his shoulders. A brief bout of peace was all it had taken to draw his curses forth once more. 

***

That afternoon, they exhumed the thief's body for what Faye called a “proper” funeral. She'd made a careful point of avoiding any questions when she caught up to Kratos, instead opting to give him information and tasks. It worked well enough. Having something to do seemed to set him at ease. 

Though he attempted to conceal his unnatural strength, it was difficult when there was such stark disparity in their endurance. Before long, it became clear that he'd dug too deeply when he buried the thief, and had dug too quickly when retrieving him. Kratos noticed when Faye spent more time watching him than she did helping, but by then it was too late. She knew. Her keen eye told him that much. 

When he abandoned all pretense of mortal limitations, their goal was achieved quickly. The thief lay amidst dirt stained black by dried blood, devoid of all dignity. Faye spoke calmly as they worked to clear ground and stack logs.

“Ideally, we would have a boat,” she said, casting her voice to the stony silence. “When the rivers run, and the last light of day shines, we would give his body to the cleansing flame as it drifted away.” She glanced at the deep grave, clearly wanting to ask of it, but continued speaking of her own people's traditions. Of the songs they would play, the flowers they would wear, and the ensuing silence to honor their passage. 

“Only then can they be borne to their afterlife, when their spirit and flesh have each received their farewells.” Her voice grew soft. “Not all have such luxuries. This will suffice.”

When they lay the thief's body upon the low platform, thin and dirty though it was, there was something grand about seeing it set ablaze. There were no songs for him. No candles lit to mark his deeds, nor flowers woven into a crown upon his brow. There was only a grudgingly respectful silence from two immortal warriors, as they allowed the fire's glow to light their eyes. 

“I shouldn't have assumed you knew our ways,” Faye said after a long minute, “nor the consequences for failing them. I see now that your methods may be different from my own, but they are no less significant to the dead. Your efforts were not in vain.” She turned her eyes to the pyre. “Not all who die deserve honor. But they must not be kept waiting.” 

The sun had begun to dip rapidly, beckoning in the frigid winds to take its place. Each day, the exchange seemed unfair as it truncated the afternoon. 

“Come,” said Faye, laying down her shovel. “We'll fill the grave in the morning, when the ashes have cooled.” 

“Do you think that wise?” Kratos asked. She waved a hand and shook her head, eyes downcast in a look which said she did not particularly care. It was then he noticed that, despite allowing Kratos to perform the majority of the work, her posture still listed to one side. Her stride was shorter and slower. Faye didn’t bother to conceal her discomfort, and Kratos didn’t draw attention to her sluggishness.

After heating and emptying two washbasins each, they managed to cleanse themselves of almost all the dirt and sweat of the day. The yellow tent was warm and humid by the time they'd finished; a welcome reprieve from the dry, biting winds of winter. 

With her waist and shoulders bared, it was difficult to ignore the extent of Faye's current and former injuries. Small cuts and bruises dotted her pale skin like mud spattered upon a clean canvas, and raised scars filled the spaces between. Chief among them was a series of dark, branching lines covering her right shoulder blade. It resembled a purplish tree growing from her spine, spreading its spindly branches skyward. 

“What caused that?” Kratos asked. He gestured to Faye's right shoulder. When she looked to see where he was indicating, it took a moment for her to recognize it. The glance was a telling one: it said that mark had been a part of her for so long, she'd grown accustomed to its presence, and had forgotten how it appeared to others. 

“Ah,” she said, frowning. “It's… not a pleasant memory.” 

Kratos waited for her to continue. Instead, she shook her head, finished dressing, and began preparing their evening meal. For all his own secrecy, he could hardly fault her for keeping a few of her own mysteries.

They were quiet for the remainder of the evening. In the shadow of their unease, the silence thickened and stretched, creeping into the ground beneath them as they attempted to sleep. Silence kept them awake. Though they didn’t fidget or turn in their bedrolls, it was as plain as the stars above that neither could find rest. One spirit being given his peace seemed to draw forth others which gnawed upon the mind. 

Finally, Faye sat up with a sigh, breaking hours of tension. 

“Do your ghosts linger so?” she asked in a whisper, softly enough not to wake him if he did indeed sleep. “Do they murmur dark and terrible truths in your ear when you close your eyes?” 

Kratos hesitated, his posture attempting to look languid with far too much effort. 

“Yes,” he answered in equal volume. Though his reply was brief, it was heavy like a stone upon a feather bed.

Faye rose and rummaged in a nearby trunk. The moon was unusually bright, shining dimly through the multiple layers of canvas. 

“Come then,” she said, “let us drown them for one night.” She brandished a corked vase with a wan smile, and the two donned their furs and boots. 

The air outside was as bitingly cold as Kratos had come to expect, yet it always seemed impossible to grow accustomed to as winter deepened ever further. But it wasn’t the glittering snowdrifts which caught the eye: it was the black sky above. Or rather, what lay before it. Hanging from the stars on invisible strings were shifting, shimmering lights of all sorts of colors: bright ribbons which flowed like gentle waves of the deep sea. 

They cast green, purple, and blue over the surrounding landscape. Muted explosions of color upon a desaturated land. They undulated like thin fabrics on a warm Greek summer, as though slowed in the midst of snapping in the wind. 

“Ah,” said Faye with a contented sigh. “What a delightful surprise.”

“This magic is not yours?” asked Kratos. 

“No,” she said with a chuckle. “Such wonders are the work of the Gods.” 

“Wonders…” Kratos grumbled, his expression souring. 

“Oh come now,” Faye replied as she led the way through the clearing, “every God has their own story. Their own deeds and shortcomings. They’re neither infallible nor evil.” 

“That is debatable,” said Kratos. 

Faye halted at a boulder which had a smooth, gentle slope at its top, and paused to mutter an incantation. She traced a small rune into the snow covering it, and it was all gently whisked away like dust being swept from a tabletop. 

“My own magic is far from comparable to that of the Gods’,” she said, settling herself on the clear space, “but it serves me well enough.” 

She reclined on the frozen stone, stretching her long legs out before her in a posture which seemed inappropriate somehow. Though she had at many times been at ease in the safety of her home, it was another thing entirely to see her relax so fully. Even when she slept, there was an air of combat-ready alertness to it. 

Now, all that tension had melted away. As she uncorked and drank from the unmarked vase, her hair dull in the brilliant light, she showed more of herself than she'd ever before dared. 

Kratos hesitated a moment, eyeing her warily. But as soon as he was offered the vase, all pretense dissolved beneath the casual, trusting angle of her reach. She'd shared her food, her home, and her protection with any who required it. But such a gracious offer from that beautiful hand, which could create and destroy in equal measure, was enough to set Kratos equally at ease. 

He accepted the vase, sat upright beside Faye, and took a cautious sniff. His nostrils flared, and he closed his eyes appreciatively as he pulled a deep draught of the rich wine. Kratos handed it back with an approving nod. 

“Why did you shave your beard?” Faye asked as she took another drink. 

“All self-respecting Spartan men do. Only the uncivilized barbarians fail to groom themselves.” 

Faye laughed haltingly, stripping his reply of its pride. 

“Barbarians, are we? It would help keep you warm, you know. I certainly wouldn’t hesitate to take such an opportunity if I could,” she said with a smile, rubbing her chin. “A shame. I quite like how it looked.” She paused. 

“Did you say Spartan?” 

“Yes.” 

“Ah, interesting. I'd thought you were Athenian.” Kratos stiffened at the name. Athens held no fond memories for him. 

Faye settled on her back, staring up at the shifting light while her dark hair splayed out behind her. For a time, only the sound of sloshing wine pierced the silence. 

“Who are you, Kratos?” Faye murmured. “Tell me true.” She asked with such sincerity, that it was entirely believable she didn’t already know. But Kratos said nothing. 

“If you'll not answer,” Faye continued, “I shall tell you what I’ve seen. You appeared seemingly from nowhere, with nothing but the clothes upon your back, looking as though you were placed here by mistake. You know nothing of life in Midgard, yet remain as though it is your home.” Faye propped herself up on her elbows. “You fight like a hero of myth, and possess the strength of at least two ogres combined. Neither cold, nor bite, nor blade affect you. Your very flesh is a mystery; white as the morning snow, with no apparent reason. And I've seen the scar on your abdomen you conceal: its counterpart upon your back shows where you were run through with a blade as wide as my forearm is long, yet… here you sit. Alive, in spite of a mortal wound. I know you once possessed magic fire blades which you intentionally abandoned.”

She placed a gentle hand on his shoulder, finally obliging him to look her in the eye.

“I know you are no man. I have for a while. And if I were planning to somehow use that information against you, I would have done so already.” 

“Knowing that you could is hardly reassuring,” he replied curtly. 

“You know what I meant,” she scoffed, laying back down. “I have put effort into concealing your presence rather than doing the opposite. I'd hoped to earn more of your trust by now.” 

The remark stung, even if she hadn't meant it to. Where lesser people might have phrased it as a perceived debt, owed to her for her generosity and unobtrusiveness, Faye had shown that she truly expected nothing in return; she was only telling Kratos what it was she desired to know, should he feel gracious enough to give it.

So he did. 

“You are right. I’m no man.” He took a breath, watching it fog before him and glow green in the strange light. “As a warrior, I pledged my life to the service of Olympus, and the mistake cost me the lives of my family. I wear their ashes as penance.” He barely moved as he spoke, as though he could draw less attention to his words by doing so. “The blades I wielded were given to me by my masters; a powerful tool, and a symbol of my servitude. They were bound to me. For many years, I used them. I have slaughtered many.” 

Kratos flexed one hand absently, shadows running along the scars of his forearm. 

“I was nothing more than a puppet to them, and was betrayed by many whom I had once called ally… or friend. Even when they made me a God myself, awakening my bloodline, I was only a means to an end. For their treachery, I wrought destruction upon their house.” He gritted his teeth as aggression heated his tongue. “I brought war to Mount Olympus. And I won.” 

Faye said nothing. She took in quiet, steadying breaths through her nose where she lay, staring straight upward. She allowed the silence to lengthen, stretching so long that Kratos shifted and glanced at her, concern plain in his eye. Minutes passed, neither moving, until Kratos made to leave. 

“Why did you come to Midgard?” Faye asked. “Why here?”

“I do not know. It was not my decision.” 

“Does Greece not need you more?” Faye's voice betrayed her reluctance to ask, as she feared he might agree. 

“No one should have any need for Gods. We would all be better for their absence.” 

“You speak of the Gods as though you are not one yourself.” There was no mockery in Faye's voice, only curiosity. 

“Yes,” Kratos growled. 

“And where are those blades now?” Faye asked quietly. 

“Buried.” Kratos glanced surreptitiously at the boulder he'd moved to accomplish the task. A silvery smile touched the corners of his vision, while echoes of a low woman's voice shifted in the shadows. “I will not wield them again.” 

Faye took another drink of wine, cooling the tension in the air. Kratos did the same when it was handed back. 

“Lightning,” said Faye after a pause. “I've felt the crackling burn of electricity running through me, like a thousand stinging needles. Ironic that the thing itself leaves so similar a mark, when I wish nothing more than to be rid of the memory.” When she shifted her right shoulder uncomfortably, Kratos realized she spoke of the dark, branching scar there. 

“It was a God what did it,” she continued. “One notorious for unrelenting cruelty. But he fought as one who had no need for fighting; as though the act were as small and petty to him as the rest of us. I barely survived. Others did not.” She sighed. “But that was before I had the Leviathan. Perhaps, if I were to face him again, things would be different.”

“Leviathan?” 

“The name of my axe. Had I not told you?” she asked, cocking her head. “No, I suppose not. Do you know the story of the legendary beast?” 

“No.” 

Faye dove into a grand tale, her voice hitting a wonderfully rhythmic cadence after the first minute. She spoke of seas deeper than anyone could imagine, so far from the sun's rays that no light could reach it. There dwelled a massive serpent, whose teeth were as tall as a grown man, and whose scales were hard as iron. Many heroes had perished long before they even managed to find it below the treacherous seas, and more still were felled by its raw power. 

“It is an old tale; one retold and relived by Gods and men alike.” Her voice had lost its strict edge as the wine muddled her tongue. They'd nearly managed to deplete the vase between them, and neither wished to cork it. 

“Why name a frost axe after such a creature?” Kratos asked. He'd heard many such tales, and had lived even more. He was no stranger to quarrelsome serpents. 

“I suppose I'd hoped to invoke its strength and fury. The depths of the lightless seas are colder than even the winter snows, so it seemed a fitting name.” Faye was careful not to sound guarded, and had nearly let slip the true reason for the name. All her talk of giant, seafaring serpents, who lived to battle gods and heroes, had nearly revealed the true connection the weapon possessed with the foes of Kratos's future. For the Leviathan had many namesakes in many lands: Tiamat in old Mesopotamia, Hydra in Greece, and Jörmungandr in Midgard. But the latter had not yet come to pass. 

They spoke of smaller things as they quaffed the wine, easing the weight of their spoken pasts. Faye named the mysterious lights “ norðrljós ”, and told of their creation at the goddess Frigg's hand; of the honorable warriors who walked her path of light. She was careful not to ask any more probing questions, for fear of frightening away the answers. The greater the distance to Kratos's confession of his godhood, the more they relaxed. 

At one point, Kratos stretched and lay on his back, close at Faye's side. She shifted to adjust one of her furs, and in doing so rested her knee gently upon Kratos's leg. 

Neither pulled away. 

***

In the following days, the pair behaved as though nothing were different. Perhaps it was borne of a desire to preserve their current life, tiresome though it was. Perhaps they felt any change would have been too much for the other to bear. Even the smallest hint of Kratos's past atrocities could send the bravest men fleeing, but Faye saw no need to change how she acted in his presence. If he had wanted to be treated differently, with reverence or fear, he wouldn't have guarded his nature so carefully. 

It earned no small amount of respect from Kratos. His regard for her grew, and was demonstrated by his actions: he was more inclined to defer to her judgment on small disagreements for how something might be done. He made a concerted effort to begin learning her language. And he allowed two full weeks to pass without shaving his face. Then three. Then four. He often caught Faye smiling when she thought he wasn’t looking. 

But the nights were long and dark. Kratos dreamed of screaming souls falling about him, a Harpy's cry, and hot blood running in rivulets. He saw the colossal corpses of titans, petrified with age, lying scattered among yellow mountain peaks. Dry dust filled the air, and at their center knelt Faye, clawing at her hair and forearms. She screamed and sobbed so hard that she began to retch, her back and shoulders heaving with breath. More than any amount of carnage or destruction which he’d seen in his nightmares, seeing her bent and broken unnerved Kratos beyond measure. But where he would ordinarily be startled awake by such visions, he could not escape this one. He was locked in place, unable to aid her, as time warped and dilated. 

When Kratos finally woke, sweating despite the cold, he looked to Faye where she slept. No dry dust. No weeping. But he could not brush the dream away so easily. There had to be some kernel of soothsaying in its torment; some insight to this wonderfully stalwart woman. Grief held as firm a grip on her heart as it did his.

As he looked to her sleeping form, he saw a touch more of the tranquility he'd come to treasure. The strength and determination were still there in her jaw, the weariness still upon her fingers. But over her eyes and brow rested a potential for something Kratos had not truly known in many years: peace. It soothed his half-conscious mind, and allowed him to drift back to sleep. 

***

Two months later.

“Are you certain that’s enough for three full days?” 

“More than enough. In fact, I plan on sharing most of it so that I don't have to carry it back.”

“All the same-” 

“Kratos, I'll be fine.” Faye gave a half smile, and placed a reassuring hand on Kratos's shoulder. “This is hardly the longest venture I've undertaken.”

“But it may well be the most dangerous.” 

“We don't know that for a certainty.” Faye closed her pack, then stood and went about gathering the last of her supplies. “We might learn that they fled silently. It wouldn't be the first time.” 

“I should go with you.” Kratos's mood was unusually dark, as he loomed over Faye's preparations. He always seemed to be near at hand just before she left. 

“For the third time, I'll be fine. If I don’t return by overmorrow at sunset, then you may look for me. But you are needed here.”

“What harm would it do if your camp is empty for a few days?” Kratos paced nervously, as though he knew he'd lose the argument.

“What harm? People could die, that's what. Hours without shelter might kill a man. And you've seen the state people are in when they arrive.” Faye fastened a leather greave to her forearm, and turned to face him. “I will not stop you from doing what you wish. But it would mean much to me if you remained here.” 

Though her voice was icy, her clear blue eyes entreated Kratos to see reason. They didn’t demand; they asked. 

“Very well,” he replied in his low, rumbling voice. “I will await your safe return.” 

It would have been trivial to go against Faye's wishes. He knew where she'd gone, and could have easily followed her come noon. But he kept to his word, and waited for Faye, and for any refugees.

And waited. 

And waited. 

There was not enough work to fill the time. Nor did any visitors stumble into the clearing, desperate or dying. Kratos sharpened his sword, stacked more firewood than they'd ever need, and paced the tent relentlessly. He'd worn a path smooth by the following evening, and looked more volatile than ever the following morning. Kratos did not wait for sunset; he barely waited for noon before storming out of the clearing.

He struck a path eastward, plowing through the powdery snow as though it weren't there at all. The squeak and crunch of it beneath his boots drowned out his growling breath, while his eyes were sharp on the horizon. When he reached the crest of a hill, and saw the village in the distance as Faye had described, he broke into a sprint. For there was no mistaking the haze of gray-brown wood smoke rising from its center. 

As the light began to fade in the afternoon, Kratos was finally within sight of the village. By then, the flames were visible, and he caught the scent of burning flesh upon the wind. Clouds of smoke and hot breath blew into his eyes, and his chest heaved with each thudding step. 

Screams reached his ears just before the roaring of the fires. The clash of steel on bone followed soon after. 

“Faye!” Kratos shouted into the chaos. “Faye, do you hear me!” 

Innocents fled from one hazard to another about him, men swung their swords wildly, and no one seemed to be dousing the fires. Inhuman snarls drew him northward, winding around buildings and debris, along a trail of half-frozen bodies littering the paths. Finally, he came upon the first of the attackers - they who wrought such destruction. 

They'd been men once. That much was clear. They were thin and short, and bore swords and armor, but the similarities ended there. Their naked skin was ash-gray, and glowed bright blue at the face and hands. Each wore a crown of jagged ice spikes atop their heads, and advanced upon their victims with lifeless eyes. 

They did not fall easily. Where the Draugr had attacked with reckless abandon, these creatures were measured and patient. When Kratos took one by surprise and struck it down, three others turned and brought their guards up. They circled for an opening, blocked his next attacks, and struck at his back when he negligently exposed it. Kratos gritted his teeth against the blow, and swiped at the one who'd landed it. A handful of well-timed strikes broke its guard, and he killed it in short order. 

“Faye!” he cried once more, focusing on his next target. Its companion kept a good distance, and began lobbing blue ice spawned from its palms. “Faye, where are you?” 

“Here!” came the distant reply. Kratos faltered when hit by the blast of ice, but swiftly composed himself. He focused on the grenadier, finding it fell easily to his blade, and was finally able to dispatch the third. 

Kratos wasted no further time waiting for conflict to find him. He charged in the direction of Faye's voice, bowling over two villagers on his way, and found the epicenter of the fighting. A dozen of the ice creatures nearly had a small group of fighters surrounded, and were gaining further ground. Faye had them rallied about her, and appeared miraculously uninjured. She swiped wide arcs through the air, sending waves of ice magic towards their enemies, but had almost no effect upon them. She managed to stumble and weaken them, but her melee had almost the same pitiful effect as the ordinary villagers at her side.

Her fighting spirit radiated a powerful presence which drew the eye. Each move was calm and calculated, timed as though she alone could hear a rhythm flowing through them all. When she danced to it, one could not help but to look: a giant twirling masterfully among lesser men. She barked orders in a booming voice, compelling all to obey. The terrified villagers became warriors under her command, moving with a clear sense of purpose. 

Kratos set upon the creatures at their backs, but barely had an opportunity to make an impact before disaster stole away their battle. In the scant few seconds he had to observe, Kratos saw much. A man in tattered rags used a torch to spread flame from a smoldering home to a fresh one. Another man dashed out of it, arms laden with stolen goods. Further up the street, a woman screamed as her daughter was dragged from her arms. And at Faye's back, an out-of-place looking woman sprinted forward with a spear raised. 

Bandits, all of them. Cruel reavers who took advantage of the misfortune to steal and sow suffering. Perhaps they'd even been the cause of it all, and had lured the creatures in. Perhaps they were mere opportunists. 

In the time it took Kratos to notice this, the woman with the spear was charging wildly. It would have been reasonable to assume she would attack the blue abominations, unless one looked carefully at the direction of her gaze. 

“Watch your back!” Kratos cried. Faye whirled just in time to redirect the spear's tip, but didn’t avoid the attack entirely. She caught the blade on her shoulder, and gave a startled cry as blood began to seep through her furs. 

Kratos's eyes hardened as his brow curled in anger. His lips pulled back from his teeth in a snarl, and his gaze was fixed on the bandit woman. How dare she? How dare this lowly creature lay a hand on her savior? Faye wanted nothing more to ensure the safety and prosperity of all, yet these men and women thought their goals superior to hers. How dare she! 

His body snapped into a cruder battle stance, fingers twisted into stony fists as rage boiled through him. It coiled in his abdomen, burned, and blazed forth. Red flames sparked and flared along his arms, chest, and eyes, exploding outward in a shock wave which sent the nearest attackers flying back. 

All heads snapped towards him, following the sound of a booming roar which seared his throat raw. Nobody had an opportunity to react, as he charged and pummeled the spear woman in the blink of an eye. Kratos felt bone buckle beneath his fist as he knocked her backward. His dropped sword hit the ground behind him. 

Kratos closed the gap in an instant, and set upon the bandit woman's supine body with a flurry of blows. He caught sight of her wide eyes before her face became obscured by blood. Then there was no face at all; only fragments of flesh and bone. Kratos did not cease until her head was a red smear upon the snow.

His eyes found the next bandit before he could flee, and set his bloodied fists upon him with equal fury. Others got it in their heads to attack the burning-red god, but their blades drew neither blood nor tactical advantage. He didn’t so much as flinch to their puny attacks, and continued clawing apart any who raised arms against him. 

When he'd dispatched all bandits within his view, Kratos moved on to the glowing half-men at his back. The fighting had nearly ground to a halt, giving him unfettered access to the icy wretches. They, unlike men, did not cower before his might. They were calm and methodical. They carefully focused their projectiles and blades upon him. And they all died in turn. 

Kratos wrenched necks sideways, tore off limbs, and stomped skulls into the mud. His rampage shoved aside corpses and burning wreckage, sent snow and earth airborne, and created a vacuous silence around his carnal screams. It was only when his enemies were nearly depleted that he caught sight of the onlookers. 

Kratos had seen the emotions evoked by Faye's actions when she helped others: the relief, happiness, and gratitude for her actions. The value they saw in her protection, her creations, and her compassion, was always plain upon their faces. When she fought, the beauty of it inspired loyalty. But when Kratos fought, his weapons were destruction and brutality. Purely chaotic. 

There was no relief upon the faces of the villagers. When he looked at them, they recoiled and shied away, utterly horrified by his actions. They did not see his intent; they saw only what he was capable of. As far as they were concerned, he was just another monster to fear. 

Faye stood among them, not frightened but crestfallen. Though she frowned deeply, her eyes were soft. It took a moment for Kratos to recognize it: pity. She felt sorry for him. 

The flames withered and died as his rage receded, leaving only his ragged, cloudy breath. He took one look at the stunned faces which walled him in, then turned and ran. 

***

It wouldn't take a skilled tracker to follow the path Kratos took on the return journey. A child could have done it. In his wake were the splintered remains of a tall birch tree, a cracked rock face, and the shattered surface of deep ice upon a small lake. With each act, Kratos caught a glimpse of his forearms, where the glow of the rising moon brought the flickering shadows of chains to life. 

That night, he avoided the camp by several miles, choosing instead to shelter beneath a crumbling stone archway. Though the ground was dry and clear of snow, it sapped heat as though magicked to do so. Kratos knelt upon it, and stared long and hard at his hands. The blood had long since disappeared, the wounds healed, but it was impossible to forget the sensation of one's own knuckles being jabbed with fragments of broken bone. 

"What a pitiful attempt." 

The feminine voice snapped Kratos's head upright, and his eyes were all that betrayed the shock he felt. Before him stood a beautiful woman made entirely of silver, glimmering in the moonlight. She wore flowing silks and ornate armor, and stood calmly with her hands folded, as though she'd been the one to demand that Kratos kneel before her. He sneered. 

"Athena," he growled. "I'd thought you dead." 

"What horrors had those people seen?" she continued as though he hadn't spoken at all. "Their homes pillaged or destroyed, families and neighbors slaughtered before their eyes, and yet… none could spark such terror as you . It is in your nature. Your face will haunt the dreams of all who behold it." 

"Why come all this way to torment me!" Kratos roared, rising to his feet. "I did what needed to be done!" 

"Did you?" said Athena, still maddeningly calm. "Was it the guardian who decided that, or the rabid dog who let himself loose? Did you think yourself her equal?" She strode casually away from him, her feet leaving neither sound nor print in the snow. "You are many things, Kratos, but a protector of man is not one of them." 

"I did not do it for their sake." 

"Of course not. Your intent could never be so pure." Athena waved one hand in a dismissive gesture. "For the protection of innocents…" she waved it again, "or, in defense of your lady fair…"

Athena turned, and all the silver melted away in the blink of an eye. Her skin paled, her hair flowed long and dark, and her armor softened into a cerulean dress. When she faced him, eyes weeping dark blood, it was no longer Athena who spoke. 

"For the glory of Sparta…" she seethed. "You did this for yourself. " 

Kratos's face fell, his eyes mournful as he entreated the figure with a trembling hand. 

"Lysandra…" he pleaded weakly. 

"Have you ever truly loved anything as much as you love killing, Kratos?" 

"Lysandra, please-" 

But when he took a step toward her, reached for her, she was gone. Her voice yet echoed, but there was not so much as a flake of disturbed snow to mark her passing. Kratos stared at where she'd just been, then let his hand fall to his side. He allowed a full minute of silence to pass, then shook his head.

"Spirits…" he spat. As though that could invalidate the truth of their words. 

He slumped to the ground, his tongue itching for a draught to dull the senses. To numb his aching mind. But there was only that wretched silence. 

When at last he closed his eyes and surrendered himself to the frigid ground, he slept deeply. The night was ruthlessly calm and dreamless. 

***

Though mid morning sunlight filled the tent, it didn’t lend its golden warmth until Faye approached and entered it. 

She was noticeably surprised to find Kratos inside, but fought to keep her expression neutral. A brief flash of pity was visible before she suppressed it. Faye sat and warmed herself by the fire, and said nothing. It had only been two days since last they’d spoken, but neither seemed inclined to ask the obvious questions. 

Faye was exhausted, having returned far later than originally planned for exactly the reasons they’d feared. It was as though a weight tugged at her shoulders, her wrists, the corners of her eyelids; everything about her posture was downcast. She was bruised, sore, filthy, and smelled of sweat and smoke. Firefighting and funerals made for grim work. But by her presence alone, Kratos’s shoulders relaxed the slightest bit. His fingers unclasped, and he sighed heavily. 

“What happened to you?” asked Faye without preamble. “You fought as though possessed.” 

“I did what others could not.” 

“That isn’t what I asked, Kratos. You transformed into a different man before my very eyes… Tore apart Hel-walkers with your bare hands. By the gods, man! What was that? It was so unlike you.”

Kratos did not tell her the grim truth of it: that it was the closest to his true self she’d yet seen. 

“It was a channeling of my power,” he said through gritted teeth. 

“Can you control it?” Faye asked abruptly, fixing him with a hard look. Kratos inhaled sharply to answer in the affirmative, then hesitated. That brief pause told Faye what she wanted to know. 

“What I saw was rage incarnate,” she said. “An unstoppable force which struck down all in its path, heedless of intent. Though you may have been able to loosely guide it toward your goals-"

"It was more than simple guidance," Kratos interrupted. "I used it to kill our enemies!" 

" And three bystanders! Or had you forgotten?” Faye snapped to her feet, eyes furious behind the disciplined posture. 

Kratos bit off a harsh reply, thinking back on the hundreds of lives he’d snuffed out simply because they’d been in his way. He thought of the faceless masses who might as well have been bricks beneath his feet, for all he cared. Three lives were a small price to pay. But he knew Faye would not want to hear him speak such a callous truth. 

She misinterpreted his silence. Her face fell. 

“You didn’t know,” she said in a subdued tone. “I’m sorry, I… I hadn’t realized.” 

Faye sat on a nearby stool, weariness creeping back into her limbs. The solemn reverence in the thin line of her lips, in her mournful eyes, was more than Kratos had ever shown towards the death of a stranger. Her selflessness went far beyond public acts of heroism, or charitably sheltering the lost: it was a deeply personal thing. Like the care an artist had for their work, or a parent for their child. Until then, Kratos had been able to brush aside the reasons for Faye’s actions, justifying them as necessary for her own safety and longevity. But he could no longer pretend that people were as meaningless to Faye as they were to him. Nor could he continue believing the same, if he were to remain in her life. He would need to become a better man. 

“The ability to channel your power, your rage, is useful to be sure,” said Faye in a measured, even tone. “But only so long as you can control it. Trust me, I know.” She caught and held his eye. “You may not think I can, but I know.” 

She was right on both accounts. There was far more she could have said, but knew it to be unnecessary.

“Are they safe?” asked Kratos. Faye nodded. 

“It wouldn’t have been possible without your help. I should’ve asked for it earlier-” Kratos cut her off with a wave of his hand. It was not humility which prompted him to do so, but a keen desire not to be reminded of those faces. Of her face. He needed the past buried and forgotten far more than he needed any gratitude. And he was undeserving of it, besides.

Faye nodded sharply, and rummaged for a basket of bathing items: soaps, washrags, a comb, and fresh set of clothing. She didn’t collect the washbasin for heating, nor the bucket for pulling water from the river. 

“Come with me,” she said, “I have something to show you.” The slight smile in her eyes was lighthearted; a chance to indulge and forget. 

Faye left her axe and armor behind, and made it clear they were in no hurry. Though she could summon the Leviathan from any distance, it was a symbolic gesture: she seldom left it out of arm’s reach. Her pace was slow, her posture lax, and her limping stride lacked the frustration of attempting to conceal minor injuries. 

An hour later, Kratos caught a strange scent on the wind, which took him a moment to recognize: humidity. The air was thick with water vapor, and it filled his nose and lungs with a soothing sensation he’d missed terribly. A strong scent of minerals followed soon after, as Faye descended into a narrow gap between steep walls of stone. There was almost no snow resting upon the rocks, and tiny clusters of moss and lichen dotted the ground. As they shimmied through tight passageways, the air warmed and glimmered with mist. 

Finally, they arrived at a steep pit which was open to the sky, filled with shelves and pillars of dark, uneven stone. At its center lay a wide pool of clear water, hot enough to pour thick clouds of steam into the air as it warmed the very rock surrounding them. 

“It’s normally too hot in the summer,” said Faye, smiling slightly, “and will occasionally freeze in the deep winter. But there are days where it is just perfect…” She balanced carefully on a nearby rock, and dipped her hand in. Apparently satisfied, she nodded. 

“Why did you not tell me of this place?” Kratos asked, thinking back on the dozens of inconvenient and icy baths they’d struggled through. 

“It’s so rarely usable,” Faye replied as she hung the basket and clean clothes over a protruding rock. “And… I haven't brought anyone here before." Her voice was morose rather than bashful; it was not for privacy's sake that she'd never revealed this space to others. She'd simply never had the opportunity. There again was the touch of grief Kratos had seen glimpses of: sorrow for friends and family gone too soon. For all those with whom she couldn't share life's pleasures. 

Faye slipped off her boots and outer furs, placing them on a dry rock, and stepped carefully into a shallow portion of the spring at its rim. When she stripped off her tunic, Kratos stared openly at her naked back. The sight of her thoroughly muscled arms and shoulders were a testament to her discipline. The scars and fresh wounds overtop were a record of her mistakes - and there were many he had not previously seen. 

It was with a strange sense of discomfort that Kratos remained rooted in place, for once unsure of what to do. He knew Faye well, certainly. Trusted her. And he'd seen more than his fair share of nude women over the years. But he'd never seen her . 

A gentle lapping of water announced Faye's descent into the center of the pool, apparently oblivious to his hesitation. In fact, she seemed unaware of anything besides the soothing waters, as they infused her with warmth. A breathy sigh escaped her thin lips as she immersed her body up to the shoulders. 

Kratos knew what it was she felt. There had been many a time when the need to stop and rest had been overwhelming, yet he’d had to press on. When long days and nights of ceaseless effort, pain, and careful thought had pushed him beyond the limits of his endurance. But rarely, if ever, did he have the opportunity to indulge such a need. 

Faye had more than earned the respite. As she dipped her long hair in the waters, rinsing away ash and sweat, Kratos finally moved to join her. Not because he felt he deserved the same, but because he knew Faye wanted the company. 

He left his clothing on the path they'd used to enter, and did his best to keep sufficient distance between them as he stepped in. The pool was deeper than he'd expected, but had plenty of places below the surface to sit or stand. The soft murmur of running water and hot clouds of steam were more tranquil than any fire or furs could ever be. 

"It's a strange thing," said Faye, "that the same nature which blankets us in such cold can create this. Perhaps this is where all our stolen heat goes." She shut her eyes as she spoke, demonstrating the trust she felt. Kratos stole another look at her, admiring the square set of her chest, the solid lines along her broad waist, the weathered thickness of her skin. Not a hint of tenderness lay concealed beneath her clothing. She was a hardened warrior through every inch of her body.

When Faye began washing and combing soap through her hair, she looked toward Kratos with passive curiosity. 

"You'll be keeping the beard, then?" she asked. 

"Possibly."

"I suppose that's the best I can hope for. Well, should you decide you like having as much as I enjoy looking at it, you should learn how to tend it." Faye worked the beads and leather straps free of her thick hair, wetting it through and releasing weeks of dirt and oil from it. Steam rose from the surface of her skin wherever it was exposed to the chill air. 

"As you do for your own hair?" asked Kratos, inclining his head toward her. She chuckled. 

"Point taken." Her smile lingered. 

The pair took their time as they each scrubbed themselves raw in the hot spring. The continuously moving waters swept away all which they cast off, cleansing everything within. A distant wind whistled as it swept through the tight rock, but could not reach them in their refuge. Faye leaned back against the stone wall and shut her eyes, allowing minutes to slip by. She grew so still that Kratos began to wonder whether she’d drifted to sleep. 

"You don't have to stay, you know," said Faye quietly. "You could return anytime you wished." 

"I know," said Kratos, knowing she wasn't speaking of their bath. 

"Far be it from me to presume influence over you, but… I would like if you stayed." Faye righted herself and waded slowly across the spring as she spoke. "Not only for your labor, though that has been invaluable. I truly am grateful for your companionship, Kratos. For what you've taught me, and what you've allowed me to teach you." 

When she neared him, passing through a small sunbeam, Kratos saw that her hair was not the dull, dark brown he'd originally thought. It was a rich auburn which hummed with warmth, catching a coppery gleam. Tiny wet strands stuck to her neck and breasts, tracing delicately curved lines along her pale skin in contrast to the bluish runes of her many tattoos. Kratos stiffened as she moved within arm's reach, but didn’t move away. Faye cast a curious look toward his left shoulder.

"It's strange…" she said offhandedly, "I hadn't realized how far these stretched." She reached for the swirl of his red tattoo, fingers poised to trace along it, before Kratos caught her hand. The motion was alarmingly swift, sending a spray of droplets upward, but his grasp was gentle. He did not push her hand away, instead choosing to hold it there. Faye looked up to meet his intense gaze, and hesitated before speaking. 

"We live in tumultuous times, Kratos. You and I are bound by duty, and do not have the luxury of indulging our wants as others do." Her other hand, below the water, found its way to his. Her voice dropped to a whisper. "But perhaps… we could allow ourselves just one." 

Faye leaned closer, pale lips and cheeks glimmering with droplets of water. She paused within a breath of Kratos's implacable face, her bright eyes searching his for a long moment before he tipped his head and closed the remaining distance. Long-standing barriers shattered instantly like ice, showing themselves to be far thinner than either had originally believed.

Each surrendered to a quiet joy, as Kratos released a slow breath into their kiss. The unfamiliar tickle of a beard was one of many new sensations which drew his attention, along with the surety of Faye's hands, the bliss in her voice, the novelty of her body.

And as they wove themselves into one another, fingers pressed hard into strong backs, Kratos discovered that he'd been wrong about Faye: she was very soft, indeed.

***

Time flitted by like the delicate thrum of a butterfly’s wings: barely noticeable, and heedless of they who would catch and hold it if they could. By the time the pair had pried themselves from the heated embrace of the spring, their path home was starlit. They barely spoke as they walked, but the quietude was a comfortable thing. Small actions declared what words did not: Faye's reassuring hand resting briefly upon Kratos's forearm, her soft smile, his lingering touch when helping her descend a steep bank. 

They made love again by the fire that night, trading heated passion for intimacy. Kratos showed his remarkable capacity for gentleness, carefully avoiding Faye's injuries as they explored one another. Hands and eyes roamed slowly, one often pausing to tell the other stories of how their scars had come to be. The finger which could no longer bend correctly, the uneven hash marks of hastily stitched skin, the tight pull of damaged muscle. Each gave way to longer tales of fearsome beasts, legendary battles, and ancient myths, most of which were woven by Faye. 

Kratos spoke haltingly of his own deeds, often omitting crucial details or descriptions without meaning to. They made for poor stories in comparison, as Kratos balked at sharing the truth of his heritage, the throne of his godhood, and the thousands of innocents he'd massacred. He'd certainly heard and lived many legends, but couldn’t seem to replicate them in a manner which did them justice. Instead, he spoke fondly of friends long past, and of their actions in place of his own. 

Faye was no bard herself, but knew enough to enrich the air with her words. To hear her speak of the glory of battle was like listening to a fish profess its love of water; it was a vital part of her native culture, her past, and her character. It was easy for a Spartan to relate. 

The hour grew late, then early, as they lay together. The fire was allowed to wither whilst they languored in the dimming light of its embers. And even as the tent grew cool, they managed to keep one another warm enough. 

Kratos was unsure when he’d drifted to sleep, but was woken abruptly by the feeling of bone cracking beneath his grip. He roused with a start to find his hands were not wrapped about the neck of an abomination, but rather Faye’s firm waist. He drew them back cautiously, his nostrils flaring with rapid breath, and stared into the dark where she lay. He listened to the steady rise and fall of her breath for half a minute before finally releasing his own in a faltering hush. 

Faye stirred and shifted towards him, unaware of his turmoil, and nestled her cheek against his chest. Her strong arms reached and held him firmly, and her entire form seemed rooted to the exact spot she chose. Kratos shut his eyes and focused on it: on the cadence of her breaths, the surety of her presence, and allowed her to ground him back in reality. 

It did not forestall his nightmares entirely. But, for the remainder of the night, they were distant phantoms, muffled and faded. When Kratos woke the next morning, long after the late dawn, he could scarcely recall them. 

It was not the last gift Faye would give to him, nor the grandest, nor even the longest lived. But it was the only one she was unaware she’d given. Kratos held her close, not knowing that he would one day see Faye, too, turn to ashes before his eyes, and would carry her with him.

***

Some weeks later, the mornings became clear and cloudless, and the days just barely bright enough to melt some of the deep snows. The refrozen mud brought its own unique set of annoyances, but Faye perked up at the sight of it. 

"We've not long to wait for winter to be done," she said. "Another two or three storms, maybe. Then the real work begins." 

She and Kratos were shoveling heavy slush from the sides of the tent, ensuring it would remain dry. He shot a curious look in her direction, earning a laugh. 

"We have completed small tasks here and there, maintained our camp… and occasionally fought. But our duty is far greater than slaying a few Draugr or housing a single family." Faye stopped shoveling momentarily, and leaned heavily against the tent frame, gritting her teeth. Kratos immediately set down his tools and went to her. He laid hands on her elbow and back, wordlessly offering to support her weight if she needed.

“Are you well?” he asked quietly, as though he might be overheard. 

“Fine,” she replied tersely. Her frustration was not for Kratos, but for the wounds on her hip and shoulder. Faye had felt worse; they both had. But knowing that did not lessen the pain, nor hasten her recovery. “I only need a minute.” 

“You should rest.” 

“I should finish clearing the drainage ditch, is what I should do. Else we’ll be ankle-deep in mud tomorrow afternoon.” A thin sheen of sweat appeared on Faye’s wide forehead, betraying the toll the heavy exertion had taken on her. She smelled of leather and iron from the morning’s other projects, but a faint scent of herbs had begun to seep through from the poultice on her shoulder. 

“It shall be done,” said Kratos. “Go. You’re of no use if you worsen it.” 

Faye frowned, but nodded and went inside. Kratos finished clearing the area within the hour, following her instructions carefully to ensure she would have no reason to redo the work. Until then, he’d been purposefully limiting his labor so as not to tempt Faye to overexert herself. She would have undoubtedly done so otherwise. It took another half hour to wipe himself clean, and even then he still did not manage to brush away all traces of the dark, gritty mud. 

“Finished already?” asked Faye when he re-entered. She was bent over a bold red fabric in her lap, and didn’t look up when Kratos shuffled toward the fire pit. 

“It is done,” he said, ladling himself a cup of water from a covered barrel. 

“Your timing is fortuitous.” Faye tied and trimmed a length of golden thread, then shook out the red fabric. Her nimble hands held it aloft pridefully. 

Kratos froze and stared at the wide, flat garment. It was the closest to outright astonishment Faye had ever seen him, and she allowed ample time for him to work through the emotions. In her hands was Kratos’s chiton, but it was not the same skirt he’d worn for the past several years. In place of the tatty, faded scrap which had only covered half of one leg, Faye held a full, rich tunic which would clothe him from shoulder to knee. The damages had been mended, the color fully restored, and the edges reinforced for heavy wear. She’d even sewn gold clasps onto the shoulders to match the meandros patterned along its edges. 

“Faye…” he said, setting down the cup. He knelt before her and took it, running his fingers over the gold. It was impossible to tell where the old fabric had been woven together with the new. “How did you know what it looked like?”

“I did get it right, then,” she said, breaking into a smile. “I had help from an old family friend. I’ve never been to Greece myself, but he was able to offer some advice.”

“You did this for me?” Kratos asked quietly, meeting her eye. The amount of work it had required was clear in its pristine quality. Faye nodded; each masterful stitch was time she'd chosen to invest for his sake.

“I wanted to thank you for all you’ve done,” she said, “for enduring it all with me. It isn’t much, but you did seem fond of it.” 

“‘Isn’t much’...” Kratos murmured, examining the clasps and cinching at the waist. In truth, it was more than anyone had done for him in years. To know someone who put forth such time, consideration, and expertise for his sake… It was more than he knew he deserved. 

“It looks as it did the day I first wore it,” said Kratos, his eyes distant. “A better time.” 

Faye tidied and stowed the tools she’d been using, and withdrew a clay jar from a leather sack. 

“Will you tell me of it?” she asked, breaking the seal on the jar. The scent of strong ale filled the room, and she sipped from it loudly. Kratos took his time smoothing and folding the chiton, before placing it reverently aside and accepting the drink. 

Faye had deliberately phrased her question so that it sounded exactly so: a question. Not the gentle sorts of demands which masqueraded as questions: “can you wait a moment?”, “are you going to help?”, or “will you come along?”. No, Faye had asked in such a way that simple refusal was a valid option. For that reason, Kratos chose to answer. 

“It was the day of my wedding,” he began, “a hot afternoon of a hotter summer. I would have worn my sword and armor but for her insistence that I find something more dignified.” He smirked at the memory. “But she was lovelier than I ever was. Even more so once she’d cut her hair.”

“Why would she cut her hair?” asked Faye, bewildered.

“All Spartan women do so on the day they are wed, to mark a new beginning.”

“And not even wearing your sword… How strange that would be.” Faye took another drink of ale, smiling softly. “What was she like?” 

Something in the air shifted, as though warmed by a sunbeam between thin clouds. Kratos reclined against a stack of bedrolls, and allowed the music of memory to play slow and sweet across his tongue. 

“As fair as she was fearless,” he said. “She never once hesitated to tell me the truth of things. Even when my own men did not dare to defy my command, Lysandra would look me in the eye and say what they could not.” 

A dozen questions pressed at Faye's throat like a dire thirst, straining for release. He had commanded men? Why had they feared him? Had Lysandra been mortal? But in their place, the respectful silence drew forth more than any inquiries could have.

"I might not have outlived her, had I been wise enough to listen. I could have watched her hair grow long and gray, and seen our daughter cut short her own one day.” Kratos sighed and shut his eyes. “Instead, I brought about their destruction.”

“Just as you always have. Smothering every beautiful thing you encounter.” 

It took Kratos a moment to realize that it was not Faye who had spoken. He kept his eyes closed, not wanting to meet the gaze of the apparition he knew would be standing before him. Looking at him. Knowing. 

Faye’s lack of reaction was simultaneously reassuring and disconcerting. It meant that Athena was not truly there. But, in another sense, it meant that she always would be. 

“You speak of all this as though it were a lifetime ago,” said Faye. 

“It was,” said Kratos. He took a long, slow breath through flared nostrils, then opened his eyes. No one else stood in the tent. “I am old, Faye. I may not look it, but I feel it every day. I have lived longer and seen more than any man should.” 

“Nonsense,” said Faye with a wry smile, “you do look it.”

Kratos gave a low chuckle, and took a long drink of ale. 

***

It soon became apparent that Faye had not overstated the amount of work they had before them. After the next snowstorm gave way to heavy rains, she laid out plans for the construction of multiple wooden shelters, increased food storage capacity, and a multitude of other outbuildings. It was ambitious, even by Faye’s standards, and Kratos was wary of being handed tasks which he had no hand in planning. He'd spent too long unwittingly doing other's bidding. But Faye never demanded, never obliged him. She only stated what she would be doing, and asked if Kratos was inclined to help.

Once, and only once, he had asked why they should go to such great lengths to shelter others. Faye had simply frowned in response, disappointment plain on her face. He'd already known the reason, and should have thought better than to mask his complaint so poorly.

He didn't have to stay, of course. Kratos could return to Greece anytime he wished. But compared to his ravaged homeland, the quietude and relative isolation were becoming peaceful. The easing of the deep chill, the brighter dawns, and the more colorful landscapes, all seemed to welcome him in. Like a wary stranger who took months to warm to the company of someone new, Midgard had finally begun to speak with Kratos. Instead of shunning him or refusing to acknowledge his presence, it smiled in greeting. 

When their work began in earnest, and Faye's latest wounds were all but gone, her forethought and organization bloomed impressively. Others may have viewed this ability, this drive, as more valuable than her willpower in battle. Kratos did not hold such opinions, but still saw the results of her unflagging stamina.

Though the days lasted longer, she kept candles or braziers burning for several hours after sunset, never wasting a minute of their light. She laid out detailed tasks and schedules for them both, talking animatedly of the resources which a community of twenty or thirty people would require. This should have been a clue for what was to come, but it was only when they began logging the nearby woods that Kratos realized they would not be building tents: they were creating a village. A simple village, certainly, but one which could withstand years of hard winters, transient inhabitants, and even be made to have some luxuries with a bit of work. 

The spot Faye had chosen was naturally sheltered by a sheer, rocky hill on one side, and thick forest on the other. It was an almost optimal location for defending against small, unorganized groups of attackers. Almost. The one inescapable danger was their proximity to the strange, crumbling remnants of architecture carved deep into the caves beneath hills of stone. The remains of an older civilization, with far more people and resources at their disposal, had begun to blend with the land over the years. Decorative archways, carved runes, and iron grating had begun to crumble, wood rotted, and walls collapsed. 

Faye had initially entertained the idea of taking up residence in their depths, but their exploration had only yielded structural hazards and bloodthirsty attackers. A wolf den, a handful of Reavers, and more Hel-walkers than they cared to remember were the only neighbors to meet them. None had been particularly welcoming. The further they ventured, the clearer it became that the caves held nothing of value for them: only constant conflict. 

By month’s end, the snows showed no signs of returning, and they had a communal A-frame structure, with two smaller ones nearing completion. Faye resumed her regular trips to nearby villages, and always seemed to bring one or two people back with her. Each came with all their worldly possessions on their backs, bearing an eager will and useful skills to contribute. 

Aluer, a thin and shaggy tanner, was a widower at only twenty-three years of age, having lost his young wife to a Reaver attack. He brought a wealth of tools, years of apprenticeship, and a surprisingly quick wit. Menglǫð was a hardened hunter and fisherwoman, who’d lived on the shores of the Lake of Nine before they’d been swallowed by rising waters. As far as any could tell, she had no family to speak of. But then, she hardly spoke at all. Menglǫð kept to herself so fiercely that others began to wonder whether she’d intended to take up residence with Faye, or had ended up there by mistake. 

Kratos spoke no such rumors; he was rather drawn to the stony demeanor. He accompanied Menglǫð on several of her expeditions, barely managing to catch her before she simply disappeared for days on end. Though neither spoke the other’s language, it did not seem to matter; Kratos gained more knowledge from the tight-lipped huntress than he’d thought possible to lack. 

Ranuig was the only other whose name Kratos bothered to learn. It was impossible not to, as the old woman had planted herself fireside the day she arrived, and hardly seemed to leave it. She managed to pluck all food-related tasks from Faye’s hands so deftly that the warrior hardly protested. The sight of Ranuig’s long, carefully-braided gray hair became as much a fixture of the communal building as the furs beneath her feet, and the smell of her cooking soothed a subliminal unease: none would ever go hungry while Ranuig still fashioned such delicacies. 

It wasn’t uncommon for folk to keep Ranuig company whenever there was a minute to rest. Even Kratos found himself warming his hands over her fire more than his own, watching her butcher meat as her little granddaughter ran wildly about. The girl was always underfoot, but none seemed to mind, for she always sat quietly and listened whenever Ranuig told one of her stories. At least, they sounded like stories to Kratos. He kept a keen ear on the simpler speech of elder and child, but only managed to glean an occasional phrase from the richly-accented tongue. 

Others arrived almost as swiftly as the low huts were built for them: a carpenter, a smith and his apprentice, an old farmer, a young stonemason and his children. Despite the initial stress of having so many unfamiliar people in close proximity, it was clear that each had been looking for just such a community. Faye’s little village was a chance for a fresh start, security, and the leeway to depart at any time. 

“They’re even smiling more often,” said Faye one evening, in the privacy of their own hut. “More than I’ve known them to, since all this started. It’s a damned sight better than all the misery they’ve known.” 

Though the space within their wooden shelter was almost identical to Faye’s now-dismantled tent, it felt smaller somehow. The wind did not vary its edges, nor did the sun set it aglow. Kratos didn’t seem to mind, but Faye was visibly more at ease. She settled into the rigid walls as comfortably as she did her lover’s arms each night. 

“They aren’t the only ones,” Kratos replied. He turned towards Faye where she reclined beside him, and brushed his fingers along one of the tattoos at her jawline. She smiled warmly. 

“I can’t deny it’s a relief to have more industrious hands. At this rate, we’ll be able to accommodate more travellers than I could have hoped to alone, even with permanent residents taken into account.” She set down her leatherwork, and took Kratos’s hand between her own, weaving their fingers together in a fluid motion. “It wouldn’t have been possible without you.” 

“Do not forget it was I who pled your assistance before any of them.” 

“Certainly. But you’ve repaid that many times over. I would never have attempted something so ambitious otherwise. I’d wanted to for years, but… never had the opportunity.” Faye’s speech seemed to have softened considerably. Perhaps it was her increased familiarity with the Greek language. But more likely she had finally allowed herself to settle into their new routine; one where she didn’t have to bear the mental and physical burden of every last detail of their survival. 

“Which is something I wished to discuss,” said Faye. “I will soon have what I’ve wanted for a long time. And you’ve helped me achieve it. So I would ask of you: what do you want, Kratos?” 

Kratos was silent for a long minute, his golden eyes scanning the wooden roof overhead, the fire at their feet, and Faye’s hands where they held his. He shifted to wrap his arms about Faye, pulling her into a firm embrace. His chin rested atop her head, and he held her so close that she could feel his throat vibrate when at last he spoke. 

“This,” he said simply. 

Faye chuckled, then nodded as she settled herself, marvelling at the fact that no man had ever before made her feel so small and light in his arms. No other could. 

***

Bright spots of color began to stipple the horizon, creeping steadily closer with each dawn. The white of snows startled and fled into discrete specs upon tiny wildflowers, falling into step with their yellow, pink, and violet fellows. A smattering of greenery rose up in its place; tall, thin grasses which behaved as though they’d always been there, and short puffs of shrubbery which intruded upon the most inconvenient of places. 

Faye and Kratos found more time to retreat to their hot spring as they became less concerned with constantly staving off the elements, but it soon became far too hot for comfort. In its place, rivers began to thaw and flow, days became more hospitable, and frequent rains filled the air with soothing humidity. The nights were rife with conversation and song, and the day’s meals were increasingly sweet and diverse. 

As for their thief’s stolen goods, a handful of owners had been found over the months, and had their precious heirlooms returned to them. Faye kept careful track of the items, and took plenty of precautions to ensure others could not find where she’d locked them away. But that didn’t stop some from trying. 

When a young woman came to them one morning, tearfully describing her mother’s necklace, Faye was quick to lead her away from the village. Kratos did not normally accompany her on such brief ventures, but had noticed too many a curious ear wandering close. It wan’t difficult to guess that valuables could be found where Faye and the young woman were going. And so, when a cloaked shadow darted along their trail, Kratos watched its movements. He informed Menglǫð that he would be going hunting, in as few words as he could manage, and made to follow. It was only a partial truth, but Menglǫð did not question his lack of any weapon. 

The dim light of an overcast morning did not ease Kratos’s sour mood. Dense clouds pressed low overhead, promising rain before noon, and made the air about them feel too small. Too focused. These were not the thin, empty skies of winter; the heavy clouds were vigilant. 

Kratos made his way over ground which felt noisy when not muted by heavy snow. He was not subtle in his passage, but the shadow far ahead did not seem to notice. It darted from one hiding place to another, unaware of anything else. When the pair of women slowed, nearing the magically-concealed hiding place, the figure dipped into shadow behind a bolder. Kratos wasted no energy on subtlety as he calmly advanced, his eyes terrifyingly sharp. 

When the would-be thief turned at the sound of his footsteps, it was already too late to react. It was with a sense of mild surprise that Kratos grabbed Aluer by his neck, having never expected him to be capable of such treachery. He was normally so quick to smile and joke, that the fear in his wide eyes seemed out of place. The flaying knife in his hand, however, was right at home. Kratos had a firm hold on the tanner’s wrist before he could think to use it. 

Aluer froze, and wisely chose not to scream. It would have been a difficult thing to explain to Faye, had she discovered what he was about to do. They met one another’s eye for several seconds, and the fury in Kratos’s gaze set Aluer to a hushed, frantic begging. Kratos understood little at first, but Aluer began to slow and enunciate his speech. 

“Please,” he said. “Please, no. No no no no…” 

Kratos’s gaze slowly shifted over to the knife still clutched in Aluer’s hand. The blade could part open flesh as easily as an axe cutting through snow. If he’d only wanted to find the place where Faye led, and return later to steal from it, why had Aluer brought such a blade? What had he intended? 

Under Kratos’s wrathful gaze, Aluer quailed and dropped the knife, his thin fingers trembling madly. 

“Please,” he said as he began to weep, “Please don’t tell Faye.” 

Kratos scowled deeply, but let go of his wrist. 

“I won’t,” he growled. Then he planted his hands on either side of Aluer’s head, and twisted sharply. The low crack was barely audible, but the sensation of tendon and bone snapping apart seemed to reverberate up Kratos’s arms like a flash of heat. His lip curled in disgust as he kept hold of the limp body, maintaining their quietude, and checked to ensure he’d not been overheard. Then he unceremoniously folded and bundled Aluer under one arm, and marched off. 

***

A scant few hours of walking was all it had taken to reach his goal while completely avoiding notice. Kratos cut a wide path through denser forest, at times having to toss Aluer’s body and climb for short stretches. He was a mask of stony silence. Despite having already committed the act, there was murder in his eyes. 

There was nothing to greet him at the entrance to the lower caverns. Nothing animate, in any case. He delved deep, descending through thick air and moist earth, until the dim sunlight above was reduced to a single beam reflecting off a nearby puddle. He lay Aluer’s crumbled corpse in the darkness, allowing it to flop listlessly to the cave floor. The world’s eyes closed to him, leaving them both utterly alone. 

Kratos sat on a low rock beside the sunbeam, rested his elbow upon one knee, then fixed his watchful gaze upon the cloaked body. He waited. 

The sunbeam slid towards him, illuminating the misty air. It crept cautiously along one knee, then the other, before leaving the god behind. When it faded and disappeared, Kratos did not move. He was a patient man. 

For a day and a night, he neither slept nor ate. The long hours did nothing to temper his anger, locked tightly behind his tense stillness. When at last the corpse of Aluer shifted, and began to glow, Kratos promptly stood. He strode to the waking abomination, planted his foot firmly against its head, and stomped. Once. Twice. Thrice. 

And the last remnants of Aluer the tanner’s hold upon the mortal realm were severed, body and spirit abandoned by all. There would be no candles lit to mark his passage, no songs sung, no stories told. 

None but Faye questioned Kratos’s day-long absence. He didn’t tell her what had occurred, not explicitly, but his barely-concealed hatred said as much as the tanner’s disappearance. 

“Did you kill him?” she asked gravely. In lieu of answer, Kratos handed her the flaying knife. Though one thin man might not have presented much of a threat with the weapon, Faye peered at it shrewdly. Perhaps she saw it for the would-be murder weapon it was; perhaps she saw it as a mournful acknowledgment of an untimely death. She looked as though she wanted to inquire further, to ask whether Aluer had done something worthy of execution. But there could be no going back on that now. Something terrible had happened, and Kratos plainly wished to have done with it. 

And this time, when Kratos said that he’d taken care of the body, he meant it. 

***

 Another month saw the empty hut filled, purely out of necessity. Two months more, and it was as though it had never possessed a former occupant. It was easy to forget when there were always more to be erected, and the beginnings of a harvest season to worry about. The village had expanded to nearly thirty people, and every able-bodied man and woman lent their hands to the gardens and nearby farmsteads to gather crops for the coming winter. The summers, while beautiful, were entirely too short in this strange realm. But the natives had their ways of enjoying the sunshine while it lasted. 

Kratos swiftly developed a penchant for drinking mead in the evenings. Though the rich, sweet draught was a welcome contrast to the normally bland foods of wintertime, it was not the taste which he was drawn to. For as the days had become bright and gay, the short nights had grown ever more treacherous. Their brevity was the only spark of hope in the darkness. The less Kratos had to worry about, the worse his nightmares became. 

Though he was mostly silent in his misery, he couldn’t conceal the exhaustion in his eyes, nor the shortening of his temper. The summer heat was not the only thing which drove apart couples in their beds; the nightmares plucked Kratos’s mind from any hint of peace, and jolted his limbs to mock his lack of control. It was such that even Faye's arms could not shelter him from the storm, nor could her voice call him back from the void. It was doubly worse that Kratos was forced to watch her beaten, broken, or betrayed by his hand. Once, he'd even woken her in the dead of night, asking for simple assurance that she was whole and unharmed. Faye did what she could to allay the torment his mind wrought upon itself, without realizing that her calm reassurances were worsening the problem. Knowing that he was safe, provided for, perhaps even loved, was an open invitation for the ghosts who screamed at Kratos with such vengeful fury.

Only the sweet release of intoxication seemed to silence them. With half a jug, he could sleep until morning. With a whole one, he could do so without remembering his dreams. Kratos opted for the latter more and more often, much to the distaste of others in the village. But what could they say? What could anyone say to the massive, alien man, whose primary form of communication was harsh glares? 

Weeks bled together. Mead was on his breath more often than not, and it became more difficult to remember the waking hours which bordered each evening. Kratos didn’t concern himself with the daily tasks of the village as often, but he did notice the look upon Faye’s face each morning when she left: that same sorrowful pity. She’d spoken to Kratos in a very direct manner on more than one occasion, but it was that look which stuck in his mind. 

The village’s supply of mead was finite. But, thankfully, so was the summer. When the snow’s return was heralded by rain and thunder, Kratos departed the hut for several short hunting expeditions. And when the winter forced everyone’s teeth back into a grim resolve, he began to act like himself again. Or at least, the self which Faye knew. 

It was a great benefit for all to add his hands to labors once more, and to have his watchful eyes protecting others. Faye brightened at the change, and stole away with him often to spend time away from the growing populace. Though such times were not technically the solitude Kratos so badly craved, they held the same relief. There was talk of constructing a larger dwelling apart from the huts, just the two of them, to claim a place which would be as much their own as the secluded hot spring.

Kratos's efforts to learn Faye's language didn’t go unnoticed, but no one else remarked on it openly. There seemed to be a subliminal belief that doing so might frighten away his attempts. It wasn't that he lacked the capacity or confidence for it, but rather the practice. It was difficult to practice new pronunciations and vocabulary when he hardly spoke at all.

One night, when Ranuig had concocted a feast to celebrate the birth of a child, Kratos found it in himself to join the festivities. As the night cooled and slowed the world outside, their pocket of warmth played loud beneath the common hall's roof. Booming laughter, songs, and rambunctious children echoed off the hardwood, and the smells of sweet desserts were rich upon the dry air. 

With Faye's help, Kratos managed to tell the tale of a hard battle he'd won early in his leadership of other Spartans, much to the delight of the handful of men and women who lent their ears. Kratos suspected Faye had added touches of embellishment here and there, as she ventured into vocabulary which he had never heard before. 

Once the conversation had progressed, it wasn’t long before his audience fell into the far more comfortable state of timidly ignoring Kratos. He was grateful for the shift in focus, and absently watched the half-dozen children playing near the door. Their joyous laughter and shouting were a welcome reminder of how far he was from harm. At the cost of potential nightmares later that night, he allowed memories to emerge from where he’d carefully packed them away. Pleasant ones. In days long past, he’d watched Calliope darting about with the same naive glee, unburdened by the realities of war and betrayal. He remembered the feeling in his chest; the fluttering warmth of a fondness for what was perhaps the only beautiful thing he’d helped to create. That same warmth crept into his eyes, softening them in the steady torchlight. 

It took Kratos a moment to notice the conspicuous pocket of silence where Faye’s voice had been. It drew his attention, and he turned to see a quiet smile upon her pale lips. There was no pity in her gaze this time; only understanding. Their mutual appreciation for such celebration, such life , was a bright spark which required no verbal acknowledgment. They could see it. 

The pair spent the remainder of the evening in relative solitude amidst the small crowd, passively observing the fruits of their labor in bringing about the merriment. It was their doing, at least in part, and there was no harm in acknowledging it. 

But when the room’s energy began to fade like the hearth at its center, and the nighttime silence loomed near, Kratos reached for a jug of the ale Ranuig had brewed for the occasion. Before he could uncork it, Faye stopped him with a firm hand on his forearm. It took a conscious effort not to leap to anger and cast off her touch, but Kratos hesitated when he met her eyes. His rage, primed for release, was undermined by the seriousness of her expression. 

Faye had never made demands of him before. Not really. She’d asked, and implied, and firmly requested plenty. But this was not a request. It was a command. Faye knew the cost of a night without ale to dull the senses. And, for that matter, the cost of a night with it. 

They stared at one another for several long seconds before Kratos begrudgingly acquiesced, and set the jug back down. With how much Faye had given him, and how much he’d taken, he could well afford to grant her this one boone. And though he suffered for it in the following weeks, Faye was there each time he woke in the night. Perhaps she always had been, and Kratos had simply been too intoxicated to realize it before.

The nights faded and dulled, as though they'd run short of energy. For a time, the ghosts were replaced with anxiety for their possible return, but that too was endured and passed by. 

The subsequent summer was difficult without the crutch of mead to lean upon, but had plenty of new work to occupy both mind and hands. By the following year, the ghosts were silent. Five more, and they’d fled entirely. In their place appeared a peace unlike any Kratos had ever known. There was no bloodlust tugging his desires towards conflict, nor a cloud of obligation to the upturned eyes of huddled masses, nor even a sense that it was unearned. The days were full of hard, meaningful work, and the nights were spent in Faye’s warm embrace. It seemed to take years for Kratos to realize that luxuries weren’t going to disappear unexpectedly, but in due time such worries were assuaged with repeated assurances. 

***

On a bright spring afternoon, Kratos found himself breaking bread with an elderly skald who’d arrived mere days before. The village was quieter than he’d grown accustomed to, but quietude was a comfortable state for them both. The skald, Frode, had spent far too long attempting to reconcile his worship with the disasters ravaging the world around him. He spoke morosely of how he’d viewed them as a warning, then a punishment, then as a personal failing for his inability to properly interpret and enact the gods’ will. 

“It’s as though our lives and our actions are meaningless to them,” said Frode. “I’ve spent decades guiding others down the path I thought they wanted for us, molding us all to their will. And what comes of it? Disease and famine? Dishonorable deaths for those who stay?" 

After he'd heard Kratos's heavy, halting accent, Frode had slowed and enunciated his speech. The cadence sounded natural coming from the lifelong orator, but Kratos still noticed it and was silently grateful. 

"You speak the truth," he replied. "The gods pay no heed to us. They care only for themselves." Frode's eyebrows twitched upward. 

"Well, now. I'm not certain I would go that far. But, part of me believes you may be right." The short, aging man groaned as he resettled himself, like a ship creaking as the night air cooled its bones. 

"But then, you do not still follow the ways of Odin?" he asked. "Or did you ever?"

"I once was bound by Olympus in Greece," Kratos replied bitterly. "But no longer. The gods abandoned me, and I them." 

Frode nodded contemplatively, and the pair settled back into the same placid silence. They watched as a father chased his giggling son around a tree, goading him along. It lasted for several minutes before Kratos shifted slightly, the only visible sign of his discomfort, and spoke. 

"I have need of your services, if you are willing." 

Frode smiled.

***

Dawn had already begun at far too early an hour, bearing sunlight and birdsong to every dreamer's unwilling senses. From within their newly-sealed home, Kratos and Faye were almost impervious to their assault, and slept soundly through it. Though the house's interior was still bare and unadorned, its walls were heavy and thick, and the single bed was plenty warm for them both. 

Kratos woke and dressed earlier than usual, careful to avoid excess noise as he did so. Faye lay with her back to him, covered only in a roughspun blanket up to her waist. When he'd finished packing a satchel, Kratos knelt by the bed and ran his fingertips gently along her spine, where it indented between corded muscle. 

“Faye,” he said gently. She shifted and took a deep, slow breath. 

"Hm?" she mumbled as she stirred.

"Faye, I know the hour is early. But Eirik needs my help with his sheep. It cannot wait." 

"What's the matter?" asked Faye softly, rolling towards him with her eyes barely parted open. Her dark auburn hair, newly braided and beaded, surrounded her face in warmth. 

"Nothing's the matter. I need only to carry a sick one back into the village. I'll return by midday."

Faye nodded and stretched, then drew Kratos in for a brief kiss before settling back into a pleasant slumber. When she woke, it seemed as though only moments had passed. But Kratos was gone, and the birdsong had ended an hour previously. Faye was no stranger to sleeping apart due to their frequent expeditions, the already bare house felt startlingly empty of his recent presence. 

When she rolled to her other side, her hands met a neatly folded bundle. A small piece of birch bark lay atop it, bearing a brief inscription in Greek: "Meet me in the garden at midday". She peered at the yellow fabric beneath it and smiled. 

***

Though winter's chill could still extend its reach through the long mornings, the last of the frost had fled by the time the sun neared its zenith. In its place, great blooms of color emerged pridefully, turning their faces toward the light. They were momentarily confused when the sun herself passed them by. 

Faye fought off a grin as she walked through the village, picking her way carefully around puddles and low vegetation. Her hair lay in intricate braids over the bright yellow tunic, tumbling down her back like young, twisting vines. All who caught sight of her paused to stare, as none had ever seen her clad in such finery. 

The tunic's edges were sewn with patterns of twisting golden knots and red borders, and its fluttering sleeves bared parts of her muscular arms and shoulders for all to see. The hem nearly swept the ground, and the cinched waist was adorned with woven cloth, as soft and fine as spider’s silk. 

When she saw a young girl drop her toys to laugh and clap, Faye could no longer suppress the smile. She wore it gracefully, hanging it atop her lengthened posture as she made a dignified entrance into her garden. 

It was smaller than she would've liked, but there was little flat ground to spare in the immediate area, and it caught plenty of sunlight for the neatly-kept rows of plants growing there. The spring vegetables were just beginning to ripen, while wildflowers crept hesitantly inward from its edges. White birch trees towered at the opposite side like an implacable cliff face, forming a harsh backdrop for the two men standing before them. 

Faye recognized the short, hunched shape of an old skald who'd recently arrived, dressed in faded green robes with a book clutched carefully in his arms. Beside him stood Kratos, straight and proud, clothed in a strikingly bright crimson. Her eyes widened at the resplendent sight of power and dignity. The chiton hadn’t faded in its years of storage; its gold meandros shimmered in the dappled sunlight, and the red glowed as boldly as the leaves of the birches behind them. And though the garment was clearly not meant for it, Kratos had his sword belted overtop. His beard, freshly trimmed and oiled, was as thick and healthy as her own hair. Faye had never seen him look as much like the God he was. 

As she crossed to them, treading carefully between rows of vegetables, Kratos extended a hand towards her. She took it, and began running her other along the chiton where it lay over his chest. 

"It fits you," she said. "I can't believe it. It fits you perfectly."

"Of course it does," said Kratos, taking her other hand, " you wove it." 

Faye met his gaze, the gentle amber eyes which seemed to gleam brighter than the gold he wore. She'd suspected what was to happen before she'd even arrived, but somehow the look in his eyes made it real. Several familiar faces had followed her toward the garden, and peered curiously at the three of them. Though they were out of earshot at a respectful distance, there was no mistaking their collective smiles.

Frode wasted no time on smaller pleasantries, and parted open the heavy book to a marked page. 

“Joyful be this day, hallowed be this gathering,” he began, “for the binding of two great warriors, joined together before all of creation. Look upon them and smile, for theirs is a dedication forged in commonality. Kratos, Great Warrior of Sparta. Laufey the Just, of Midgard. Your journeys have been long and hard to arrive now at your peace. But it is not a peace that was discovered, nor stolen, nor given to you. It was crafted by the very hands which have won you many a victory in battle, and which will continue to do so for all the long years that your body is able to carry them." Frode paused, allowing them to breathe in the moment, but did not continue once he'd turned a page. Instead, it was Kratos who spoke. 

"Faye," he said, "when first we met as allied combatants, I had never intended to see you again. But I had hoped I would, and was fortunate." Faye's eyes widened as Kratos recited, realizing that he was speaking Norse instead of Greek. Though his accent was heavy, his pronunciation was accurate, and his cadence easygoing. 

"Ever since that day, you've shown me what it means to fight as one who knows pain, but not fear. Mortality, but not hesitation. And more importantly, what it is to have something to fight for. You have given me much, and asked little in return." He looked down at their joined hands, and paused before continuing. "I fear I have nothing to give you in the way of traditional gifts. All I can offer is my strength and sword. You shall have my loyalty, just as you already have my heart." 

Kratos extended a hand toward Frode, who passed him a carefully concealed bundle of flowers with a significant nod. 

"With this circlet," said Kratos, "I lay all of my strength upon your brow, that your wisdom might guide me toward noble purpose. May the beauty and bounty of nature always surround you." In his pale hands lay a traditional bridal crown, woven of fresh wildflowers over wheat and colorful leaves. Faye gasped at the sight, and took a long moment to look it over before bowing her head to accept it. Kratos nestled the crown gently over her hair, taking the time to run his fingers appreciatively over the intricate braids. He followed them downward along her thick neck, and stopped to lay his palms on each of her shoulders. A rare, precious smile graced his lips. Though it very nearly hid behind the full beard, it crinkled his eyes and warmed his cheeks for all to see. 

"It suits you," he said. 

Faye blinked hard to conceal glistening eyes, and loosed a breath she'd been holding unconsciously. When Frode turned another page and made to speak, she preempted him. 

"Kratos, I…" she began, then paused to collect herself and switch to Greek. "I'd kept myself from hoping for this sort of happiness for so very long. Just when I thought I couldn’t lose anything more, I found a comrade who knew exactly what that was like. And I was afraid. Afraid that you, too, would one day be lost to me." She swallowed. "In some ways, I always knew what would happen. But I never expected you to be so wonderful. I've seen it in the way you look to me whenever conflict is nearby. I've felt it when you take care to wake me softly. And… there is so much more that I could tell you, had we the time." Faye smiled sightly, and shook her head. 

"But we have time before us yet," she said. "In keeping with tradition, I'm afraid I don’t have a gift for you either. And I shan't be cutting my hair." 

Kratos chuckled heartily at that, then leaned in to briefly capture her lips with his. 

 "What a terrible shame," he said, eyes dancing with mirth. 

When Frode began to speak once more, hailing their loyalty and fortitude to seal the ritual, neither seemed to take heed. Instead, each placed a hand to the back of their lover's neck, pressed their foreheads together, and breathed deeply of their closeness. As a warm breeze shifted both air and sunlight, and a distant storm gathered on the horizon, time was still for but a moment. In much the same way that a warrior feels his comrade's hand returning the grip upon his forearm, Kratos relished in the tingle of Faye's breath upon his chin, and her eyes meeting his. If all else ceased to exist in that moment, he wouldn't have noticed. He'd never felt more at home in the mortal realm. 

***

Kratos woke before dawn one morning, at a time when the night’s lingering chill still pressed him firmly against his wife’s body. Their beautiful home, long since completed, safeguarded their slumbering forms. A soft flutter sounded from outside. Perhaps it was a fistful of snow falling from the roof. Perhaps it was an autumn leaf. It didn’t matter what day it was. 

There might have been work that needed to be done, but it could wait. 

Kratos stared at the ceiling of the home they’d built together, at the runes and ornaments she'd carved and hung over the years, and felt where Faye lay draped overtop of him. He immersed himself in her presence, in the cadence of her heart, allowing it to hold him fast to the ground. Kratos wrapped her in his arms, held her close, and took a calm, slow breath. 

The End.