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Atreus has a penchant for coming and going as he saw fit in the years that followed the conclusion of Ragnarök. It’s something Kratos finds rather difficult to ignore.
It doesn't bother the old god, it never has, not really. For the boy-- the man -- is more than old enough to make decisions for himself. His son drops by in random intervals, most often deciding to show face when he is resting in their home in Midgard or visiting Freya and her valkyries in Vanaheim. He never fails to bring gifts and stories from his travels and has honed his ability to craft tales and pictures using nothing but the words that came out of his mouth. Even Mimir has said to find Atreus’ skills envious, a fact that Kratos is very, very proud of.
In more obvious areas, though, Atreus is growing .
If his son was a warrior back when they fought together side by side, Kratos isn’t quite sure what he would call the boy now. Atreus is nimble and lithe in places he is not, tall, gangly, and boasting a form many Northerners would call unwieldy. Still, his son manages, graceful when the opportunity calls for it and lethal when the situation arises. He is almost taller than Kratos too, not yet, of course, but it is worth mentioning.
Every time his son visits, something in his appearance has changed. Kratos isn’t sure he has it in him to keep on making notes on the differences.
He doesn't flinch in surprise when the door to their home opens, paying no mind as he sharpens the blade on his axe while Mimir curses over dropping his page-turning spoon.
“Oi, lad!” Starts the head, somewhat agitated, but mostly pleased. “It’s rather a bit soon for a visit of yours is it not?” Asks Mimir, curious as he looks the boy over. “Not that I ain’t happy to see you, little brother, always am, but this warrants a little concern.” There’s a pause as Kratos finally looks up at his son in the doorway, his bow on his back and quiver stocked with unused arrows. Mimir continues even as Atreus finds his father’s gaze, mouth opening before snapping shut. “And what’s with that grave look on your face? Did you run ‘ere or what?”
Atreus relaxes, slumps, and then starts into the house after closing the door. “Sorry about that, Mimir,” he begins, sending him a lopsided grin. He stoops to pick up the spoon, resting it on the table next to Mimir’s head. “Didn’t mean to startle you.”
“No worries about it, lad,” replies the Aesir, grinning. “Brother, get a load of this: your boy’s back!”
“I can see that, head,” Kratos grumbles, resting his axe aside and standing. Atreus doesn't move until his father is close enough to wrap his arms around, his smile felt on his shoulder. Kratos returns it, patting the boy’s head and then his back before stepping away. The corner of his mouth quirks up into a small smile. “It is good to see you, Atreus. I am glad your journeys have been treating you well, for it has been far too long.”
“It’s only been a few Midgardian weeks,” he reasons, sheepish, as he shrugs off his gear, placing his bow and quiver by the foot of his bed before sitting down on the same. He thinks for a moment, head tilted back as Kratos sits down too, waiting for his son to speak.
“But I guess you’re right. I have missed you since I last saw you,” Atreus says finally. He stops. “Though I think that’s because I ran into one too many ancients a few days ago. There were a whole bunch of them when I stopped by in Svartalfheim. They’re not a problem to fight anymore but it does get a little tiring, y’know?” His head lolls to the side and he meets his father’s gaze. His eyes are still so bright, hardened by time, yes, but still holding on to the empathy no one was ever quite able of stomping out.
They reminded him of Faye in a way.
He recovers swiftly, shaking his head. “And so it was not me you missed, but my skills,” Kratos teases, grinning when Atreus stutters to form a reply.
“That’s not true and you know it!” He counters, but there is no malice or annoyance in his voice. Only a smile.
Kratos nods again, solemn. “I do, yes. I do,” he says, quiet. “I also know you’re not only here because you ‘miss me’,” he adds carefully, raising an eyebrow in his son’s direction when Atreus’ eyes widen in surprise. It seems like two years on his own wasn't enough to master the skill of deceiving his father.
“About that,” Atreus starts, sitting up properly. He clasps his hands on top of his knees, one of his legs bouncing aimlessly.
Mimir whistles and the young man withers like a flower in winter. “Hasn’t even said a word and even I can tell this is serious,” says the head. “You haven’t gotten into any trouble, have you, little brother? Wouldn’t want to bring bad news to our doorstep, now would you?”
“No, no, it’s not that,” Atreus corrects swiftly, and Kratos frowns as his confusion heightens even further, watching, bewildered, when his son’s ears turn… pink?
“Atreus, is everything alright?” He asks, suddenly concerned.
He looks up at his father, staring for a moment, but when Kratos gestures for him to continue, he nods and swallows.
“Father,” he starts. “How did you woo Mother?”
A pregnant pause.
Then, “Why the sudden interest?” He tries, and Atreus huffs.
“I…” He presses his hands together, fingers now intertwined. “There’s this… girl? I guess. I don’t-- You’ve met her before. Do you remember Angrboda? The Jötunn that showed us our mural before I left?” When Kratos grunts, he presses on, his eyes wandering off. “Well, even though I’ve been journeying alone, we’ve been… uhm--” he goes pink in the face again. “We’ve been meeting up with each other a lot. And I-- If you just-- I don’t--!”
“Atreus,” Kratos interrupts, calm where his son is not. The boy looks over at him, brow knitted. “Breathe. Take your time. Continue.”
He does what he asks, the room silent save for the sound of Atreus’ breathing. The young man's cheeks redden even more when the tension has eased from his shoulders. “I really like her, Father.”
Ah.
Kratos hums, thoughtful. “I am afraid I cannot help you.”
Atreus panics. This mustn't be the answer he was hoping for. “But why? Did you forget or something?”
When his father shakes his head, he appears to be even more confused. “It wasn’t I that wooed your mother, Atreus,” Kratos supplies. “Your mother wooed me .”
Another whistle from Mimir.
“Damn it,” Atreus mumbles, and Kratos chuckles kindly at his son’s despair.
“And besides,” continues the god. “Even if I wanted to give you advice, every partner is different. No two are the same. What an individual likes or finds appealing varies from person to person. If I gave you tactics on how to approach her, there is no guarantee it will work,” he says, holding his son’s attention. “Maybe there is a general layout, a schematic for you to follow, but all the in-betweens, the problems, and the challenges that arise along the way, those are yours to tackle in the way you see fit.”
He nods. “Angrboda, was it? I do not know this girl as you do. I do not know what she enjoys, what she hates. Take what she has given you, Atreus, and use it how you believe you should. You are as smart as you are kind. You will do well, my son. This, I know.”
Atreus blinks at him, bewildered and at a loss for words. He opens his mouth to reply, but a rumble shakes the house, the pottery shaking with the force of it as a loud howl pierces the air outside.
“Fenrir!” Atreus exclaims, grabbing his bow and quiver before running out the door. Kratos follows at a leisurely pace, Mimir secure in his hand, and the two step out into the early springtime to find the realm-tearing wolf-turned-pet sitting obediently beside the Giantess. She too has grown since he last saw her, taller now in a way Giants should be, but not yet capable of rivaling his son.
When she gets close enough, Atreus walks up to meet her. Mimir mutters something under his breath.
“Angrboda, what are you doing here?” his son asks, glancing back at his father.
The Jötunn girl follows his gaze, smiling warmly. "And good afternoon to you Kratos, Mimir." She fixes the boy beside her with a playful glare, one that he shirks away from nonetheless. “Loki,” she drawls, and he grins.
Sheepish yet again. “Right, my bad. Afternoon, Angrboda. I didn’t think I’d see you this soon after we went our separate ways in Niflheim.” She shrugs and he glances up at the wolf, smiling even more. “Hey there, Fenrir.”
The wolf barks, a sound that echoes throughout the Wildwoods and shakes the birds and the trees. He bows his head and Kratos watches as his son lovingly pets the beast, beaming. Angrboda turns to join him, the two laughing over something he can’t hear, and the god realizes then that he trusts the girl with his son. It is true, he does not know her as Atreus does, has never witnessed the might he claims she possesses, but if she can make him smile, if she can help him make memories worth sharing… then who is he to deny his son this?
Atreus looks up at him and their eyes meet. He holds his gaze for a moment before glancing at the young woman beside him, the latter still playing with Fenrir. Something changes in Atreus’ countenance then, for he shrugs away his nerves and steps back from his wolf.
“Actually, Father, could you and Mimir watch Fenrir for a bit? I want to show Angrboda the old temple just up the path.”
The Giantess frowns but bids Fenrir to leave her side, the wolf making himself comfortable behind Kratos’ home. “But we’ve already been there, remember?” she asks, smiling. “We’ve combed it inside and out. There’s nothing new.”
His son shakes his head. “You gotta trust me on this one! It’s important, I swear.”
She sends him another look, biting her cheek in thought, but eventually goes along with his request, following the god onto the path and into the greenery. Kratos and Mimir watch them for a bit, the sound of rushing water down by the river filling the silence they left them in.
“You don’t think the lad’s gonna tell her now is he?” he asks, sounding a wee bit concerned. “I know he’s impulsive when it comes to big decisions, but you’d think he’d learn a thing or two by now, yeah?”
When the two return later, hand in hand, Angrboda with a wide grin and Atreus looking pinker than ever, Kratos can only chuckle at Mimir’s disappointment.
“He’s never been one for tact, that boy of yours,” he grumbles, causing the girl to laugh at the boy’s embarrassment.
FIN