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Chapter Text

Apollo hurriedly entered the tavern that stood on the central square of the village of Helgasker and seemed to be the favorite place - perhaps the only one - for sociability for its inhabitants. With relief, he removed the hood of his cloak, shaking off the snow that had managed to sprinkle his golden hair, and looked up to watch around him, bothered by the fumes and vapors of mead that saturated the place. The contrast between the darkness of the place and the blinding brightness of the snow that covered the outside made him squint. He took a few seconds to get used to the dark, stifling and joyful atmosphere, and sighed, feeling a little discouraged.

He wondered what he hoped to find here. This tavern looked like any other tavern in Midgard. There was no reason to think that his quest would take any direction in Helgasker that it had failed to take in Gufufjoror or Odeora or Hellisdalr or any other village in Midgard whose unpronounceable name he had forgotten.

No matter how much he scoured Midgard, he found no trace of magic, spiritual energy or mysticism to which he could cling. Nothing but the demonstrations of belief of its inhabitants, though a little hesitant and confused, for it was clear that the gods of this world had undergone an extraordinary upheaval during which many of them had lost their lives, and the mortals had to get used to this renewed Pantheon. Apollo could understand. Seeing one’s gods die was not an easy thing. But at least the Midgardians seemed to have been relatively spared from this catastrophe – they called it by a mysterious name, Ragnarök – and ready to trust their gods again. Piety and religious scrupulousness were not dying out, they simply needed a little adaptation. After the shock of the news of the disappearance of Odin, Thor and others with whom Apollo was less familiar, the men of this world seemed happy with their lot. Almost relieved. The same could not be said of the Greeks, diminished and traumatized, distrustful of the surviving gods who were trying to rebuild their land.

Apollo sighed again, trying to chase away the feeling of immense weariness that threatened to overtake him. No need to dwell on it. He was here for Greece, for the Greeks, to find a God of War who would help them in their quest for reconstruction. He had been scouring Midgard for weeks to find access to the deities of this world with this goal in mind, searching, questioning, investigating, desperately seeking a path, a door, anything, that would lead him to the gods of the Norse Pantheon. In Greece, Olympus was located on a mountain that bore the same name. A mountain impossible for mortals to climb, totally inaccessible to anyone other than the Olympians, but a mountain nonetheless, concrete, tangible, clearly identifiable. Greece was a linear world that did not hide its gods. Yggdrasil, on the contrary, disoriented Apollo with its mosaic construction that mixed visible and invisible worlds. How on earth did one pass from one world to another? How did one access the kingdom of the gods? The Nordic Pantheon had the reputation of being more humble, closer to mortals than the Olympians, draped in a divine, monarchical pride. And yet, now that Apollo was there, he discovered them as distant and inaccessible as the stars.

Tearing himself away from his thoughts, the God of Arts began to scan the room carefully, examining the people there, relying on his instincts to identify someone capable of providing him with useful information for his quest for the gods. After a few moments, his choice fell on a tall man, who at first glance did not particularly distinguish himself from the others. But he had to start somewhere. Apollo approached the man and sat down beside him, settling in as if he fully intended to spend some time here, drinking mead like a true Midgardian. Goodness, how many times had he experienced this scene?

“Hello, traveler,” the man said amiably.

That was something. The man spared him the trouble of having to engage in conversation.

“Hello, Midgardian,” the Greek god replied, who had deliberately dimmed his divine glow so as not to attract attention, and now appeared as a simple, particularly handsome young man.

“This is the first time I’ve seen you here. Where are you from? Midgard? Or somewhere else?”

“Somewhere else. I come from a land far away from here, to the south. I’ve been in Midgard for a few weeks.”

“You speak our language well, for a foreigner.”

“I’m a fast learner.”

The language barrier did not exist for the gods. They were able to understand and speak with any creature from any world as if they were native speakers. But Apollo was careful not to tell the man that.

“What brings you to Midgard, then?”

Again, Apollo felt grateful for the man’s curiosity. This saved him a lot of rhetorical tricks to get his interlocutor to talk.

“Curiosity,” he replied after taking a sip from the mug of mead that the bartender had placed in front of him without even asking him – he still wasn’t getting used to this alcohol that was both sweet and strong, but that’s all everyone drank here. “I’ve always wanted to see the world, and especially the North. Midgard is as beautiful as I imagined, but I’ll be leaving soon. I can’t wait to discover the other realms of Yggdrasil.”

He had said this last sentence in a deliberately naive tone, praying with every fiber of his being that the Midgardian would have a different reaction than all the others he had had this conversation with. In vain. The man burst out laughing.

“The other realms! And how exactly do you plan to do it? Do you practice magic?”

“Magic? No. Why? You must know magic to travel to other realms?"

"Of course you do. You don't go from one realm to another like a simple tourist."

“But… Isn’t there a way to go there anyway? Could someone guide me?”

“If you know someone who has the power to travel from one world to another, why not. But good luck finding that person in Midgard. This is the land of mortals, here. We don’t have the abilities of the Dwarves or the knowledge of the Jotnar. And even less the powers of the gods. If I were you, I would give up.”

And Apollo suddenly felt very much like following his advice.

“The gods… I heard that many of them died, recently.”

“I’m not surprised you heard that. Ragnarök finally happened, and it hit Asgard hard. Odin died. Thor too. And many other Aesir. But it’s a blessing in disguise, if you ask me. Not sure they were as good and benevolent as they wanted to make out. We felt it, in Midgard, when they died. Like a sigh of relief that rose from all living beings, down to the smallest blade of grass. Something changed, after Odin's death, as if invisible bonds were suddenly untied. It's a bit complicated to explain, but we all felt it. We're happier now, and not just because this winter in hell is finally over."

Apollo nodded, thoughtful. He had heard of Fimbulwinter, that three-year winter that had marked Midgard hard. Ragnarök had put an end to it, and Midgard, which had lived for a spring, a summer and an autumn with unspeakable relief, was plunging back into winter right now.

"But not all the gods are dead."

"No. And there are others who have even come back to life! Týr, our God of War, for example. We thought he was dead. Gone, gone for decades. I barely knew the time when he was honored in Midgard. But apparently, he was only a prisoner. Prisoner! Odin's fault. If you ask me, that says a lot about his intentions. You don't make people disappear like that, especially not a god as beloved as Týr."

Everyone was talking about Týr. The name of the former God of War, voluntarily pushed aside by Odin and suddenly returned to life with the fall of Asgard, was on everyone's lips. Every time he heard this name, Apollo felt relieved. He felt the constant need to confirm the reality of his existence.

"Týr really seemed like a good god."

“As I said, I was too young when he was cast aside by Odin to remember his worship. But people never stopped speaking of Týr with love and respect. He was—well, is—a god of war who fights for peace. A great god. Truly.”

Apollo nodded. He had no trouble believing the Midgardian because he remembered Týr himself. He remembered his visit to Greece centuries ago. If only he had known how to reach Týr now, how to ask him for help.

“Are you sure there’s no way to travel through Yggdrasil?”

“Sure, kid. Not without help. And I have no idea where you’d find that help. People know their place here.”

“I’ll remember that. Thanks to you anyway.”

Apollo pushed away his barely opened cup of mead and stood up, smiling at the Midgardian who nodded. He put his hood back on, covering his blond curls again, and prepared to face the sub-zero temperatures of the Midgardian winter once more. The feeling of weariness he had managed to chase away during his conversation with the man suddenly weighed on his shoulders like a leaden weight. Day after day, it was the same. No one knew how to reach the gods, how to reach Týr, and worse, no one cared to know.

The Greek god took a few steps in the snow, absently watching the inhabitants of Helgasker busy setting up a few stalls in the central square. It was market day tomorrow. For a moment, he envied them. These men and women were not crushed by the weight of metaphysical responsibilities. Tearing himself away from this almost comforting spectacle of banal and ordinary activities, he sighed for what seemed to him the hundredth time that day and, having moved away from the central square, he let himself fall on a trunk that served as a bench, a little below the village, near a river of icy water that he contemplated with an empty eye.

If Týr was so good and so powerful, why did he not feel the distress of a handful of foreign gods who had come to ask him for help?

"Hey, stranger!"

Apollo jumped, distracted from his gloomy reflections. He looked up and saw in front of him a little girl who couldn’t have been more than twelve years old and was looking at him with a smile. She had very dark and very soft eyes at the same time, and an honest and slightly embarrassed smile. He half thought of telling her to leave him alone, but before he could open his mouth, it was she who spoke.

“Sorry,” she said, pushing her long brown braids behind her back. “I didn’t want to disturb you. My name is Hella. I heard your conversation with Adir, over there, in the tavern. Are you looking for someone who knows magic?”

Apollo’s gaze lit up.

“Yes,” he replied. “Do you know someone like that?”

Hella smiled again. She had a candid, happy look, which pleased the God of Arts.

“Yes! He doesn’t come to this region of Midgard often, but you’re lucky, he’s here right now. His name is Loki. I believe he is a god… Even if he won’t say so.”

“What makes you think he is a god, if he claims otherwise?”

“I don’t know. Something about him is different. When I’m around him, I feel like anything is possible. That nothing can stop him. And then, you have to see him fight. Well, I’ve never seen him, but several men from the village have witnessed a fight between him and a troll. A troll! Have you ever seen one, stranger? Well, Loki killed him like it was nothing. A mortal has no chance against a troll. In my opinion, he’s a god.”

“But… Adir said he didn’t know anyone who practiced magic. He never met him?”

“He did. But he won’t say it, because Loki never confirmed anything. Never said anything. And since he refuses to say it, the people of the village don’t want to get into trouble. They treat him the way he wants to be treated, like a mortal. But I know he’s different, we all know that.”

Apollo looked at the little girl for a moment, and smiled, touched by her bright eyes and her voice vibrating with excitement. It was obvious that this Loki, whoever he was, had an effect on her. Maybe Hella’s childish admiration made her imagine things, maybe Loki was simply a little more skillful, a little stronger and a little more intelligent than average. In the meantime, this was the first time Apollo had heard of a mortal who wasn’t really one, and it was the only lead he had after weeks of asking questions in the cities and villages of the realm.

“Where can I find him?” Apollo asked simply.

“He’ll be here tomorrow, for the market. He’s coming to help with the wolves.”

“The wolves?”

“We’re trying to domesticate them,” Hella answered tenderly. “And Loki is very good with animals. It seems that he can make himself understood by them, that he can speak to them. A god, I tell you."

Apollo nodded.

"Thank you, Hella, really. It helps me a lot."

"You'll come see him tomorrow, then?"

"Yes, without fail. And I'll see you tomorrow too, I suppose."

"Yes, I'll be there!"

She burst into a childish laugh, happy at the prospect, then put her hand over her mouth, suddenly annoyed by a thought.

"Oh! But I didn't even ask your name."

"My name is Apollo." He used his real name without much fear. The Greek gods were unknown here, and in any case, he saw no point in hiding. It was in complete transparency that they had come to meet Týr.

“Oh, that’s a nice name. See you tomorrow, Apollo.”

She waved and ran happily toward the village. Apollo watched her go, his heart pounding with excitement. A lead. At last, a lead. He refused to give it too much credit, keeping his hopes contained enough to spare himself the pain of cruel disillusionment the next day. But he allowed himself to believe a little.

He stood up, more determined and less tired than when he had sat down, and resolutely headed for the village of Jorunn, located an hour’s walk from Helgasker. Jorunn did not deserve the title of village. It was a hamlet of a few dilapidated houses, only one of which was still standing. Its inhabitants had fled during Fimbulwinter, unable to ensure their survival in such a small number and had joined larger villages that were better able to protect them. It was the last place the Greek gods had chosen to hide, the successive failures of their quest for the Norse gods having forced them to change location many times. Carried by hope, he set off.

Chapter Text

The hour’s walk seemed short to Apollo, lost in thought, turning over and over in his head the little he knew about this Loki. He was a powerful warrior, capable of defeating a troll. He had the gift of understanding and making himself understood by animals. And he spread around him a halo of strength, benevolence and hope. These were very few clues to try to characterize him. Loki. He had never heard this name before, but it meant nothing. Many Norse gods were unknown to him.

Apollo pushed open the door of the humble building that served as their home for now and was not surprised to hear the voice of the goddess Demeter speaking with irritation. It was when she spoke calmly that one had to worry. He hastened to take off his coat and join his companions around the hearth, in what had once been the living room of the house.

“Nothing, still nothing,” the harvest goddess exclaimed forcefully. “What exactly are we still doing here, Athena?”

Seeing Apollo enter the room, she turned and glared at him, her hands on her hips in a studied pose. Next to her stood Athena. Dressed in midgardian style, their long, untied hair swaying behind their backs, neither of them looked Greek or divine. Demeter's black eyes were permanently animated by a fire of anger; Athena's, as clear blue as the Mediterranean sky, shone with a serene sadness, gentle and resigned.

“So?”

Apollo grimaced. He would have liked to come back with more substantial information but failing to be able to tell them precisely where Týr was and how to get in touch with him, he was not unhappy to be able to answer something other than “Still nothing. But I will go to another village tomorrow. Maybe I will find a clue there."

“Not much, but maybe the beginning of a lead. A little girl, Hella, told me about a man who presents himself as mortal, but does not seem to be so. She is convinced that he is a god. His name is Loki.”

He had said the name while turning to Athena, who was standing closest to the fire, but she shook her head.

“I have never heard that name. Have you had the chance to speak with this Loki?”

“No, but I will tomorrow. It is market day in Helgasker, Loki will be there, and so will I.”

“That is a thin lead,” Demeter retorted bitterly.

“If you have better, do not hesitate to share with us. What do you want us to do, Demeter? Give up and go home?”

“This pantheon is inaccessible, and if it wanted to have anything to do with us, it would have already manifested itself. Finally, the gods of this cursed land must know who we are, and especially that we are here!”

Demeter expressed her frustration and annoyance, but Apollo knew that she did not want to abandon their quest any more than they did. Despite the tiredness and worry, none of them would have admitted defeat when the fate of Greece was at stake.

“I have always heard that this pantheon was not as civilized as those of the South. Do not expect the same level of intelligence and education from these Nordic gods, Demeter, they do not react like us,” a severed head replied contemptuously, placed not far from the hearth, with brown hair topped with a diadem of golden laurels. The tattered skin of his neck showed that his decapitation had not been a gentle one.

“That’s enough, Helios. As civilized as we are, we’re half gone. I understand that it is very frustrating to feel powerless after centuries of ruling without question, but we’re no longer in a position to criticize.” Athena replied, her tone a little colder than usual.

“Helios may not be completely wrong. Our geographical distance doesn’t work in our favor. Look at how the Celtic gods have rejected us. The gods belonging to Mediterranean pantheons have never acted like that towards us!”

“For the umpteenth time, Aphrodite, the Egyptian and Mesopotamian gods have done everything they could for us. Their help is no longer enough. We must look further, we have no choice. Týr is our best chance; you all know that.”

“Týr wants nothing to do with us. Olympus definitely doesn't have much luck with gods of war," Demeter said, icy.

Athena closed her eyes for a few seconds, painfully, as if she needed a few moments within herself to regain her composure to answer the Goddess of Harvests calmly. Apollo internally resented Demeter. He knew the remorse that constantly tortured the goddess of wisdom, so numerous that he would have had difficulty listing them.

"We must persevere," she finally answered in the most even tone possible. "Apollo may have a lead with the discovery of this Loki. We must be patient and determined, that's all."

And without waiting for an answer, she turned her back on the four gods, joining her room without another word. Apollo hesitated a few seconds before following her.

"Athena?" he asked, knocking on her door.

"Come in." He obeyed and his heart sank as he saw the goddess sitting in the window frame of the small, miserable room that served as her bedroom. Athena mechanically braided her black hair, her gaze turned towards the window, lost in the limbo of her memories and regrets. He took a step forward, hesitant to enter her personal space. He had to admit that her suffering, both dignified and resigned, intimidated him a little. He forced himself to move closer to her and put his hand on her shoulder. Apollo loved Athena deeply, he had always admired her for her wisdom and intelligence, but he was unable to find the words to relieve her of the guilt that was perpetually gnawed at her. Perhaps because his attachment to her did not blind him enough to not realize that this guilt was deserved.

“Don’t listen to Demeter. She’s just discouraged. We all are.”

It wasn’t just discouragement that sharpened Demeter’s anger. Since the death of her daughter Persephone, she was a wounded creature ready to bite. If her deeply benevolent nature had not been affected, she had become an aggressive being. She was kindness itself, but so brutal that no one could love her.

Athena smiled sadly.

“Except you. You continue to wander dark taverns in search of a resurrected god who stubbornly hides himself."

"As you said, we don't really have a choice. Every day that passes pushes back the reconstruction of Greece."

That was true, and Apollo had a hard time hiding his worry, despite all his good will. They had made considerable progress, in particular thanks to the help of the Egyptian gods and the Mesopotamian gods. If the efforts of Apollo, as a sun god, had allowed the sun to shine again, it was Tiamat and Astarte, two sea deities, who had managed to tame the uncontrollable waters that had swallowed the earth after the death of Poseidon. The sorceress goddess Isis had restored Helios’ severed head to life and allowed Athena to free herself from her ghostly form and return to her body – she had been freed from this “higher existence” that was nothing more than a corrupt one, in her eyes. The infernal gods Anubis and Ereshkigal had restored order to the anarchy of the Underworld, gathering together the souls scattered throughout the world of the living. Demeter had joined forces with Ishtar to revive the traumatized nature. Osiris and Enki had lent Athena a hand in restoring order to the chaos that Greece had become. Aphrodite had once again inspired love and desire, Dionysus had restored a taste for entertainment and the intrinsic irrationality and madness of men, Hestia had restored the social and family organization, Artemis had rebuilt the bond between mortals and nature. Many foreign deities had contributed to helping this wounded world rebuild itself.

But that was not enough. They lacked the civilizing action of a god of war, who only could help Greece regain structure and balance, inspiring peace and conflict in equal measure in the living beings that populated it. The Mesopotamian god Ninurta had tried to take on this delicate task, but in vain, his nature as an agrarian divinity preventing him from imbuing a foreign world with his warlike influence. Stranger still, the Egyptian goddess Sekhmet had also failed. The problem, Athena had diagnosed, was her sheer violence. Sekhmet, the lion goddess, powerful, enraged, burning with a destructive fire, had to be tempered by a peace-making warrior divinity. Athena was well placed to know this: she had been the reverse mirror of the cruel Ares; it was she who tempered the purely martial force of the god of war. But she could no longer fulfil this role. Her survival had cost her her warrior strength. Weakened by the trials imposed on her body and her divine nature, she was no longer, she knew, a goddess of war.

Having noted the failure of their enterprise, the surviving Greek gods had gathered to make a decision. They had to go further, to seek in other pantheons this balanced, peaceful warrior god, beneficial to Greece, who would allow it to fall neither into self-destruction nor into the most total weakening. A good and powerful god, capable of inspiring courage in combat and a taste for peace. The name of Týr quickly imposed itself. The Olympians had met him, several centuries ago, when Týr had left the North to go and meet other cultures and other mythologies. He had impressed them with his strength and wisdom. Zeus himself had called upon Týr, in desperation, during the last moments of his reign and his existence, when he had realized that he might not be able to ward off the threat hanging over Olympus alone. Týr had refused, not wanting to interfere in the affairs of another pantheon. Apollo often wondered if Týr had known of the fate that had befallen Olympus. And if his choice would have been different, if he had known what awaited Greece and the Greeks.

And so it was that a small delegation of Olympians, Apollo, Athena, Aphrodite, Demeter and Helios, had found themselves on Yggdrasil, in search of Týr who had proved very difficult to find, in the hope of saving Greece once and for all. Athena finally tore her gaze away from the window, which she had been staring at without seeing it, to turn her dreamy blue eyes towards Apollo, whose hand had tightened on her shoulder.

“I’m not losing hope,” she murmured. “But I find it so ironic. Demeter is right. Olympus has no luck with gods of war.”

The God of Arts could see what she meant by that. Ares, killed for the good of Olympus. Týr nowhere to be found, Sekhmet and Ninurta powerless, and herself stripped of her strength. And Kratos. Of course.

“You are not responsible for our failures. And you are not responsible for what Kratos has done.”

Athena shuddered, even paler than usual. By mutual and tacit agreement, they avoided saying that name, as if not mentioning its existence could ward off the shadow tinged with anger and blood in which they lived. Athena looked away again, as if to tell Apollo that she did not wish to have this conversation. But he did not lose heart. He could no longer stand to see her like this. After Kratos' death, since the effects of Pandora's Box had definitively disappeared and the surviving gods had opened their eyes to what they had been and what they had done under the influence of the evils of the Box, Athena was no more than a shadow of herself. Although she had regained her flesh under the magical action of Isis, she sometimes seemed even more ethereal than in her spectral form, her halo of mystical grace tinged with an unfathomable melancholy, her beauty having become almost painful. The desire for power and the manipulative nature that had driven her to make Kratos her instrument of death against Zeus had given way to infinite sadness. Apollo was still waiting to see a real smile on her face.

The young god decided on the first platitude that came to mind.

"We all have our share of responsibility. You are no more guilty than those, like me, who chose not to oppose Kratos."

"Apollo..."

“I’m serious, Athena.” And he was. He would have said anything to try to comfort her, but he meant what he had just said. He had been a coward, like Dionysus, like Artemis, like those who had avoided confronting Kratos, who had chosen not to interfere in his quest for vengeance against the king of the gods. Was it the effects of the Box, the same ones that had made Athena an ambitious and ruthless creature, that had driven him to take refuge in his beloved poetry without even a glance at the chaos that was happening around him? Had the Box made him a cowardly artist, when it had drowned Aphrodite in lust and Dionysus in wine and reduced Artemis to a savage state? Or was cowardice simply natural to him? Apollo wasn’t sure he wanted to know the answer to that question. All he knew was that he would not rest until he had done everything he could to fix what he had not even tried to prevent.

“Apollo,” the Goddess of Wisdom repeated in a firmer tone. “I know what you are trying to do. But it is useless. Finding Týr is the only thing I care about. When that is done, then we can try to undo the ties of the past and find the culprits.”

Apollo did not like what he was hearing, but he nodded, not wanting to upset her.

“Go to sleep, now. You must meet Loki, tomorrow. He is our only chance, our hope.”

And he obeyed. Athena was right. Never mind the past and Pandora, Ninurta and Sekhmet, Ares and Kratos. Today, only one thing mattered: meeting Loki and having him lead them to the Norse God of War.

Chapter Text

Apollo took a deep breath, enjoying the sensation of the invigorating cold air almost burning his lungs. He pulled his cloak tighter around him and gazed at the world around him with a sense of satisfaction, dazzled. Apollo was a god of light, and he'd been relieved to see in the morning that the snow had stopped falling, giving way to radiant weather. The sky was pure blue, cloudless, and the Midgardian winter sun, an almost white sun that warmed only the skin, reflected off the immaculate snow, flooding the mortal realm with its diffracted light. Invigorated by this morning glow, he set off for Helgasker.

As he walked, he reflected on his encounter with Loki and how best to deal with him. He was building a character in his head, having no idea what Loki was like. He imagined a mysterious, cryptic being, difficult to read. A being who played at pretending to be mortal, sometimes enjoying showing off hints of his power. A cunning being. But also wise, and respectful of nature. A sort of Asclepius, a mischievous old man more at home among mortals than gods, going from city to city to help men and heal them.

On reaching Helgasker, he saw that the market was already in full swing, despite the early hour. Inhabitants of the neighboring communes were selling their wares, and many Midgardians were making the trip to stock up on the fruits of their labor. Apollon approached, studying with interest the stalls spread across the central square. There was something fascinating for a god to mingle with mortals in this way, to play out with them the comedy of human life, he who didn't even need to feed himself. Moving from stall to stall, Apollo felt as if he were taking part in a play. After a few minutes in the role of hesitant buyer, comparing prices and products, he remembered why he was here. He looked up from the bundles of carrots, eggs and fish, and surveyed the crowd in the hope of spotting Hella, but to no avail. Noticing a woman near him who had just given him a hopeful glance - he had thrown back the hood of his coat to take advantage of the sun, letting his beautiful blond hair shine brightly around his face - he addressed her.

“Hello,” he said with a smile. “I'm looking for a little girl named Hella.”

“Hella?” the woman replied with astonishment. “What do you want with her?”

“She needs to introduce me to someone,” Apollo replied. Then, seeing his interlocutor's eyes crinkle with suspicion, and realizing that his answer was more than vague, he improvised: “I'm looking for someone who can help me with my animals. She told me about a guy named Loki, who's supposed to be at the market today to help with the wolves.”

The woman's face lit up.

“Loki! Of course. He's right here. You'll find him behind that building over there,” she pointed to a stone building. “That's where the wolf kennels are. Hella's probably there too - she loves them, all the kids do.”

Apollo thanked the woman, ignoring her now tender and hopeful gaze, and set off in the direction of the building she had shown him. Indeed, behind it lay a vast, well-appointed enclosure. The God of Arts approached. In a corner of the enclosure, protected from the sun and snow by a wooden awning, a flock of children, among whom Apollo immediately recognized Hella, identifiable by her endless brown braids, crowded around a teenager, himself surrounded by three cubs. The little Midgardians stood at a safe distance from the young man and the cubs, their posture hesitant but their gaze full of adoration for the adorable creatures snuggling up to him. He petted them gently, murmuring words that Apollo couldn't make out from where he was standing.

The young Greek god was stunned. For a full minute, he contemplated the scene unfolding before his eyes: the cubs snuggling up to the boy, the soothing effect of his presence and words, the children full of respect and admiration. And Apollon almost felt like laughing. Loki... Was a teenager? His clue, his only lead to Tyr and the salvation of Greece, was no older than sixteen?

Forcing himself out of his surprise, he approached the little group a little closer, pretending to admire the little wolves in turn. Loki - it could only be him - looked up at him, as did the cubs.

“That's a lot of people for you, isn't it?” Loki said, speaking tenderly to the animals snuggling up to him. They were obviously a little stressed by the presence of so many humans around them and were seeking comfort and security from him. “Alright come on, that's enough for today,” he added, addressing the children. “We'll leave them to their own devices!”

It took a few moments for the children to start backing away, as if hypnotized by the adorable creatures. As if out of a spell, they began to speak at the same time.

“They're so cute!"

“The little one with the brown spot, he's my favorite!”

“When can we pet them, Loki?”

“They look scared, do you think they like us anyway?”

Loki laughed. A frank, honest laugh, still a little juvenile.

“Give them a little time, they're not used to your presence yet. For now, we'll leave them alone. Maybe later, you can pet them, but one by one, not all at once.”

The children finally dispersed, leaving Apollo alone with Loki, who was still stroking the little wolves.

“They're too eager to touch them and play with them. They have trouble understanding that these are wild animals and that domesticating them isn't something easy,” Loki said, looking up at the stranger. He shrugged happily and added: “I can't blame them, I was just like them when I was their age.”

Apollo nodded, examining the young man as he stood before him again, rubbing his pants to get rid of the wolf hairs that had clung to them in droves. At his feet, the cubs began to play among themselves, relaxed by the departure of the troop of children.

He had expected anything but this. Facing him was a teenager of fifteen or sixteen. He exuded a pleasing vitality. Of average height for his age, he had fine features, fair skin, side-shaven auburn hair and, above all, immense ice-blue eyes. His gaze was honest and penetrating, full of natural confidence in himself and others. He was an archer - Apollo immediately noted the bow and quiver full of arrows on his back - which made him instantly likeable to the God of Arts. Loki seemed full of energy and goodwill. His youth, his gentle, intelligent gaze and his connection with nature, expressed in his relationship with the cubs but also radiating from his whole person, immediately endeared him to Apollo. He also felt the teenager's immortal power: Hella was right, he was more than he seemed.

“I understand them too,” Apollo said, forcing himself to say something. “Cubs are irresistible.”

“They are!”

“How come they're already so comfortable with you? It's like they think of you as their big brother.”

“I am, in a way. I found them after their mother died. I brought them to Helgasker for them to raise because I can't take them with me. But I come back from time to time to spend some time with them. They were a little intimidated by the number of children, but I'm not worried, I know the people of Helgasker take good care of them.”

“How can you be sure?”

“I just know,” Loki replied simply.

He headed for the exit of the enclosure, followed by Apollo. When they were both out, he pushed the bolt on the gate, made sure it was secure and wouldn't open on its own, then turned to the God of Arts.

“You don't belong here.”

Apollo had lost count of the number of times he'd been told this, but for once it wasn't said in a reserved, almost suspicious tone. On the contrary, Loki seemed pleased by it. Surely he never missed an opportunity to feed that curiosity about the world that transpired in him.

“No, indeed. I come from the South and my name is Apollo.” He noticed that Loki's eyes had begun to sparkle. The mention of this distant, foreign South was indeed arousing his interest. Apollo thought quickly, weighing his next words to avoid too precise questions that would be difficult to answer. He had expected Loki to be an adult god to whom he couldn't hide his own divinity. But this was not the case. The destruction of Olympus had weakened his divine aura, and he himself had done much to diminish it so as not to arouse the suspicions of the Midgard inhabitants he approached. As Loki's youth made him less perceptive than an adult god, his immortal nature had to be undetectable to the teenager. He decided not to reveal it. Not yet anyway. The good impression Loki made should not cause him to lose all judgment and self-preservation.

They had naturally headed for the market together.

“From the South? Really?”

“Yes,” Apollo cut in before Loki could add anything. “And I'm here for a reason. You're Loki, aren't you? Hella told me you could help me. I'm looking for a way to travel through the Realms.”

Loki's gaze changed imperceptibly, a question forming in the depths of his blue eyes.

“Travel through the Realms,” he said slowly. “But why?”

Apollo decided on the truth.

“Because I'm looking for Týr.”

This time, Loki stopped walking and turned to the God of Arts.

“I need his help,” Apollo explained hastily. “I come from a land very far from here, where something terrible happened. Everything was destroyed, and the survivors, including myself, are trying to rebuild it. But we need the help of the gods. Ours have been destroyed or have become too weak. We have called on other pantheons, who have come to lend us a hand. Now, we need Týr. He's the only one who can help us.”

As he spoke, he could read understanding and compassion on Loki's face, and an immediate resolve to help. He was deeply relieved. He hadn't been wrong about the teenager's profoundly good nature.

“I'll help you, of course,” Loki said when Apollo had finished speaking. “Where do you live? Are you alone?”

“No, I am not. A few of them came with me. We settled in Jorunn, an hour's walk from here.”

“Jorunn! But there's nothing left there.”

“Not much, indeed,” Apollon confirmed with a smile. “But we don't want to attract attention.”

Loki nodded thoughtfully, as if considering the best way to go about things.

“Listen, Apollo,” he said after a few moments' silence. “Let's go to Jorunn together. I'll meet your companions there and I can take you to see Tyr. I don't know where he is exactly at the moment, he's been up and down since Ragnarök, we've got a lot of rebuilding to do too. But I know where I can get that information easily.”

“Are you familiar with the gods of this country?”

“Pretty well, yes.”

“Loki... Thank you. We'll be eternally grateful to you, me and the people of my homeland.”

“Don't worry. I know what it's like to try to save your people. I, too, am trying to protect my people and repopulate our realm. And I'm glad to have help when I need it.”

“Your people?”

“The Jotnar.”

Apollo was definitely going from surprise to surprise with this Loki. He wasn't a god, as Hella had claimed, but a Giant. Although that was pretty much the same thing: as far as Apollo knew, the Giants were a race of immortals, only slightly less powerful than the gods, even if they had lost their thousand-year war against the Aesir.

“You're one of the Jotnar! I haven't been in Midgard long enough to know everything about them. But you have much to be proud of. They're said to be wise and strong.”

“And mostly extinct,” Loki added with a sad smile. “My mother was one of the last Jotnar in Midgard. She died a few years ago. The other Jotnar fled into hiding to escape Odin. Now that Odin is dead, it's my responsibility to find them and bring them home. As it's yours, apparently, to find Tyr and ask him for help.”

“I'm not alone in this quest.”

“Nor am I,” the young Jotnar replied simply.

Apollo remained silent for a few moments, walking in silence beside the teenager. He felt that Loki was too young to take on such a responsibility, and hoped that he really wasn't alone, as he claimed. He felt a surge of admiration for this determined and empathetic young man and wanted to ask him many questions. But he settled for one:

“People say you behave like a mortal, in Helgasker. Don't you want to tell them the truth?”

Loki grimaced and made a vague gesture with his hand, as if swatting away an unwelcome fly.

“When I'm in Midgard, I like to pretend I'm only human. Don't ask me why! I always feel that people treat me differently, when they understand who I am. And I grew up near here. I feel like one of them, and I don't want them to think differently, you understand.”

This added modesty to the long list of qualities Apollo had already identified in Loki.

“I understand,” he murmured. He wasn't lying. There were days when he too would have liked to be a mere mortal. For a moment, he was tempted to tell the boy his story, to tell him about his divine nature and what had happened to his pantheon. But before he could make up his mind, the ruined houses of the hamlet came into view behind a row of trees.

“Look, there's Jorunn! Ugh, there's not much left standing here. Fimbulwinter has really taken its toll. There's work to be done if we're going to get people back home.”

Loki sighed, wandering his gaze over the dilapidated buildings.

“You can add that to your to-do list for today: find the missing Jotnar, look after orphaned wolf pups, give aid to desperate strangers, and make the village of Jorunn habitable again.”

Loki burst out laughing, and his hilarity made the God of Arts smile. He was definitely enjoying the young Jotnar's company. Happily, they approached the house where the Olympians lived. Apollo opened the door and nodded that he could enter.

“After you, Loki."

Without delay, they stepped inside.

Chapter Text

Once inside the house, Apollo hesitated, his hand on the handle of the front door he'd just closed behind him. He hadn't agreed with his companions on what they did or didn't want to say to Loki, and he felt the need to remind them that not everything needed to be said. He turned to his young companion. The latter didn't seem particularly worried about entering an abandoned house squatted by strangers he knew nothing about. He was probably confident enough in his warrior skills not to fear the possibility of a fight should things go wrong. Apollon remembered what Hella had told him about the troll he'd killed with ease.

“Do you mind staying here for a few moments? I'll let my friends know you're here. So as not to take them by surprise.”

Loki nodded. “Sure, no problem.”

Apollo hurried into the living room and was pleased to see the other Olympians gathered there. They turned to him, questioning.

“Well?”

“He's here,” Apollo murmured. “Loki is waiting in the hall. Look, he knows we're looking for Týr to help us rebuild our homeland after a catastrophe that devastated everything. But I've told him nothing more. He doesn't know we're gods, he doesn't know what happened, and I don't think, for the moment at least, that he needs to know.”

“He hasn't guessed that you're a god? How far we Olympians have fallen if the other gods take us for mere mortals,” Helios scoffed.

“He's not a god, Helios.”

The others stared at him.

“But he's a Jotnar,” Apollo added hastily. “He knows a lot, believe me.”

“You did well not to tell him everything. Let's keep it to a minimum,” Athena said.

“Yes, we're looking for Týr, period. And if he asks questions, we'll make them up.”

Apollo cast a knowing glance at Athena, by far the best liar of the group, and quickly returned to the entrance where Loki was waiting.

“Sorry,” he said with a contrite smile. “There's something I need to tell you too, before you meet my companions. One of them is, uh... Let's just say he's just a head. His body is gone. I wanted to warn you because it's not often you meet a living head. It can be a bit frightening to see.”

To Apollo's great surprise, Loki expressed no astonishment. His eyes only glinted with amusement.

“A living head without a body? I think I'll get over it.”

The God of Arts nodded in his direction.

“You can come in, Loki. They're waiting for you.”

Four pairs of divine eyes immediately fell on the teenager as he entered the living room where the Olympians were gathered. There was a brief silence, during which Apollo sensed the surprise of the others, who hadn't expected to find themselves face to face with a teenager any more than he had. The God of Arts cleared his throat.

“Loki, these are the companions who set out with me in search of Týr. These are Demeter, Aphrodite, Helios and Athena,” he said, pointing to each of them.

“Hello,” Loki said, apparently as comfortable surrounded by Olympians as by children and cubs. “Apollo told me you needed me.”

Athena stepped forward. She looked at the boy from head to toe. Her eyes stopped for a moment on the belt around his waist, and an indecipherable expression passed over her face.

“Welcome among us, Loki. I am Athena. We thank you very much for the help you've agreed to give us.”

“You're welcome,” the young boy replied with a casual smile. “It's normal. I looked for Týr, too, when he was still a prisoner. I'd have been glad if someone had led me straight to him, it would have saved me a few problems.”

Apollo vaguely wondered what story lay behind this. Athena spoke up again.

“Well, that makes one thing we have in common.”

“Apollo told me you were seeking the help of a god of war because your land had been destroyed. What happened?”

“Our gods went to war,” Athena replied gently. “They confronted the primordial beings of our land, of equal strength to them. The result was the destruction of all our gods, and of our world. There are only a handful of survivors, of which we are one.”

“So you're not gods yourselves?”

“No. We are mortals, and we paid the price of a war between immortals that had nothing to do with us,” the Goddess of Wisdom replied sadly.

Apollo couldn't help admiring her acting skills. With her soft voice, her deep, sad blue eyes and her head tilted slightly to one side, Athena looked like the innocent victim of a conflict between the powerful. Who could have imagined the terrible role she had played in it?

“Our land is better off thanks to the actions of foreign gods, but we need a god of war. And we've heard good things about Týr,” she added.

“I'm sorry for what has happened to your land. Gods really can be really cruel sometimes. Not all of them, fortunately. Týr will help you, I promise. How long have you been in Midgard?”

“A few weeks,” Aphrodite replied, and Loki seized the opportunity to gaze at her - Apollo had noticed that he'd given her a few more glances than the others since he'd entered the room. He devoured her with eyes, charmed like countless men before him. “It's a lovely place. You're lucky to live here. But it's pretty cold for us southerners.” She made a half-amused, half-irritated gesture, and Apollo wondered for the umpteenth time what her secret was for exuding so much sensuality in such an innocuous gesture.

“Be glad you didn't know Fimbulwinter!”

“Gods, I’m happy I didn’t!”

“What country are you from, exactly?”

“Assyria,” Athena improvised.

“That's far, far away,” Helios added, no doubt to prevent Loki from asking any more questions about this land that wasn't theirs. “Especially when you have no legs.”

The young boy turned to the decapitated sun god.

“I'm sorry about what happened to you. You know, one of the people closest to me is in the same state as you. He no longer has his body, only his head.”

“Really? And I thought I was unique! Under what circumstances did he lose his head, if I may say so?”

“He was imprisoned in a magic tree by Odin. Nothing and no one could free him. At his request, my father cut off his head and the goddess Freya gave him back his life. He misses his body, of course, but he's happy to be free again. And he's part of the family now.”

“Your father must be a dedicated and courageous man, to accept such a task. It can't be easy to chop off a man's head, even if he's the one asking for it,” Athena remarked in her calm voice.

“I would have liked to say that it was also at my request that my head was separated from my body, but I wasn't so lucky!”

“I'm sorry,” Loki repeated with sincere empathy.

“Loki, if you don't mind, I'd like to ask you a question,” the Goddess of Wisdom resumed. “About the sash on your waist. The symbols on it are familiar, but I can't quite tell where they come from. Are they Midgardian? Or from another Realm of Yggdrasil?”

Apollo lowered his head to look at the boy's waist, to which he hadn't really paid attention until now, and widened his eyes in surprise. He hadn't noticed the red cloth with its typically Greek golden symbols that Loki wore as a belt.

“Oh no,” the teenager laughed. “They're not from Midgard, or any other Realm. They're Greek symbols.”

“Greek?”

“My father is Greek,” Loki replied simply, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

This was immediately followed by one of the most deafening silences Apollo had ever experienced. Helios, Aphrodite and Demeter remained silent in shock, and even Athena seemed unable to make the slightest remark. A little embarrassed by this sudden tension he didn't quite understand, Loki felt the need to add some explanation.

“It's a land very far from here. My father arrived in Midgard before I was born. This piece of cloth belonged to an old outfit he often wore at home in those days. I like wearing it, it makes me feel stronger and closer to my father. By the way, Loki isn't my real name. I mean, a lot of people call me that, and I don't mind, I'm used to it, it's like a second name for me. But my real name is Atreus.”

Apollo wondered what other surprise Loki was hiding. A teenager, descended from the Jotnar, and of Greek origin. Atreus was a common name in southern Greece and meant “fearless”. But who was this boy?

Fortunately for all concerned, Athena soon regained her speech and her ability to lie.

“I've never had the chance to go to Greece. But it's a land of great culture, I heard.”

“Maybe. My father says it's violent and cruel.”

“Violent? Is that so? I thought it was a fertile land where life was good,” Demeter replied, sarcastically.

“And they say it's very sunny,” Helios added in the same tone.

Aphrodite chuckled nervously. Athena gave the three of them a warning look, and Apollo felt the need to refocus the conversation.

“Loki, I mean... Atreus, maybe we should concentrate on Týr. Every moment that passes is a moment lost for... Assyria.”

“Yes,” Atreus replied. “Very well, then. To reach Týr is an easy thing. All we have to do is reach the Realm between Realms on the tree of Yggdrasil. He may be there. But more likely, he'll be in a Realm. In that case, we'll ask Ratatoskr where he is. He'll know, he's the guardian of the World-Tree, he has knowledge of everything that goes on there.”

“Is he a god?”

“No, a squirrel.”

The Olympians thought it wiser not to comment.

“And your father, where does he live?” Athena asked in a detached tone.

“Oh, he lives in Midgard, but he spends most of his time in Vanaheim these days. Maybe you'll get the chance to meet him. Týr is sometimes with him.”

Athena nodded thoughtfully.

“How do you get to the Realm between Realms? No one in Midgard seems to know of any passage.”

“We simply need a mystical gateway. They're impossible for mortals to find. You're in luck, there's one near here! We can set off now, if you like.”

The Greek gods exchanged glances, a little uncertain.

“Atreus, um... Could you give us a few moments? We need to think about everything you've just told us.”

“We'll meet you outside very soon,” Apollo assured.

Atreus nodded in understanding and left the room, leaving the Olympians to their own devices. They waited until they heard the front door of the house open and close before they began to speak at the same time.

“Greek! He's a Greek!”

“His father is Greek! But how is that possible?”

“What have we gotten ourselves into? We gave our real names! If Atreus tells his father about us, he's bound to recognize us!”

“A Greek, here in Midgard!”

“That's enough,” Athena said firmly. “There's no need to panic. The worst that can happen is for Atreus to realize that we're not Assyrians, but Greeks.”

“But he won't understand why we didn't tell the truth from the start. What if he feels we're not trustworthy and refuses to take us all the way to Týr?”

“That said, it's a good question,” Aphrodite remarked. “Why did we lie about our true origin?”

Apollo and Athena looked at each other. They had hidden the name of their homeland for no other reason than self-preservation. A taste for secrecy. A not-so-glorious desire to keep some control over their situation by deliberately withholding information. After all, they didn't know much about Atreus either. Even if the boy seemed to have been particularly sincere with them.

“What's done is done, anyway. One of us has to get to the Realm between Realms and find Týr. That's all that matters.”

“Let's talk about it, here. A world tree guarded by a squirrel! I'd bust a gut laughing if I still could,” Helios spat contemptuously.

“For once, I agree with Helios. The whole thing makes absolutely no sense. Are we sure this Loki, or Atreus, whatever he calls himself, isn't taking us for a ride?”

“It teaches you decentering and humility, which isn't a bad thing,” Athena replied coldly. “Atreus seems trustworthy to me. I don't see why he'd make all this up. The whole world doesn't have to function like Greece just to please you.”

“We'd noticed that Yggdrasil wasn't out to please us.”

“And when it comes to humility, Athena, you don't have to teach anyone a lesson.”

“That's enough! I remind you that a half-Giant, half-Greek teenager is waiting outside whether we decide to trust him or not.”

“And what do you think, Aphrodite?”

“I trust him. He looks at me with admiration.”

“That doesn't mean anything, everyone looks at you with admiration.”

“You're not wrong.”

Athena rolled her eyes and turned to the God of Arts.

“Since someone has to make a decision, I propose that Apollo accompany Atreus to the World-Tree. When he has learned where he is, he will return to inform us. Apollo, don't enter another Realm without telling us. No matter what Atreus tells you.”

“I agree,” Aphrodite said, shaking her endless brown hair.

“So do I.”

“Likewise.”

All four turned to the young god, who nodded in agreement.

“Very well,” Athena said with visible relief. “Let's do this. That will be a first step, at last.”

“What if I meet Atreus' father?”

“You stick to the official version,” the Goddess of Wisdom replied. “If he's surprised that you bear the same name as a god of his land, make up something. And of course, you don't know anything about what happened to Greece. Still, it would be best to avoid meeting this man. The Greeks no longer trust us. I don't want our goal to slip through our fingers because of a mortal of our land.”

“In that case, let's hope Týr isn't in Vanaheim.”

Athena put her hand on his shoulder, and for a moment he wanted to hug her.

“Good luck, Apollo. Be careful.”

Chapter Text

On his way out of the house, Apollo saw Atreus kneeling in front of a small fox, to whom he was speaking softly. The animal had approached cautiously and was staring at him with its marble-round black eyes. Having sensed the Greek god's presence, the fox moved to lick the boy's hand with its tongue before scurrying off in the opposite direction, towards the forest. Atreus stood up and watched the fox leave. Now that Athena had pointed it out, Apollo could only see the typically Greek red and gold belt at his waist. How had he managed not to see this piece of cloth?

“I scared it,” Apollo said in an apologetic tone. “I'm sorry. You're really good with animals, you attract them like magnets.”

“I love them. And I understand them, it helps to be loved by them in return.”

“Literally? I mean, you read their minds?”

The gift of communication with animals was rare among Greek gods. But perhaps it was a more common thing among the Jotnar.

“No, unfortunately! But I can feel their emotions, sometimes very precisely. And I can transmit mine to them. That's how they understand that I'm not a danger.”

Then, noticing that Apollo was alone, he added: “Hey, where are the others?”

“They're not coming,” the God of Arts replied. “We think it's best if I go to the Realm between Realms on my own. We don't want to give the impression of invading.”

“It's not like you're landing with a whole army. But that's what I was going to propose anyway: no need to go all together, you and me are enough.”

“They'll come when we find out where Týr is.”

The young man smiled, “Yes, they will... Come on, it's this way. Hey, are you all right? You look a little pale.”

“I'm fine. I'm just tired. And relieved. I've been desperately waiting for a lead for weeks, and I'm glad I found one. We were getting a little annoyed with each other, getting so stagnant.”

“Tell me about this. Did you know them before you left? Are they your friends, your family?”

“We... We'd bumped into each other a few times, yes. I know Athena pretty well.”

“I like her. She seems smart and nice.”

“She is.”

“There's something about her, she seems used to high responsibility. I'm not surprised she agreed to come North to help your land.”

“We'd be lost without her.”

“And Aphrodite is really beautiful.”

“You're not the first to notice. In fact, she knows it. I think she agreed to come to Midgard simply to check that people find her as beautiful in the North as they do in the South,” the God of Arts joked, which made Atreus laugh.

“And your father?” Apollo resumed. “Why did he leave Greece to come here?”

The boy hesitated.

“Something happened over there. Something bad. I don't know what exactly, he doesn't like to talk about it. It's just that my father couldn't live in his country like he used to, and he chose to move north.”

Something bad. What a sweet euphemism for the catastrophe that had befallen his beloved Greece. Behind this “something bad” of which Atreus spoke with such distance, Apollo could hear the cries of the victims, could see liters of blood flowing, could feel his world crumbling.

“Didn't you ever ask him what happened?”

“Yes, when I was younger. But today, I understood that it was his story, and that he would tell it to me when he would be ready. When we're both ready, that is. For now, I know enough about my father's past to know that I don't want to know any more.”

Apollo didn't reply, a little surprised by the young Jotnar's words.

“Look, here's the mystical gateway!”

They had arrived in front of a pile of stone that looked nothing like a passageway. Atreus drew a sphere of bluish light from his pocket and raised it to face the stones. Immediately, the stones began to move on their own, forming the frame of a door whose surface sparkled with the same brilliance as the sphere. Atreus tucked it away in his pocket, as if he'd done nothing more trivial than pour himself a glass of water.

“Come,” he said to his companion.

The latter obeyed. After all, Greece, too, had its strange ways of access.

Behind the curtain of light lay a world quite different from that of snowy Midgard. Apollo and Atreus now stood on a path lined with intertwined tree branches, bathed in a soft light that colored everything in indefinable shades of purple, blue and gray. On either side of the path was emptiness.

“Are we... in the World-Tree?"

“Yes! Stay on the path, especially. You don't want to fall between the Realms.”

Apollo shook his head in amazement.

“This is incredible. It's like nothing I've ever seen.”

“Aren't there any cosmical trees in your world?”

“No. My world is built like a house. Mortals live on the first floor, the dead in the basement, and the gods upstairs.”

“Only three kinds? Sounds boring!”

“Don't think so, there are countless creatures in my land! But they don't have a dedicated world, that's all.”

They advanced a few meters before finding themselves in front of another door of light, which they crossed to arrive on a sort of square protected by the tree, in the center of which stood a house, quite different from the stone and wood constructions found everywhere in Midgard. This one was clearly built with an artist's care, and its elaborate framework blended in with the branches of Yggdrasil, so that you couldn't tell where the house ended and the tree began. It was magnificent.

“Amazing,” Apollo murmured.

“I had the same reaction the first time I came here,” Atreus laughed. “Come on, let's see if Týr's inside.”

He pulled the Greek god along, clutching his arm familiarly, as if they'd been friends for many years.

“Is this Týr's house?”

“No. It belongs to Sindri. He's a Dwarf, and he's my friend.”

The sentence Atreus had just uttered contrasted with his suddenly slightly sad tone.

“Has something happened to him?”

“It's complicated. There are things he needs to understand. And others I have to make up for. But he's trying. I'm trying. We'll get there.”

Despite his curiosity, Apollo decided not to insist on knowing this story. Týr was his top priority, not the problems of friendship between a giant and a dwarf. Atreus pushed open the door of the house, and Apollon could only see that the interior had nothing to envy the exterior. Everything was tastefully designed and immaculate. It gave an impression of both distinction and simplicity. It reminded him of the temples of Delphi, his beloved city.

“Hey, anybody home?” Atreus asked casually. When there was no answer, he added: “Týr doesn't seem to be here. But there's a fire in the fireplace, so maybe Sindri's around. Wait a few seconds, I'll take a look.”

Apollo nodded, and Atreus emerged, calling Sindri's name. The God of Arts looked around with interest. The house had a curious architecture. The large main room opened onto a kitchen, a blacksmith's workshop and the bedrooms, each separated by the bluish branches of the World-Tree, which seemed to have joined the house and merged harmoniously with its walls. Apollo had never met a dwarf, but if Sindri was representative of his kind, then he assumed they had a true sense of aesthetics. The Greek god admired the finely crafted wooden furniture and decorative metal objects that Hephaestus would not have disdained. Creators and artists, no doubt.

He turned to the forge, curious. He was certainly not a blacksmith god, but as the God of Arts, he was interested in all forms of creation. A quick glance at the left wall let him know that the Dwarves must also be a warlike people, judging by the helmets and blades of all shapes and sizes on display. Since his arrival in Midgard, Apollo had only met herders, farmers and craftsmen, no one who could be likened to a warrior. Intrigued, and eager to know what kind of weapons could be used in Yggdrasil, he turned to the right wall.

And his heart suddenly stopped.

In front of him, hanging on the wall, their cross-shaped arrangement painfully recognizable, were the Blades of Chaos.

It was as if Zeus had struck him with his thunderbolt. As if Hercules had hit him with one of his Nemean gauntlets. His blood froze, his breathing quickened, and almost all coherent thought left his mind. A single one blinded him, enormous, imposing.

Run. Run fast and far, and never come back.

Apollo closed his eyes, desperately trying to control the feeling of panic that had overtaken him and threatened to break him. It couldn't be. The Blades of Chaos couldn't be here, in a Dwarf's house in the heart of the World-Tree of Yggdrasil. It made absolutely no sense. He squeezed his eyelids harder, as if this simple gesture might have the power to make the cursed weapons disappear.

He opened his eyes again. They were still there. In his panic-fogged mind, he regretted for a second that he hadn't had the courage to pluck out his eyes to stop seeing them.

But it was pointless anyway. Even blind, he'd see them forever. He would see their brilliance, their aggression, the cruelty they had come to absorb from their owner. They were Kratos' signature weapon, the most visible sign of his rage and killing power.

From far, far away, Atreus' voice reached him.

My father is Greek.

“Sindri isn't here. Too bad, he seems to have just left. And I spoke to Ratatoskr, he doesn't know where Týr is. Strange, I thought he was more omniscient than that. Let's... Hey, Apollo? Is everything okay?”

Apollo allowed himself two more seconds, concentrating on Atreus's soothing presence, his happy, adolescent voice. Two seconds before he turned to the Jotnar, who gazed at him with concern.

He was an Olympian. A god from a fallen pantheon, but a god nonetheless. He forced himself to regain composure.

“Yes, of course! Why?”

“You look very tired”.

“A little disappointed, that's all. How are we going to find Týr?”

“We'll go to Vanaheim and ask Freya. Maybe she'll know.”

Atreus was still contemplating him with his watchful gaze. Vanaheim. My father is Greek.

“Very well,” Apollo replied in the most assured tone possible, carefully hiding the inner earthquake he was experiencing. “Let's go back to Midgard. I'll tell the others we have to go to Vanaheim. And I'll take the opportunity to rest a little beforehand. You're right, I'm not feeling very well.”

“Okay, let's do that.”

After giving him one last worried look, Atreus added: “I just need to get something from the forge for my bow.”

He rounded the counter and bent down, disappearing from Apollo's view, who heard him rummaging among metal implements.

“Did Sindri forge all these weapons?” he asked in a conversational tone.

“He and his brother Brok,” Atreus replied from behind the counter.

The teenager stood up and ran a hand through his auburn hair.

“Except for those blades there on the right wall. They're my father's. He brought them back from his homeland.”

Apollo fought back a furious urge to scream and managed to nod. Meeting his gaze, he had the impression that Atreus was observing his reactions. He suddenly wondered if the boy was as naive and sincere as he looked.

“They're... remarkable.”

“They're super cool. They catch fire when he uses them. It's very impressive to see.”

Apollo couldn't take it anymore. He gave Atreus a hard look and retreated: “We should go back to Midgard now. I really need to rest.”

“Of course, sorry.”

Back on the path to the World-Tree, the Greek god managed to formulate a few banalities about the beauty of the place to divert attention from his strange reaction to the Blades. Before the gate that would take him back to Midgard, Atreus stopped and turned to him.

“I'll come back for you tomorrow, then? If you still want to go to Vanaheim.”

“You... You're not going back to Midgard?”

“No,” the young Jotnar replied. “I'm going to Jotunheim, the Realm of the Giants. I have someone to see there. But I'll be back for you soon, I promise. I'll be in Jorunn first thing in the morning.”

“Very well, then. Thank you, Atreus. You can't know how grateful I am to you for being our guide.”

And for leaving him alone, right now. But that Apollo doesn't say. Having waved to his companion, he stepped through the door and found himself back in Midgard with unspeakable relief. He took a few seconds to refocus, disorientated by the change of world, then ran off towards Jorunn's house where the other Olympians were waiting to hear from him.

They were certainly not going to be disappointed.

Chapter Text

The warm, vibrant nature of Jotunheim enveloped Atreus as soon as he stepped through the door into the mysterious realm of the Giants. He inhaled the now-familiar air and looked around. Since the death of Odin and Thor and the destruction of Asgard, the kingdom's soul seemed to be healing. It was indescribable, but Atreus felt it deep inside his Jotnar body. Like a renewed breath of life that imbued beings and things. The spirit of the Giants that had survived extinction was awakening. Atreus loved to connect with this immemorial spirit, to nourish the bond he had with the Giants of the past, and in these moments, he felt the strength of their gratitude for the role he had played in the downfall of their mortal enemy.

But today, Atreus was far too preoccupied to give time and attention to the sacred memory of his kind.

Impatient, the young boy transformed himself into a fox with auburn fur and ice-blue eyes. He galloped off in the direction of Ironwood, traversing Jotunheim's supernaturally sun-colored landscape. Occasionally, wolves would accompany him for a few yards, running merrily along before falling behind. After a while, Atreus slowed down. Leaping over a boulder in his path, he metamorphosed in mid-air and landed on his two legs, having regained his human form. He headed for a particularly remarkable tree, which housed a house in its trunk.

“Atreus!”

Atreus turned back to the young woman who had just appeared in his field of vision.

“Angrboda...”

He hurried over to her and took her by the hand.

“Hey wait, what are you doing? I was just about to leave to look after Jalla!”

“Jalla can wait a bit,” Atreus replied. “I need to talk to you, it's important.”

Surprised by his unusually authoritative tone, Angrboda stopped and tugged at Atreus's hand, forcing him to turn back to her.

“What's going on?”

“I'll tell you at the lake.”

“You have to go back, don't you?” Angrboda asked in a white voice. “You've only just got back. Why can't you...”

He took her other hand, intertwined their fingers and plunged his gaze into the girl's warm brown eyes, which remained silent. Concern was visible on her face.

“No, don't worry,” he said in a softer tone. “I'm not going anywhere. For now.”

They looked at each other for a few seconds before Angrboda nodded, visibly relieved.

“Come,” he repeated.

This time, she let him lead her behind him. They walked more slowly, hand in hand, in silence, to “their” lake. It was a pool of water made up of two parts, one azure blue, the other emerald green, which came together in the center, forming an indefinable color. Atreus loved this place. It was here that they had kissed for the first time.

They sat side by side, their fingers still entwined, their arms brushing against each other, the sunlight bathing them in a soft golden glow. Angrboda turned to Atreus, a question deep in her gentle, attentive gaze.

“So, what's so urgent?”

“I think I ran into some people looking for my father.”

Angrboda laughed, relieved. It didn't seem so serious to the young giantess.

“That's all there is to it! Is that why you're delaying Jalla's meal? Lots of people are looking for your father, Loki! Everyone's always asking him for help.”

“No, not like that,” Atreus replied, staring at the point on the lake where the azure and emerald waters met. “They're from his homeland. And my father has many enemies there. I think they're here to hurt him.”

“From his homeland! But how... Atreus, what makes you say that? Did they tell you?”

“No, they didn't. They told me they were from somewhere else. But they lied, I'm sure of it.”

“But why? What exactly did they tell you?”

“That they needed Týr's help to help them rebuild their land, which was destroyed after a war between the gods and the primordial entities of their land.”

“And you don't think that's true?”

“I think it's the only true thing they've told me.”

He turned his gaze from the lake to look at her.

“What they haven't told me is that they themselves are gods. I asked them, and they said they were mortal. But they're not! I have a divine side, I know how to recognize a god. But they don't know that.”

Angrboda thought for a few seconds.

“You think they brought about the destruction of their land themselves, then? But what's that got to do with your father?”

“My father left his homeland because he confronted his gods. I don't know much about his past, but he told me that. I'm willing to bet it's the same gods who are in Midgard today.”

Even at eleven, Atreus had been able to understand that his father's deep aversion to the gods could only be explained by a painful history with those of his native land. In Midgard, before Baldur's arrival, Kratos didn't associate with the gods. Nothing could have justified the instinctive, primal hatred that made him leave Freya's house the second he learned of her divine nature. It could only have come from his past.

“Nothing proves it, Atreus! They're gods, and their land was destroyed by their fault, all right: that's not much to make the connection with your father.”

“So how about this: I took one of them to the house of Sindri to look for Týr. He's there sometimes, so I thought we'd give it a go. It was empty, so we set off again. But the god - his name is Apollo - had time to see my father's Blades on the forge wall. And he completely panicked. He tried to hide it, but he's not a very good actor. He recognized them, I'm sure of it.”

He lowered his eyes, looking at their clasped hands and gripping Angrboda's fingers tighter.

“I told him they were fire blades, and he didn't even react. He just told me he wanted us to go back to Midgard. Who reacts like that to being told about fire blades, seriously? I think this guy knew my father. And that he wasn't his friend.”

Angrboda remained silent for a few moments. She could feel the worry radiating from Atreus like a warm current. Worry, and something else. A protective instinct he reserved for his father, yet the person around him most able to protect himself.

“If these people really are gods from your father's ancient pantheon, what are they doing here?”

“That's the question I'm asking myself,” Atreus replied, his gaze hard. “But if they intend to go after my father, they'll have to face me first.”

“Mmmh. You always find yourself having to protect your father. It's starting to become a habit.”

“Somebody's got to watch his back. He spends all his time protecting others. Someone's got to protect him, too, once in a while. And if it's not me, who will?”

The young giantess smiled and rested her head on Atreus's shoulder. Surprised by this gesture, he hesitated for a few moments, before deciding to place his cheek against her dark hair. They remained like this for a few moments, eyes closed, in silence, imbued with each other's presence.

After a moment, he decided to put an arm around her waist and draw her closer against him. He felt himself trembling gently against her body, and it wasn't from fear or cold. They looked at each other and in one motion their lips met. They kissed slowly, hesitantly. Atreus felt as if he were being slowly filled with a warm, sweet liquid. But before he could even consider the next step, Angrboda broke their kiss and gently withdrew from his embrace.

Atreus sighed inwardly. He was in love. Desperately in love. With her, and her alone. He faintly remembered Ivar, a young girl he had befriended after helping a Midgardian village get rid of Draugr shortly after Ragnarok. Ivar was beautiful, blonde and confident. She had invited Atreus to stay for the village feast, held that evening to commemorate the village's annual founding. The sociable young Jotnar had accepted. They had drunk mead, and Ivar had shown herself closer and more tactile with him than any being before her, man or woman. And he'd liked it. Later that evening, when he'd slipped away for some fresh air, Ivar had followed him, and in the cold darkness of the Midgardian night, she'd embraced him. Atreus, his mind clouded, emboldened by alcohol and excitement, had put his arms around her waist and his hands on her hips. Ivar's face was buried in his neck and he'd felt an irresistible pulse of life animate him. In the face of the young mortal girl's warm, palpable presence, the memory of Angrboda seemed as faint and flickering as the flame of a burnt-out candle. Yet her pale and immaterial image still had some energy, for after a few seconds, Atreus had gently pulled away from Ivar. She had understood. The two teenagers exchanged a smile before parting, like a secret, a silent confidence, deeply intimate. The moment had only lasted a minute, but Atreus hadn't forgotten the strength of that age-old instinct that made men and women rush towards each other and had drawn him to Ivar, the beautiful Ivar who was mercilessly amused by a power that proclaimed her a woman.

Angrboda was no Ivar. On the rare occasions when Atreus had tried to awaken this ancient desire in her, to verify its existence, he had felt like a butterfly drawn to a flame. He found her incomparably beautiful, yet she looked at him so nervously, unaware of the effect she was having on him. Worried about not respecting her limits, Atreus had never insisted, never shown the slightest frustration; but his girlfriend's very real body drove him mad. Her paradoxical presence, cold and incandescent at the same time, seemed to inject a burning drug into his veins.

“What are you going to do?” Angrboda finally asked in a breath.

Atreus forced himself to regain a normal heartbeat.

“I'm going to tell Freya. If some foreign gods really want to do battle with my father, she'll want to know.”

Angrboda raised her head, her brown eyes sparkling.

“It is really serious, then?”

“I'm not going to ask them! But they're together all the time. I guess you don't spend all your time with someone if you don't really like them.”

“And you agree with that?”

“Yes,” Atreus replied without hesitation. “I know my father has scruples, because of my mother. But I don't see it that way. Freya makes him happy, and he makes her happy. Nothing else matters, right? Besides, it's a relief knowing they're together. I know she helps him stay on the right path. With her, he controls his anger better. I can't be the only one with this responsibility,” Atreus joked.

But Angrboda knew, despite his cheerful tone, that Atreus was deadly serious. Kratos' anger was capable of destroying worlds. The stakes were real.

“They complement each other well,” the teenager concluded. Then he raised his head and added: “Maybe we should look after Jalla. If she's hungry, it's because of me!”

They returned. As they fed Jalla, Atreus and Angrboda talked about everything: their friends Skjöldr and Thrúd, who they'd seen often since Ragnarök, the animals of Ironwood, painting techniques - they shared the same passion for drawing, but Atreus was a novice when it came to using color - Yggdrasil and the progress its inhabitants had made since Fimbulwinter. The sun was getting lower and lower, and the two teenagers were still talking. After a while, Atreus finally announced that he had to leave again.

“I'm going back to Vanaheim now. I really need to talk to Freya.”

Angrboda nodded, understanding.

“Hey, Atreus... It may seem a little out of place to ask you this question when your father's life may be in danger, but... If these really are gods from your father's homeland, aren't you curious?”

“Oh, you have no idea.”

He leaned in to kiss her again.

“You should go,” she murmured when they had parted. “Go to Freya. And protect your father from those gods.”

She smiled. Her smile was so beautiful it almost hurt.

Back in his fox form, on the path back to the portal, Atreus pondered Angrboda's question. Mostly, he had been thinking about the danger that the presence of these foreign gods represented for his father. But it was also true that this was a wonderful opportunity to find out more about his past. It had been a long time since Atreus had asked Kratos any questions, respecting his silence, leaving his father the choice of whether or not to tell him about Greece, and savoring every detail he let slip about his former life. And now a potential source of information was bursting into his life. People who would offer him another side of the story.

His heart pounding with excitement, he approached the portal with determination and stepped inside, leaving Jotunheim and Angrboda behind. It was time to talk to Freya.

Chapter Text

Kratos had trapped Freya under his body against the bed. He loved seeing her like this. Vulnerable, moaning, drowned beneath him and pierced by him. He dominated her with his aggressive presence, invading her completely, melting into her, until she was nothing but a part of him.

He loved this as much as he loved seeing her wild and insubordinate, in total control of his pleasure and hers. He would have had a hard time to choose which version of Freya he preferred: feral and dominant, or tamed and overwhelmed.

Or when she was in a playful mood. He could expect anything.

Sex was never boring with Freya.

They'd taken their time. They'd evolved their relationship step by step, becoming a little more comfortable with each other every day. They had grown closer emotionally, developing bonds of trust and love as they worked together to rebuild their world after Ragnarok. Until, when they couldn't stand it any longer, they threw themselves at each other, consumed by a tyrannical desire for each other's bodies. From allies, they had become lovers.

It had been a long road. Many a time, Freya had retreated, unable to bear Kratos's touch, unable to stand the man who had killed her son giving her pleasure and taking some from her body. Other times, it was Kratos who recoiled, paralyzed by guilt, not so much towards Faye (he knew she wouldn't have scorned Freya as her successor) as towards the thousands of innocents he had selfishly doomed to death and suffering. He knew this emotion well, having felt it many times with Faye: it was a painful feeling of shame that left him no chance when it manifested itself. Why should he have the right to be alive, against the warm body of a wonderful woman, when so many men and women had seen their lives tragically cut short through his fault?

They were well aware of the barriers erected around their hearts. But they had made the choice to break them down, to rid themselves of anger and guilt. Each had made the other their refuge. Now they could make love without being assailed by the urge to hurt each other and themselves. And they enjoyed this new-found serenity as much as they could.

Kratos loved Freya's sincerity. He'd never seen such transparency. Lysandra never complained, always looked satisfied, and he, the arrogant young captain of the Spartan army, had never thought to question himself. Faye was mysterious in every aspect of her life, as elusive as water, he'd accepted that, and he connected with her with trust, but without ever fully understanding her. Freya was neither passive nor enigmatic. She had no intention of playing the role of the perfect lover ready to be satisfied. Verbally or otherwise, she always managed to formulate exactly what she wanted when she wanted it, and never hesitated to tell Kratos frankly when his movements irritated her or did nothing for her. This total honesty always allowed him to find the path to her pleasure. And it was extremely refreshing for him not to have to read between the lines to know whether he was doing the right thing or not.

At that moment, Freya's whole body was screaming at him to break her. And he was putting almost all his heart into it. A small part of him, however, was trying to keep control. That was another danger Kratos faced in such moments: being overwhelmed not by a sense of indecency or guilt, but by an intoxicating feeling of omnipotence. Under the effect of pleasure, watching this trembling body that he felt he could break between his arms, it seemed to him that his old self was taking power again. Cruel and arrogant. The urge ran through him to ruin her, to pour his rage into her body, whatever the cost to her. Freya sensed the change in her partner's state of mind, and searching his eyes, it was the gaze of the Ghost of Sparta that she met.

She knew that look and it didn't scare her. She wasn't afraid of the Ghost of Sparta - at least, not nearly as much as the Ghost of Sparta was afraid of himself. If she had to be completely honest, she felt a kind of curiosity. What could Kratos be like when he gave free rein to his dark side during sex? Part of her was eager to find out, the part of her that was a deeply sensual goddess of love. The other part, the part that had been wounded, preferred not to get close to this unknown being, whose name alone had made the gods and Titans of all Greece tremble with fear.

Kratos held her even tighter, if that were possible. Freya moaned. Moments later, they reached the peak of their pleasure together. They stayed a long moment like that, their bodies intertwined, the contact of their naked skin almost even more intimate than when they were in the middle of the act, enjoying the afterglow of their shared pleasure.

“You kept control,” Freya murmured after a moment.

“I do not wish to hurt you.”

She freed herself from the Greek god's embrace and raised herself on one elbow to look at him.

“I'm not so easy to hurt, you know. And even if it were to happen, it wouldn't be so bad, would it?”

“Freya...”

“I'm serious,” the Vanir goddess cut in in a provocative tone. “I wonder what it would be like if you let yourself go completely to your emotions. It could be interesting. I'd love to see that.”

He watched her stretch like a cat. He was happy to see her like this, relaxed, joking-it was a huge improvement on the early days of their sex life, when she could often barely look at him after having sex with him, recoiling from his touch as if it might burn her. But he held back from telling her that there was no way he'd use his rage in an intimate way with her. Freya had no idea what she was suggesting. He would continue to keep it under control as much as possible, however frustrating that might be for both of them.

He simply grunted. Freya laughed.

“Typical response. How original.”

With a graceful gesture, she pushed back her long, unbound brown hair, which had lightened since she'd been living under the Vanaheim sun again. Kratos grabbed her arm to force her back into bed beside him. She laughed again.

“Stop it, Kratos. There's no way I'm spending my evening in this bed with you.”

“You have no duties to answer to today. What better thing can you do?”

“Welcome your son,” Freya replied simply.

It was Kratos' turn to rise.

“Atreus is in Vanaheim?”

“Mmmh. He just arrived. And if he's here, chances are he wants to see you. I think you'd better get dressed.”

He didn't ask her how she knew Atreus was in the Vanir Realm. Freya had animal sentinels whose cries only she could translate. Some bird call that Kratos hadn't even paid attention to must have tipped her off.

A little later, Atreus did indeed enter Freya's garden. It was a secluded place, out of sight. Freya needed this isolation. Since Ragnarok, the improbable had happened: Vanirs and Aesirs lived together in the Realm of Vanaheim. Ironically, it was in Vanaheim that the surviving Asgardians, gods and mortals alike, had found refuge, forced to be welcomed by those they had once oppressed, in this land they had once invaded. This was not the first time an attempt at union had been made. The last one was supposed to put an end to the Great War between the Vanirs and the Aesirs, but it was based on a deal that offered Freya to Odin and only benefited the latter. When Freya had decided to break off her marriage with the All Father, he had put a terrible curse on her, condemning her to a life of seclusion in Midgard, and depriving her of all her powers, far from her homeland, which he had immediately invaded, turning the luxuriant Vanaheim into a province of Asgard. Today, Odin was dead, and the Vanirs and Aesirs worked together under the leadership of Freya, queen once more, and this time without an abusive, manipulative king.

The gods had begun rebuilding the Great City of the Vanir, once built by Freya's father Njörd, then destroyed by Odin. Like the new capital of Yggdrasil, it was here that a new era was to begin for the Eight Realms, free from the dark shadow of Asgard. Freya, on the other hand, had chosen not to live there. She was extremely happy to see her Realm reborn, regaining its former strength and beauty, and with each rebuilt wall of the ancient city, she felt as if a part of herself was being given back. But Freya had suffered. She had betrayed herself for Vanaheim, then been betrayed by Vanaheim. The Vanirs worked hard to erase the dark memories of that time, when they had chosen to turn their backs on Freya as Queen of Asgard, and to restore the legacy of the goddess and her twin to its former prestige. No matter: the goddess had decided to write the rest of her personal story elsewhere. Unable to bring Chaurlie to Vanaheim, she had built a similar house. This place was hers. She had chosen it. She felt freer than ever. Free, and queen. And when she looked at Kratos, she thought it might be possible, after all, to have it all.

Except maybe tranquillity. There was always something to do when you became queen after the world had ended.

Freya took Atreus in her arms, always happy to see the one she now considered a son. The young boy was one of the reasons she had grown so close to Kratos: she wanted to find her place in this family, too.

The former God of War squeezed his son's shoulder, watching him carefully for the slightest trace of fatigue. He saw none. Yet Atreus was always on the move. When he wasn't roaming the world in search of the Giants, he divided his time between Midgard, Jotunheim, Vanaheim and Sindri's home. But this nomadic lifestyle seemed to suit the young boy. It matched his curious, versatile and indefinable nature. Part mortal, part god, part giant, Atreus needed to see it all, know it all, experience it all. Having grown up isolated in the wilds of Midgard, he appreciated having no ties anywhere. Or rather, he enjoyed having attachments everywhere.

In a way, he reminded Kratos of himself when he was younger. He too needed this perpetual change. No matter how attached he was to Sparta and his family, he felt completely happy when he went out on the campaign trail. And he remembered the relief he felt when he sailed from one city to another on the Mediterranean Sea to carry out the tasks entrusted to him by the gods. Those were his rare moments of satisfaction in the desperate fog of his existence.

“Father! Freya!”

“Atreus! We're glad to see you.”

“So am I! I thought I'd drop by and say hello to everyone. But it's getting late, so I came straight over to see you. I'll go tomorrow, the City will still be there.”

“And so will we,” Freya said with a smile. “What brings you to Vanaheim? The simple pleasure of seeing your father?”

Kratos grunted.

“My father, and you,” the teenager replied, laughing. “I've come to ask you a favor, Freya. Do you remember the flower you told me about, the one whose pigments make it possible to extract an ice-blue color? Angrboda keeps harping on about it. She dreams of having that kind of shade for one of her paintings. Do you think we could go and get it now?”

"Now? Well, there's nothing to stop us,” Freya replied, a little surprised. “We shouldn't have to go far to find it. All your father has to do is take care of dinner, in the meantime.”

“Gnh.”

“Perfect.”

Atreus and Freya walked away, plunging into the mesmerizing nature of the Realm. When they were far enough away from the house, Freya asked, “Do you really want to go pick that flower, or do you need to tell me something your father mustn't hear?”

“I'm not against finding that flower, Angrboda loves blue. But we can't hide anything from you, the real reason for this walk isn't the flower. I really need to talk to you about something.”

For the second time that day, Atreus launched into an account of the morning's events. His meeting with Apollo and his companions, their quest for Týr, the mixture of lies and truth they had tried to make him believe, and Apollo's strange reaction to the Blades of Chaos. The more he spoke, the more Freya's face tensed. When he concluded that he was convinced these foreign gods had it in for his father, she looked almost like the hateful creature who had hunted them for three years. Atreus felt as if a weight had been lifted from his shoulders that he wasn't even aware of. He was not alone against Kratos' enemies. Freya was with him, he knew it.

“These gods,” she said, her voice betraying a sense of urgency, ”you know their name?”

“Yes, they told me. Apollo, Athena, Aphrodite, and, uh... I'm not sure about the last two. But there's a decapitated head, like Mimir.”

Freya looked at him with an indecipherable expression for a second, then led him in the direction of the City.

“Come. Let's go and see Mimir. He certainly knows the names of the Greek gods. If they've given you their real names, he'll be able to confirm that they're Olympians.”

Although he frequently visited Kratos, Mimir now spent most of his time in the City of Vanaheim with Sigrún. Sigrún was the former Valkyrie queen who had succeeded Freya after Odin had stripped her of her wings and banished her to Midgard. She was now the leader of the Shields Maidens, a group of surviving former Valkyries. Such was her power that she had been able to stand up to Kratos for quite some time before he managed to defeat her. And her love for Mimir had not been altered by the loss of his body. Sigrún was a being of the spirit, ideal and pure, but also formidable when incarnated as a warrior.

The Shields Maidens formed a small community, dedicated to living and training together on a daily basis as a typically feminine guild. Those who so wished were nevertheless entitled to private accommodation. Sigrún had made this choice, eager to gain some privacy in her relationship with Mimir. It was to this accommodation that Freya and Atreus were heading. At the time, Sigrún was still away, busy training new recruits - including Thor's own daughter Thrúd - or on some mission in the Eight Realms. They found only Mimir, busy as usual reading a book placed at eye level, turning the pages with an instrument he held in his mouth. There were few distractions when you were reduced to a head - but Mimir never complained.

On seeing Atreus and Freya arrive, he spat out the instrument.

“Majesty! Little brother! To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?”

Then, noting that he was missing: “Where's Kratos?”

“At home,” Freya replied. “We don't have much time, Mimir, there's something we need to talk to you about.”

“We think Greek gods are in Midgard,” Atreus added hastily, feeling it was pointless to prolong the suspense.

“Greek gods! But, lad, why...”

“You know their names, don't you Mimir?”

"Of course I know their names, the smartest man alive still has a passing knowledge of one of the greatest pantheons there is. Was. But that doesn't...”

“Does the name Apollo mean anything to you?”

Mimir's mouth opened, forming an “o” of surprise.

“How did you...”

“Do you know him, Mimir?”

“Laddie, I'm not telling you anything until you've explained what this is all about. How did you hear about Apollo?”

“I haven't heard of him, I've met him.”

And he explained again how Apollo had come to him in Helgasker to ask for help. When he had finished speaking, Mimir remained silent for a few seconds. Atreus and Freya stared at him impatiently.

“Apollo is indeed the name of one of the major gods of the Greek Pantheon,” he enunciated slowly. “So are Athena and Aphrodite. There's no doubt about it. Atreus, your father...”

“It's my father I'm worried about.”

“Oh, little brother, when Kratos learns that the Greek gods are in Midgard...”

“He won't have to if we do the right thing,” Freya interjected with determination. “We can solve this problem ourselves and kick those gods out without letting Kratos know.”

“That's not very fair to him. I wouldn't be very comfortable keeping something so important from him.”

Freya sighed.

“I understand, Mimir, and it honors you, but... Kratos is at peace now. He's fine, he's... happy. I refuse to let the irruption of Greek gods into his existence threaten his equilibrium.”

“It's not just his equilibrium that is threatened! What if these gods are here to harm my father? We can't let them!”

“Of course we won't let them, Atreus. But once again, I'm choosing the diplomatic solution: talk to these gods and get them to leave without Kratos hearing of their presence. I don't think he wants to add this Apollo to the long list of Greek gods he's already killed.”

Then, turning back to Mimir, the goddess Vanir added: “Mimir, what do you know about this god?”

“He's not a warrior, but he's a very influential god all the same. He's the God of Arts, mainly. Music and poetry. His influence was immense when Greece was still flourishing, making it a land of great culture. If I remember correctly, he was also a sun god, and the God of Archers.”

“The God of Archers!” Atreus repeated with delight. “Well, in any case,” he added with a smile, “he’s not the God of Liars.”

“Kratos never faced Apollo, as far as I know,” Mimir added.

“And the woman who was with him? Athena?”

“Athena, that's another story altogether. She's the Goddess of War and Wisdom - like Týr, which is why I'm surprised they need our god of war so badly - and she's a ruler, she was very influential with the King of the Olympians, Zeus. She and Kratos... well... let's just say they have a lot to forgive each other.”

For a second, Atreus felt the urge to ask why, but he suspected that Mimir would tell him that it was his father's story to tell. And he'd be right.

“She's powerful, then?” he merely asked.

“Very. She's an experienced warrior and a master of the mind. You have to watch out for her, believe me. She's always one step ahead and she's not the last to use trickery.”

“And Aphrodite?”

“Aaah, Aphrodite,” Mimir said dreamily. “The Goddess of Love and Beauty. Not very politically involved, but a rare sight to see.”

“I thought so! There's something about her, it's almost impossible not to look at her. Did she confront my father?”

“Well, anyway... Not the kind of confrontation you're thinking of, lad.”

Freya frowned. So did Atreus, but with confusion.

“Let's just say that Aphrodite has always been quite fond of gods of war.”

“Oh.”

The young Jotnar wasn't sure he understood, but decided not to press the point.

“Did you say something about a severed head?” Freya resumed.

“Yes,” Atreus said, contrite, ”but I don't remember his name.”

“A severed head? I think I have an idea who it might be. Helios?”

“That's it!” Atreus confirmed, pleased to have found the missing name. “It's a living head, just like you. But he told me he didn't choose to lose his body. Do you have any idea what happened to him?”

“Yes,” Mimir replied in an embarrassed tone. “But I think I'll save that story for another time.”

A roundabout way of announcing that it was Kratos who had ripped off Helios' head. Atreus shook his head, deciding not to give this information the immediate attention it required. He'd think about it later.

“You said there were five of them, Atreus,” Freya remarked.

“I don't remember the name of the last one. She's a tall woman, with long blond hair and hard features.”

“Hard to say, the description's pretty vague. It could be any other goddess. Maybe Hestia, or Artemis...”

“Never mind,” the Vanir godess decided, "We know enough. From what Mimir says, Athena's presence alone should be enough to worry us. We mustn't waste time, and especially not arouse Kratos' suspicions.”

“I have to meet the Greek gods tomorrow morning to take them to Vanaheim,” Atreus explained.

“To Vanaheim?”

“That's all I could find,” the young Jotnar replied with a shrug. “Ratastokr told me that Týr wasn't in Yggdrasil. He travels in another mythology. He's interested in the creation of a new pantheon, apparently. It's not very clear, I didn't understand everything. Anyway, I had to say something to Apollo to keep him waiting, so I invented that we'd go to Vanaheim to look for you, Freya."

“It's obviously out of the question for these gods to enter Vanaheim, and even less so when your father is there. Here's what we'll do. Let's go back to my place and pretend nothing's happened. We'll say we haven't found the flower, and that we have to go back the next day to look for it. Then we'll go to Midgard and talk to those gods. Well, talk... Demand that they go away would be more accurate.”

“I suppose 'the flower' is Atreus's excuse to keep you away from Kratos, Freya.”

“Quite right, Mimir.”

“That's fine by me,” he said. “Let's spare the grumpy old man one more thing to be upset about and scare the gods away ourselves.”

“Yes,” Atreus nodded. “First thing tomorrow.”

Atreus and Freya said goodbye to Mimir and returned to the house of the goddess Vanir. They informed Kratos of the failure of their quest and the need to return early the next day, feigning good humor, and shared dinner together. Although neither of them had any real need to feed so frequently, it was a habit that Kratos and Atreus had never lost in the days when the ancient God of War pretended to be mortal. Freya didn't mind the ritual either.

Early the next morning, the Vanir goddess and the Jotnar picked up Mimir at Sigrún's house before heading for the nearest mystical gateway. They left the jungles of Vanaheim for the snowy forest of Midgard and, without missing a beat, set off for Jorunn. As they walked, they talked about the forthcoming meeting and tried to envisage every possible scenario, from the most peaceful to the most brutal, concluding that they had to be ready for anything.

“Maybe you should let me do the talking,” Mimir suggested after Freya had once again asserted that she wasn't afraid to use violence to send them the message that they weren't welcome at Yggdrasil. “I've always been an ambassador of choice, very good at handling conflict calmly.”

“They'll be so surprised to see another head talking, they'll be speechless.”

“That's good, because it'll give them plenty of time to listen. That's what we want them to do.”

They reached Jorunn. The snow fell thickly around them, and crunched harshly beneath their feet.

“This way,” Atreus said, his voice a little strained. He gestured to the building where the Olympians lived.

“Someone's there,” Freya murmured.

And indeed, a hooded figure was waiting for them at the door of the dilapidated house. The three walked towards it; when they reached it, the figure removed its hood, and Atreus immediately recognized Athena. They stopped. The goddess wore a serene expression, and gave them her customary melancholy smile.

Atreus took a step forward and Athena's gaze fell on him. The young Jotnar's features were hard, defiant. Athena's, on the other hand, showed a gentle, almost tender expression. Not a word was spoken for a good ten seconds, but the gaze of the young man and the Olympian never left each other, and each could read the same thing in the other's eyes.

I know who you are.

Chapter Text

“Father!”

Zeus, The Sky Father, King of Olympus, god among gods, turned to the young woman who had just entered the meeting room. It was a large room, cold and solemn, open onto a wide balcony overlooking the pure, serene sky of Olympus, and in which Zeus summoned at his pleasure the gods and mortals with whom he wished to confer.

“Athena.”

The Goddess of War and Wisdom bowed slightly to him.

“Father,” she began. “Hermes told me that you wished to speak to me."

Athena knew this was not a good sign. She, the favorite daughter, had never been summoned like this like a simple minor deity. Zeus often spoke to her informally, during a walk in the gardens of Olympus, in his private apartments, or even on the occasion of a visit to earth. These informal relations and spontaneous exchanges between her and the King of the Gods had always been a mark of his favor, a privilege he bestowed on her to emphasize her loyalty and devotion to Olympus. But things had changed, and Athena was now as subject to official rules as any of his children. Summoned to follow protocol.

It had been that way ever since the death of Ares.

“Indeed,” Zeus replied, his white gaze riveted on her. “I suppose you know what this is all about.”

Athena sighed inwardly. Of course she did. Zeus only spoke to her again and again about the same thing: Kratos. She bowed again, hoping that an exaggerated mark of deference might help her cause.

"Father, I know the situation is concerning. We have...”

“‘Concerning!” Zeus thundered. "‘Concerning’ is a feeble word, Athena! Corinth has fallen to Sparta. Thebes is following the same path. And there are whispers that Rhodes is the Spartans' next target. When will it be enough, my daughter?"

“I'll speak to Kratos, Sky Father, and I'll..."

He cut her off again: “Isn't that what you do all the time? It never has any effect. Your attempts at appeasement are either ineffective or half-hearted, Athena. I'm beginning to think that you're not putting all your heart and intelligence into convincing your protégé to stop the slaughter his army is waging. Whose side are you on, exactly?”

“Don't doubt my loyalty, Father! I've never given you any reason to distrust me.”

“You're giving me one today. You know what I think of Kratos. He's arrogant and uncontrollable. But Olympus needs a God of War. Talk to him, and get him back in line. Sparta will defeat Thebes, and this will be my last concession to Kratos' murderous madness. If he attacks Rhodes, then I will do what I must."

Athena knew exactly what Zeus meant by this. Take Kratos back from his divinity, make him a demigod again, and get rid of him. She merely bowed.

“Very well, Father.”

With a gesture, Zeus gestured that the meeting was over. The goddess slowly left the room, lost in thought. As she entered the corridor, she came across Hermes, who gave her a sarcastic smile.

“The little darling seems to have fallen off her pedestal. That's what happens when you make bad decisions, sister.”

“Your involvement in the problems of Olympus honors you, Hermes,” Athena replied, icily. “We can't say you've put much effort into resolving the difficulties caused by our gods of war recently. It's certain that you can't make mistakes when you never do anything.”

“That's called prudence.”

“Others would call it cowardice.”

She turned away from him, unwilling to continue this conversation. But Hermes used his supernatural speed induced by his winged boots and planted himself in front of her, preventing her from going any further.

“All the same, Athena, I'm curious. Tell me: what possessed you to suggest Kratos as a candidate for the office of God of War?"

Athena was tempted to launch a scathing retort, but something in Hermes' tone betrayed genuine curiosity, and not the malicious intention of confronting her with her difficulties. After a few seconds, she finally replied.

“Kratos is strength personified,” she said in a low voice. “He killed the old God of War, so it seemed natural that he should take his place. As a victorious king replaces a vanquished one. And... we owed him. In more ways than one.”

“So... You felt guilty that you couldn't erase his memories, so you made him the God of War. Splendid.”

Athena instantly regretted her honesty and turned away from the messenger god again.

“I didn't make that decision. Zeus did.”

It was true. Making Kratos their new God of War had only been a suggestion on her part. The King of the Gods had agreed, and Athena wondered whether this decision had been merely the effect of relief at the death of Ares, or whether Zeus was simply running out of candidates.

Without waiting for Hermes' reply, Athena headed for Kratos' room. Not without apprehension. As she wandered the corridors of the palace of Olympus, she felt she could no longer see him without feeling a certain fear. Deep down, Zeus was right. Kratos was arrogant. Brutal. And unpredictable. He was becoming more and more uncontrollable as time went by. She bitterly regretted the early years of his reign as God of War, when she still had influence over him and he still looked at her with respect, when he wasn't yet totally consumed by rage and anger.

Kratos wasn't the only one who had changed. Athena had seen Zeus become increasingly paranoid. Hera had sunk into resentment and jealousy. Dionysus into revelry and drunkenness. And so on. All the gods seemed to have decided to accentuate their vices and flaws since the death of Ares, and Athena herself sometimes had the impression that she was facing a worse version of herself that was pushing her to make bad choices. It was as if her divinity was threatened with corruption, and it was only a matter of time before she went from tactician to manipulator, from conciliator to conspirator. Olympus had never been a place of peace and serenity, but it seemed that the gods were taking the path of madness all at once. Could the death of one of them have such an effect? Had orchestrating the murder of Ares deviated the nature of the Olympians, condemning them to transform themselves into evil caricatures of themselves?

Athena gasped. The torches that lit up the palace of Olympus when night fell had gone up by themselves, as usual. Annoyed at having let herself be surprised, the Goddess of War and Wisdom decided to chase away her thoughts and quickened her pace. Soon, she arrived at Kratos' door. Nervous, she knocked.

No answer. Maybe Kratos wasn't there. Maybe he didn't want to talk to anyone. Maybe he was with a woman. Or several. Anything was possible. She knocked again, and after a few minutes of silence, she resigned herself and turned back.

No sooner had she taken a few steps than the door finally opened. Athena turned and her gaze fell on the muscular form of Kratos, stripped of his God of War armor, silhouetted against the doorframe. He looked at her, his features as hard as ever.

“What do you want?” he asked in his deep, almost threatening voice.

“To talk to you.”

“Did Zeus send you?”

The goddess shook her head, lying without any difficulty: “No. Let me in, Kratos, please.”

The Spartan closed the door behind him and took a step towards her. She was tempted to step back for a second.

“Talk if you like. You can do it here.”

Athena sighed, annoyed. The apartments of the God of War were relatively isolated from the common parts of Olympus, as were those of all the gods, gratifying them with an intimacy befitting their status. But one was not immune to the passage of a servant or even a god - unlikely though it was, most Olympians avoided getting close to Kratos. The Spartan glared at her, determined not to make her task any easier.

“Very well,” she began. “Kratos, you know that being a god means conforming to certain rules...”

“We've already had this discussion, Athena."

“Obviously not enough! You're a god of Olympus. You can't pretend that the fate of mortals doesn't interest you. With every city you destroy, thousands of men, women and children are killed. And you can't blindly take Sparta's side in every conflict just because you were born there.”

“You told me I had to strengthen my cult throughout Greece. Every city conquered by my Spartan army sees the name of Ares forbidden and temples erected in my honor. Isn't that what you wanted?”

“Not at the cost of such murderous wars!”

“You made me the God of War. What did you expect?”

“I didn't make you the God of Massacre! And you know perfectly well that you don't destroy city after city to fulfill your role as God of War. You do it to distract yourself, Kratos. To forget.”

At these words, Kratos looked at her with hatred.

“No, Athena, you're wrong,” he growled. “I support Sparta because Sparta is all I have left. My soldiers are more family to me than the gods of Olympus ever will be.”

She opened her mouth to reply, but he continued, stopping her from speaking: “There was only one way for me to forget, and the gods denied me that. So you have no right to stop me from... Distracting myself, as you call it.”

And without waiting for her answer, before she could make a move to stop him, Kratos threw his arms around Athena's waist and pulled her against him. She weakly tried to push him away, but he would not allow her to and held her a little tighter, closer to his body. Sighing, the God of War buried his face in her thick hair and closed his eyes, breathing in her scent.

“Kratos, no,” Athena said in a strained voice.

“Why not?” Kratos replied, pulling his face away from her hair to kiss her forehead.

She felt his hands boldly caress her waist and hips and released her arms from his embrace to move his hands away from her body before losing all will to resist him.

“Not here,” she whispered angrily, far too aware that anyone could walk down the hall and see them.

“Yes, here. And now.” Kratos grabbed her wrists with one hand, ending her weak attempts to pull him away from her, and took her face in the other. She knew what was coming, and closed her eyes to let him kiss her. Which he did, tenderly at first, then more and more intensely, more and more passionately. When their lips parted, they rested their foreheads on each other's, their breathing quickened by desire.

“Maybe I'll let you into my room after all. If that is what you wish."

The sound of his deep, sensual voice made her shiver. Athena raised her head to gaze into Kratos' amber eyes. She read in them desire, but also anger, rage, pain, despair - everything that made him such a deeply wounded yet dangerous being. For a moment, a moment of madness, she was tempted to abandon herself entirely to him. She had already lost Zeus' trust because of this man; perhaps she could sacrifice her precious virginity to him too. It wasn't the first time he'd kissed her, not the first time she'd been in his arms. But she had never before really considered leaving behind with him what made her divine identity so special, offering him her untouched body, as pure as virgin snow. To be his, his alone, to let him conquer and possess her as he conquered the cities of Greece, to let him tear away her virginity as he tore away the hearts of his enemies with his Blades. For a moment, letting herself be dragged into his room and ravished by him seemed a real option.

But only for a moment. In a burst of lucidity, Athena regained control of herself, tore herself away from Kratos' arms and the stranglehold of his gaze. Trembling, she took a few steps back and considered him. He was just a killer, no better than Ares. Just because he didn't want to become King of Olympus didn't mean he was any better than the former God of War. Neither of them had the slightest respect for the lives of others. She despised herself for her weakness. No matter what soul ties she shared with Kratos, no matter what temptations his perfect body brought out in her, she must never lose control of herself. She must not weaken, and above all she must not give credence to Zeus' suspicions. She was on Olympus' side, and if Kratos decided otherwise, that would make him her enemy. She addressed him in a cold tone.

“Control your armies, Kratos. Behave like a true god of Olympus.”

Without another word, she turned her back on him. She felt Kratos' dark gaze on her back, burning with anger, and backed away from him as quickly and as decently as she could, as if she feared that any hesitation would make her turn and rush into his arms.

It couldn't be. This man had no room for love in his heart.

And she would forever pay the price for a burst of passion.

Once she had sufficiently removed herself from the temptation of Kratos, Athena stopped, leaned against a marble column and clasped her face in her hands. Suddenly, it seemed to her that no matter how hard she tried, no matter how much good will and eagerness she had to see the growing hostility between the two most important gods in her life subside, there would be no positive outcome. The torches in the corridor where she was had gone out, without her understanding why. Eager to see the light again, she hurried into the darkness, as if in a metaphor for the fate of Olympus and Kratos. She was scared, she was cold, and she felt more alone than ever.

****************************************************

“And here's our champion again,” Helios said in his usual sarcastic tone. “Although he doesn't look very valiant.”

Apollo had just burst into the common room of the Olympian gods. He had just returned from the Realm between the Realms where he had been with Atreus, and everyone was eagerly awaiting his return, which was synonymous of hope. The God of Arts was even paler than usual: his usually golden skin had lost its luster since he no longer lived under the Greek sun, but just now, he looked like a ghost. The bewilderment could be seen in his eyes of an indefinable color, at once green, blue and brown - worldly eyes, his twin sister Artemis had once told him. His nervous movements betrayed a sense of urgency. The Olympians gathered around him, their expressions worried, and pressed him with questions.

“Apollo, what's going on?”

“Have you seen Týr?”

“Do you know where he is?”

“Atreus didn't lie, did he?”

It took the young god a few more seconds to articulate a single word. He took a deep breath, and simply whispered, “Kratos.”

He didn't need to look around to know that the expressions had changed from concern to fright. He felt his companions shudder. The name Kratos was never mentioned among them.

“Kratos,” he repeated in a low voice. He looked up at Athena, as frozen and cold as the stone statues representing her, and added: “He's here, at Yggdrasil. Atreus is his son.”

A stony silence followed his words. The gods stared at him in astonishment, as if expecting Apollo to raise his head at any moment, exclaim “Surprise!" and give them a big smile.

It was Athena who spoke first.

“Apollo,” she said in a slow voice, and he had the impression that she was addressing him as if he were a child, or a simple-minded mortal, ”I'm sorry, but what you're saying makes absolutely no sense. Kratos... Kratos is dead.”

“I know that,” Apollo retorted. “He's supposed to be dead. Well, he's not.”

“How can you say such a thing? Did Atreus tell you?”

“He didn't have to tell me. There was no one in the Realm between Realms. But there was a forge. And in that forge were the Blades of Kratos.”

“His Blades! That's not enough to say he's here! Are you sure they're his, for a start?”

“Helios is right. Maybe there are similar weapons in the North.”

Apollo shook his head, annoyed.

“I know what I saw! Atreus confirmed to me that they were blades of fire - and in case you've forgotten, he told us himself that his father was Greek. That's a lot, don't you think? This kid is Kratos's son, I know it.”

A wave of exasperation passed through him. The other gods didn't want to admit the truth, and they couldn't blame them. Kratos, the bane of Olympus, the one whose ferocity and inhuman brutality he had wreaked on their people still haunted them, was much better off dead. But he wasn't. Apollo had seen the Blades. He had recognized their shape, their design, and their aura of death. It was almost like seeing their owner.

He looked up at Athena. She was pale and her expression betrayed the same emotion as the others - dismay and doubt. But that wasn't all. He saw something else, a shadow of light passing briefly through her pale eyes: hope. It only lasted a second, but Apollo knew what he had seen. He knew what was in the goddess' heart. Shame, doubt, eternal regret at having failed to find a solution to prevent the destruction of Olympus, and at having given in to this corrupt form of herself who sought only power and revenge against a Zeus who had turned against her.

You disappoint me, Spartan.

Nothing disappointed her more than herself.

Apollo could hear the voices of Demeter, Helios and Aphrodite, their exclamations of surprise, disbelief and awe, but he wasn't listening. He searched Athena's face for an answer to a question he didn't dare ask. She refused to give it.

“Apollo?”

He tore himself from his contemplation as he felt Aphrodite's hand on his shoulder.

“What?”

“What happened, after you saw the Blades?”

The God of Arts told them how he had feigned indifference, and explained Atreus' plan to take them to Vanaheim to meet a certain Freya, in the Realm where his father spent most of his time.

“Good idea,” Helios scoffed. “Let's get on with it. I've got two words to say to that despicable Spartan scum, if he's really alive. It's not as if he could do anything worse to me than he already has.”

“Don't underestimate that beast,” Demeter spat. “I'm sure he'd still be able to surprise us.”

“There's something I don't understand,” Aphrodite said. “Atreus strikes me as a kind, thoughtful teenager. It's hard to imagine that he could be Kratos's son. I mean... it's not the same kind.”

“Maybe Atreus is just his adopted son. He doesn't resemble him physically or in personality."

“If he's escaped his genes, it must be a daily relief for him.”

“We'll have to ask Atreus,” Athena interjected, speaking for the first time since their conversation began.

Apollo turned to her.

“He's due to pick us up first thing in the morning. Perhaps this is our chance to set things straight.”

“You're right. If he really is Kratos' son, lies won't get us very far.”

“And if Kratos is really alive?” Demeter asked. What do we do, if Atreus confirms it?”

“What do you mean?”

Demeter's dark eyes narrowed, almost to two slits. The mere possibility that Kratos might be alive, here in Yggdrasil, next to his living child, contorted her face into a grimace of hatred that echoed her despair.

“You know what I mean. He took everything from us. Everything.”

A silence followed his words. Not a god dared reply, too aware as they were of the terrifying implications of Demeter's words.

“Let's talk to Atreus,” Aphrodite said in a gentle voice.

“I will speak to Atreus,” Athena added in a firm tone. “It's best not to attack him in a mob. When he finds out we're gods from his father's ancient pantheon, he might not react too well. He's only got Kratos' version, after all. If I'm alone, it'll be less intimidating for him.”

The other gods nodded, and having nothing to add, they left the room one by one, isolating themselves to digest the cataclysm that had just occurred. Kratos, alive. Kratos, here. That night, Apollo was unable to indulge in the mortal slumber to which he had become accustomed since the fall of his pantheon; and he didn't need to enter his companions' rooms to know that he wasn't the only one.

Chapter Text

As Atreus and Athena stared at each other, time seemed to stand still in the hamlet of Jorunn. The snow continued to fall around them, dusting their clothes with white flakes and absorbing the sounds of the forest, creating a strange atmosphere of unrealness. And unreal it was. Two worlds carefully separated from each other were suddenly brought together, two worlds that until recently had been completely ignorant of each other were now standing face to face, each on the verge of discovering the hidden, unsuspected truths concealed in the other. Looking at Atreus, Athena glimpsed a destiny for Kratos she could never have imagined; looking at Athena, Atreus was already beginning to break through the locked door of his father's past. Each faced the symbolic precipice that the other represented.

And both the Greek goddess and the young Jotnar seemed equally reluctant to take the step that would plunge them into this precipice. They just stared at each other, not daring to break the silence, aware that there would be no turning back after that first exchange of words. Neither of them could bring themselves to open their mouths, to utter the words that would make the collision between past and present inevitable.

But the second branch of the alternative was to turn back. Unthinkable. It was Athena who first decided to jump.

“Hello, Atreus,” she said.

The teenager didn't reply. His whole attitude and body language spoke of his distrust. Athena heaved an imperceptible sigh and resolved to make his task easier.

“A large part of your power comes from these lands and is not of divine origin. I feel it's an ancient and mysterious energy, but that's all. I can't feel its reach or its nature. But the other part, Atreus, the other part is familiar to me. It comes from your father. I can't believe I didn't realize it when I first saw you. But in my defense, I thought your father was dead. Strong beliefs, however false, can have such an impact on our judgment.”

The Goddess of War and Wisdom smiled sadly and continued: “I see you didn't come alone. I suppose that means the masks have come off on our side too.”

“Yes,” Atreus replied. “I know who you are. I know you knew my father.”

“Good. You spare me the unpleasantness of this revelation. Will you introduce me to your friends?”

“We can introduce ourselves,” Mimir retorted in an affable voice. “I'm Mimir, the smartest man alive. I must say that, although I'm a little defensive about your presence in Midgard, it's a honor to meet the great goddess Athena herself.”

“I'm afraid I hardly deserve the epithet 'great' anymore. But thank you. I suppose it's a compliment if it comes from... the smartest man alive.”

She looked up at Freya, who was glaring at her with an icy stare.

“And...”

"I am Freya of the Vanirs, queen of the Eight Realms of Yggdrasil. And I command you to stay away from Kratos.”

Mimir gave an embarrassed exclamation: “Oh, but... Majesty. We spoke of diplomacy.”

“Diplomacy is undoubtedly a very valuable thing,” Athena replied, seeming not particulary annoyed by Freya's aggressive tone. “But diplomats are often just negotiators, or hypocrites. I think in our situation, we can do without them. Let me be clear: we are not here to harm Kratos. We've come to see Týr, and until yesterday we didn't know that Kratos was in Midgard. More than that, we didn't know he was alive. We were convinced he'd been dead for a long time.”

Atreus took a step forward, his cheeks flushed with cold, adrenaline and the discomfort he felt at the mention of his father's supposed death. But before he could open his mouth, Freya spoke again, her tone sharper than ever: “Kratos doesn't die. Didn't you know?”

“Oh, don't worry, I am well aware of it.”

“You'd have us believe,” Atreus said fiercely, “that your coming to Midgard has nothing to do with my father?”

“I can assure you of that. The discovery of his presence here is a huge shock to us all. Come on, Atreus, you are smart and perceptive. Apollo has many wonderful qualities, but he doesn't have the talent to hide his emotions. When he saw the Blades of Chaos, did he strike you as a man who'd just had confirmation of something he'd suspected, or as someone in the throes of a panic attack when faced with an unsuspected revelation?”

 Atreus had to admit to himself that she had a point. He remembered the shock on the Greek god's face when confronted with his father's legendary weapons. He had drawn the conclusion that Apollo had recognized the Blades. Which he had. But there was no evidence that Apollo had expected to see them. Judging by his pale complexion and his pulse so ridiculously fast that Atreus could hear his heart beating two meters away, it was quite the opposite.

“The question of whether you're here for Kratos or not can't be answered so easily. Don't get us wrong: you have excellent reasons to be angry with Kratos. It's natural for us to be suspicious,” Mimir said.

“I have only my good faith to offer. At the risk of repeating myself: we were unaware of his presence here.”

“You're not alone here. Perhaps you could give us the opportunity to judge the good faith of your companions as well.”

As she spoke, Freya had placed her hands on her hips in an inquisitive posture. Athena bowed slightly to her, an amused gleam in her pale eyes. “If I hadn't already known you were queen, I might have guessed. Come, then. After you.”

She gestured toward the door. Atreus, Mimir and Freya entered the dilapidated building, then the living room, and found themselves face to face with four Greek gods waiting apprehensively: Demeter, Aphrodite, Apollo and Helios, posed by the fireplace as usual, were gathered in the main room. Athena followed them into and placed herself as a mediator between the two camps.

“I assume Atreus has already made the introductions,” she said. “Allow me to introduce you to my companions. My friends, this is Freya, Queen of Yggdrasil, and Mimir.”

“The smartest man alive,” completed Mimir in a falsely cheerful tone.

There was a tense silence. The situation was so strange for both sides that no one really knew what to say. Fortunately, Athena, looking as at ease as if she were standing in a culture salon, took care of initiating hostilities.

“Freya, Mimir and Atreus want us to leave Midgard immediately. They fear we mean Kratos harm.”

“So it's true,” Demeter replied, who had no use for Athena's oratorical precautions. “That monster is alive.”

“That monster?” Atreus shouted immediately. “That monster is my father!”

“You poor boy! You know nothing about him. You have no idea what he's done or who he is, or you'd have turned your back on him long ago!”

“My father is a good man,” the young Jotnar replied angrily. “It's you who don't know anything about him!”

“Naive child, I could tell you stories about your father that would make you regret your birth and the blood that runs in your veins."

“Silence!” Freya thundered, glaring at the Goddess of Harvest. “We're not interested in your bloody stories. No matter how much you tell us, you'll waste your breath trying to discredit him in our eyes. You won't succeed!”

“What an enthusiastic defense,” Helios ironized. “Are you sure we're talking about the same person? You make it sound as if we're being unfair in holding a grudge against good old Kratos.”

“Don't be surprised, Helios,” Aphrodite interjected. “She's not exactly impartial. She's in love.”

The tension in the room seemed to rise a notch, if that were even possible. Freya gave her a murderous look.

“I beg your pardon?”

Aphrodite gave a crystalline little laugh, pushed her brown hair back behind her shoulders with a mocking sigh, aware of her effect, and said, “My dear, my pantheon may be fallen, but I'm still a goddess of love. I can see your heart. It's full of Kratos.”

Everyone looked at Freya. The furious Vanir godess stared angrily at Aphrodite and spat, “I don't see how my heart is any of your business.”

“It's none. But know that I envy you. He's the best lay I've ever had."

“Aphrodite!” Athena shouted, exasperated by the goddess's casualness. “This isn't a game!”

For a moment, it looked as if Freya was going to pounce on Aphrodite, but after considering her for a few moments, she simply looked away contemptuously. Atreus had lowered his eyes, a little embarrassed by what he'd just heard.

“I won't dignify that with a response,” the Vanir queen said with might.

“That's enough, that's enough,” Mimir said uneasily, aware that the situation was threatening to become downright explosive. “Listen, we're not here to kill each other. So any provocation is at best pointless, at worst very damaging. Nor are we here to become friends. We're here to find a solution to this... uncomfortable situation.”

“We've come for Týr,” Apollo said, opening his mouth for the first time since the start of the conversation. “That's all we're interested in. You are gods of this land. Please help us and lead us to him.”

Demeter snorted contemptuously, but said nothing, nor did any other Greek god. Apollo was right. But his words were still not enough to alleviate their hosts' distrust.

“If you're so suspicious of us,” the God of Arts continued, “come with us. Never take your eyes off us. And you'll see that we'll stay away from Kratos - believe me, none of us wants to go near him.”

He felt Athena's gaze upon him but chose to ignore it and continued: “You're attached to Kratos, we accept that. It's hard for us to understand, but we accept it. But we implore you: don't turn away, don't pretend we don't exist and don't need help. We do need help. To mend what's been broken. It may seem very ironic, that you, Kratos' friends, his family, are now our only chance to rebuild our land, but that's the way it is.”

There was silence again. Atreus, Freya and Mimir looked at each other, somewhat moved by Apollo's words. There was an undeniable gleam of pain, expectation, hope, anger and sadness in the eyes of these foreign gods. But there was no desire for vengeance. And then the God of Arts had struck a chord. Kratos's mistakes had cost his homeland a great deal, and it was a kind of moral responsibility for them to reach out to the gods in distress who came to try to make things right, not to turn their backs on those who were still suffering from the former God of War's mad actions.

“If I understand correctly,” Mimir said slowly, ”helping you talk to Týr is the best way to get rid of you?”

“It is.”

Well,” the smartest man alive said, ”that sounds reasonable to me. We'll take you to Týr. You can explain to him what you want. He'll help you.”

“And then you will disappear,” Freya added.

“We will disappear,” Athena confirmed in a gentle voice. Behind her, Aphrodite, Demeter and Helios silently confirmed.

“Atreus?” Mimir asked.

The teenager nodded. "I'll help you. But you must promise me not to seek to harm my father.”

“We promise, Atreus.”

“Good,” Mimir said. “Very well, then. We have a problem. Týr... Týr isn't in any of the Eight Realms of Yggdrasil."

“He's not?” Demeter exclaimed.

“This is what you call helping us look for Týr? Quite an achievement! We could have found out on our own that he'd set sail from this cursed land!” Helios spat.

“I didn't say it was impossible to contact him, dear colleague,” Mimir replied with a hint of annoyance.

“Then explain to us, dear colleague, how we can go about it,” the Sun God added in the same tone.

Mimir cleared his throat and said in a scholarly voice: “Týr is a god who has the particularity of traveling through different mythologies and cultures. And he doesn't need a boat or any other means of transport. His journeys are metaphysical, yet his presence in other pantheons is very real. That's what he's doing right now. Conversing on the other side of the earth with a pantheon whose creation is still unfinished.”

Athena nodded and asked, “How can we tell him to come back? We're afraid we don't have the same abilities as him. How do we...”

“Very simply, by praying to him, my lady.”

“That's all we ever do, pray to Týr!”

“Your prayers don't reach him because he's not within the confines of Yggdrasil. You must go to his greatest place of worship, his temple in Midgard. From there, he will hear you, even at the end of the world. And I'm sure he'll come back for you.”

“One of us will go to Týr's temple,” Freya interjected. “Where they go, we go.”

“Very well,” Athena said after exchanging a few glances with her companions to ensure their agreement. “I suppose it's worth a try. Where is this temple?”

“Luckily, near here.”

“We can go there right now,” Atreus suggested, not unwilling to move the situation forward. “I can take them.”

“Athena will go with you.”

The Goddess of War and Wisdom nodded. Atreus added: “Perhaps Helios can come too?”

“Me? Why me?” the latter asked.

“Oh, er... I thought you might like some fresh air. Mimir likes to accompany me when I go out. Since he has no legs.”

“Mimir may like to be carried around like a sack of potatoes, but you should know that I was and still am the God of the Sun, young man. I don't need anyone to... give me air! No offense, Mimir.”

“Oh, don't worry, that went right over my head.”

“You know what, Helios, Atreus is right,” Athena interjected, amused. “You never go out. It would do you good to come with us.”

And without paying any attention to the indignant exclamations of the Sun God, Athena grabbed his head and tied it to her belt.

A few minutes later, as he left Jorunn's house, Atreus felt a sensation of endless relief, happily escaping the tension-saturated air of the living room where the confrontation had just taken place. He set off alongside Athena and Helios, neither of whom seemed to be in the mood to talk, which suited the young boy to a tee. As he made his way towards the temple of Týr, which was only an hour's walk from Jorunn, he began to reflect on the conversation that had just taken place. It gave him much to think about.

Atreus knew that his father had a violent past. He knew he hadn't always been a good man. Many who were deserving, and many who were not. Knowing it was one thing. Conceiving it was another. And the real, concrete presence of Kratos' direct and indirect victims brutally forced him to conceive it. Atreus sincerely wondered if he was ready for this.

Not that it threatened the love and respect he had for his father, for he was deeply convinced that nothing could change the way he looked at him. But there was a reason why he had deliberately stayed away from the harsh truths of Kratos' past. There was this thorn, tiny but impossible to remove, this thorn that scratched at his heart every time he heard that his father had once molested, tortured, murdered an innocent. And at the same time, he longed to turn to Athena and ask her to tell him her story.

“I've never seen so much snow,” Athena said in her balanced voice, startling Atreus out of his thoughts.

“Oh, uh... Yeah. It snows a lot around here.”

He hesitated, before adding, “You must not get much of it, in Greece.”

“Indeed,” Athena said. And yet, I lived on top of a mountain. But it was a special mountain. It was always mild, always sunny.

“Are you really talking about the weather?” Helios whispered, incredulous and exasperated.

“Unfortunately, the weather on my mountain wasn't always representative of the hearts of its inhabitants.”

Atreus nodded, unable to come up with a pertinent answer. Another long minute passed. The teenager sensed in the goddess a desire to speak again, and, indeed, she resumed: “Atreus. Your father... know that... Whatever he told you about me... My faults have been great. But I haven't always done wrong. There was a time when I truly defended the interests of Kratos. And I hope I can do the same today.”

“My father never told me about you.”

Athena paused in surprise.

“He never told me about you either, Helios,” Atreus continued hastily. “He never talks about Greece. All I know is that he killed his father. And a lot of people. But that's all.”

“Oh. So you don't know that your father ripped my head off to use my power to open doors and blind enemies? What a shame. It would have made a great bedtime story.”

Atreus shuddered. He hesitated, but settled for saying, “My father regrets many things.”

“How touching,” Helios retorted in a voice laden with acid irony.

No one added a word. The rest of the walk to Týr's temple was made in silence, and it was only when the building was in sight that Athena opened her mouth again:

“But this is a lake! The temple is built on a lake?”

“Yes! It's frozen. You can walk on it just fine. Come on!”

The young Jotnar had regained a relatively cheerful tone, as if feigning enthusiasm would enable him to shake off the bad impressions left by Helios' chilling revelations and get rid of the thorn. They arrived in front of the temple's imposing doors.

“Go ahead,” he said. “I'll be waiting for you out. Take all the time you need.”

Athena turned to him, a gleam of sincere gratitude shining in her eyes.

“Thank you, Atreus.”

And the goddess, holding Helios' head with a graceful gesture, entered the temple, closing the doors behind her.

                      ******************************************************

“Do you really think Týr will hear Athena's prayer, Mimir?”

“I don't believe it, I know it. Týr is powerful, lad. Trust me.”

“I do hope he hears them. The sooner he returns, the sooner they'll leave.”

Atreus, Freya and Mimir were back in Vanaheim. After the return of the small delegation from Týr's temple, the two sides had parted quickly, leaving a good number of unspoken questions between them. They simply agreed to meet again in a few days, officially so that the Greek gods could inform them of Týr's response - or lack of it - in order to act accordingly. But this decision to meet again was not only motivated by practical reasons. Inwardly, Atreus knew he wouldn't let these precious witnesses to his father's past escape without stealing some of the keys to understanding his father. And he suspected Athena was in the same frame of mind.

“I was sincere when I told Athena I was honored to meet her. What wit, what eloquence!”

“I find her very sad,” Atreus said thoughtfully. “And sincere. But you say she's not so nice, deep down.”

“That's the story your father told me, lad. I don't know her.”

“It's really strange,” the young Jotnar continued, “to have gods from my dad's old pantheon here. It's like I'm seeing things I should never have seen. That I'm talking to people I should never have talked to. Without my father knowing. I almost feel like... I'm doing something wrong.”

“It's always unnerving, seeing the past come up,” Mimir replied in a caring tone. “You're not doing anything wrong, lad.”

Freya bent down to pluck the famous blue flower they'd used as an excuse to escape.

“Ah, there she is.” Then, turning back to Atreus, she added: “We're lying to your father about something serious, and that's why you're upset. I'm not very comfortable with the idea either, even if it's what's best for Kratos.”

“I know, I know...”

What would Kratos say if he knew his son had spent a good part of his morning walking around Midgard with Athena and Helios's severed head? Atreus wasn't sure he wanted to know the answer.

“So we agree to trust them when they say they didn't know Kratos was here?” Freya resumed.

“I think they know a lot less than we can imagine. They didn't even react when I mentioned the creation of a new pantheon. They have no key to understanding the situation they find themselves in."

Atreus and Freya frowned, astonished by their friend's words.

“What do you mean by that?” the teenager asked.

Mimir sighed and cleared his throat, as if about to deliver a secret.

“Listen... It's something Týr confided in me some time ago. I was waiting for him to come back to confirm it and... talk to Kratos about it. But given the situation, I feel I'm duty-bound to bring you up to date.”

“Mimir... Speak already!”

“I said Týr had left to take part in the creation of a new pantheon.”

“Yes. And?”

Atreus and Freya stared into Mimir's luminous eyes, urging him to explain himself more clearly. Which he did.

“This new pantheon is theirs, little brother. Athena's, Helios', Demeter's, Aphrodite's, Apollo's and all their Greek kin. And they don't even know about it!”

“Wait... You mean...”

“I mean that the gods we met today are going to be reborn and reincarnated to become the gods of a new culture that has espoused the mythology of Greece.”

He remained silent for a few moments, letting Freya and Atreus record the information, before adding: “They will remain the same! The same function, the same attributes, the same personalities, but they will change name and land. Yes, yes, you've understood me correctly.”

He lowered his voice again and added: “The pantheon of Zeus will be given a second chance.”

“In that case, I suppose we also have a reason to want Týr back,” Freya replied agitatedly. “This is... unbelievable. We need explanations.”

Atreus's voice rose then, hesitant, almost contrite: “Excuse me, but... Who is Zeus?”

Chapter Text

The next morning, the Midgard sun had barely had time to cast a few timid rays, flooding the fresh snow that had fallen the day before with a faded light, before Athena was already up, dressed and ready to go. She had knotted her hair back in the Athenian fashion, encircled her forehead with a modest silver jewel, and adjusted her Midgardian dress so that it fell over her body like a peplos, herself laughing at her paltry attempts to regain even a shred of her Greek-goddess allure. A mission impossible in this get-up. Sighing, she picked up her swords and strapped them to her waist. She'd regain her full majesty when her pantheon was restored. And for that, she needed a god of war. She walked to her bedroom door, determined, and listened. Not a sound.

Athena lightly descended the steps leading to the living room, careful not to crush them under her weight. She crossed the main hall, passed the almost extinguished fireplace, placed a note on the dining table, and exited with as little noise as possible. She pushed back the front door of the house cautiously, and when she'd closed it again, she closed her eyes and took a deep exhale, enjoying the crisp early-morning air and inwardly congratulating herself on not waking anyone.

“Going somewhere, darling?”

Athena gasped and reopened her eyes to find herself facing the Goddess of Love.

“Aphrodite! What are you doing here?”

“Getting some air. And you?”

“It's barely dawn!”

“Indeed it is! I'm surprised you're out here.”

“And I you!”

“I told you, I'm just getting some fresh air. But you, you seem to have plans in mind.”

“I... Indeed, I have somewhere to be,” Athena replied, annoyed at having been caught in the act. “I left a note explaining that I was returning to Týr's temple. A second attempt to contact him won't hurt.”

The Goddess of Love glared at her, her blue eyes inquisitive beneath her perfectly drawn brows. Aphrodite had lost none of her perceptiveness with the fall of Olympus; she still read the emotions and feelings of those around her with equal acuity and mastery.

“Very well, then. I'll come with you.”

“It's no use, we don't need to be two.”

“I'm coming with you,” Aphrodite repeated, taking her by the arm and leading her in the direction of the forest. “You can explain to me on the way what you really intend to do at Týr's temple.” The goddess added, seeing that Athena was still hesitating: “Come on, stop fighting. We're in this together, and we need to trust each other. You shouldn't fall back into your bad habits of hiding things and lying to the people around you.”

Athena sighed. Of course. She might have felt hurt by the Goddess of Love's last sentence, but the words had been spoken with such sincerity and lack of malice that she didn't even feel the need to. Besides, for some reason she couldn't quite pinpoint, it was always very difficult to hold a grudge against Aphrodite, for anything.

“All right,” she capitulated. “Let's go.”

“Wonderful!” Aphrodite enthusiastically exclaimed. “The girls are out. So, what's this about?”

“Let's wait until we get to the temple, it'll be easier.”

“Will you explain it to me there?”

"I will. ”

“You took your swords.”

“I did.”

Athena had perfectly memorized the path Atreus had taken through the woods. Still, nothing resembled a piece of Midgardian forest more than another piece of Midgardian forest, but her memory was as excellent as ever. The hour's walk passed quickly, punctuated by Aphrodite's interminable comments on everything she saw, and with no unpleasant encounters. Soon, the two goddesses came into view of the Lake of Nine and the temple that stood at its center.

“Impressive,” Aphrodite remarked. “A temple in the center of a lake, I like the idea. It would go very well for a goddess like me linked to the aquatic element.”

“Don't you have enough temples for your taste?”

“Many haven't been rebuilt,” Aphrodite replied with a pout, ”there's still work to be done if we want our cults to regain their former strength.”

They moved cautiously across the ice and reached the temple door. Once inside, Aphrodite turned to her friend.

“Well, I don't suppose we're here to pray to Týr.”

“No, we're not. See all those doors around you? How many do you count?”

“Nine,” the Goddess of Love replied after looking briefly at the doors. "Like the nine Realms, I suppose. Do you think they're accesses?”

“What else? There it is, the gateway to the other Realms of Yggdrasil. All this time, we've been looking for someone to take us across, when all we had to do was find the passage.”

“Why didn't anyone, among the thousands of Midgardians we questioned, tell us about this temple?”

"I do not know. Maybe it's not accessible to mortals. Maybe it's been hidden for a while. Look, it looks like it's seen better days. And with everything that happened in this land, I wouldn't be surprised if this place was a big power stake. But the important thing is that it's here, today, and accessible to us.”

Athena let her gaze slide over the various doors adorning the temple walls.

“Mmmh. Fair enough. I don't suppose you came back here to look those doors in the eye. And Týr, as far as we know, isn't in any of those Realms. Athena, you can't really consider what I think you consider!”

The Goddess of War and Wisdom sighed. She had expected such resistance from Aphrodite, and was determined not to be cowed. “We know that Kratos is in Vanaheim.”

Aphrodite scowled at her. “A good reason not to go there,” she ironized.

“On the contrary,” Athena retorted angrily. “Kratos is here. And despite all the good intentions of Atreus, Freya and Mimir, he'll learn that we are too. It's only a matter of time, Aphrodite. I don't want to give him the pleasure of confronting us. I want to take the lead and find him myself.”

“You're proud, Athena, far too proud!”

“No. I simply refuse to sit passively in Jorunn waiting for Kratos to become aware of our presence.”

Aphrodite watched her friend for a few moments, and Athena made an effort to control her emotions to keep her heart to herself. The Goddess of Love approached, took her by the chin and forced her to look into her eyes.

“What are you really after, going to find Kratos? What do you want to say to him, and what do you want to hear?”

“I don't expect anything from him. But I can't wait for him like a soldier under siege. Since the fates are putting us back on each other's paths, I'll be the one who acts, not the one who suffers.”

Aphrodite let go of her, and a soft, amused expression passed over her beautiful face.

“Oh, Athena. You'll never give anything to Kratos, not even the pleasure of surprising you. I understand the swords better. I won't stop you from joining him, but maybe these doors will do it for me.”

She gestured elegantly towards the walls. “How exactly are you going to go about finding the one in Vanaheim?”

Athena grimaced to hide her relief at Aphrodite's failure to change her mind. “By deduction. Doors contain signs. And signs are meant to be interpreted,” she said simply.

She came to stand in the center of the room.

“Let's see. Each of these doors is characterized by three things: a color, a rune, and an ornamental scene. We simply have to find the ones that most evoke Vanaheim. Let's think about it. This is the home realm of the Vanir gods, who are considered to be particularly close to nature. What color would you associate with such gods?”

Aphrodite shrugged: “Green, I suppose.”

“That can't be it, the door haloed in green has a setting that doesn't match at all. It looks like an abandoned city. It can't symbolize Vanaheim.”

“Yellow, then? The color of the sun?”

Athena shook her head. “Not that either. Look at the design on the door. That hand is gigantic.”

“Ah. I thought it was a mountain.”

“This door leads to Jotunheim, that's obvious. We'll have to try something else.”

“What about this one?”

“It's too centrally located in the room, so I'm sure it's the gateway to Asgard. The ruling gods always reserve the best spot for themselves...”

“Well done, Athena, we've already eliminated three doors.”

The Goddess of War and Wisdom smiled and continued to observe the gates pensively.

“Mmmh. I'm sure the runes could tell us directly which gate leads to which Realm. But I haven't the faintest idea what they mean. If only I had a library to spare...”

“Ironic, considering how many books you keep in yours!”

Athena smiled again at the mention of her beloved library, her favorite place. There, she had amassed thousands of books that rested on the immense wooden bookcases, their tired boards bending under the pharaonic number of works that lined the walls. It was here that she amassed the knowledge of the entire world, and it was the only place where she ever felt insignificant, like a mere atom in the mystery of the universe. As Goddess of Wisdom, she intended to inspire men with a similar project, hoping to instill in them the desire to bring together in a single place all the literature, all the sciences, all the knowledge and wisdom accumulated since the dawn of mankind. Unfortunately, it was not in Midgard, which had no literature and reduced writing to an administrative or ornamental function, that she would find such a place.

“We'll do without,” she says. “I'm sure ornaments can tell us all we need to know.”

She approached the purple-haloed door.

“There,” she murmured. “The door is framed by two trees and there are only animals depicted on, no creatures remotely resembling humans. It must be a gateway to a Realm that pays great attention to nature." She looked up at Aphrodite, who in turn observed the door. She nodded.

“It's possible, indeed. No other door is decorated with natural elements. But that's just a guess. How can we be sure that this is the Vanaheim door?”

“There's only one way to find out.”

Athena took a step towards the door before turning back to Aphrodite, who sighed: “Even if we're right and going through that door leads us to Vanaheim, how do you expect to find Kratos? We're talking about an entire realm."

“You said Kratos was close to Freya. He must be known there, so we'll have to find someone who can tell us.”

“Close is a weak word.”

“Anyway, it doesn't matter. Freya is queen. Even if Kratos keeps a low profile, we'll find his trail through her.”

“I'm sincerely glad you brought your swords. Let's go.”

Shoulder to shoulder, the two Greek goddesses approached the door and each drew a panel. When they opened, a blinding light flooded the room, forcing them to wrinkle their eyelids.

“I hope you know what you're doing!” Aphrodite exclaimed, holding the panel open with her right arm, her left hand over her eyes to shield herself from the brightness.

“Of course I do. Come on!”

Athena took her friend's hand, pushing it away from her face, and they both rushed through the curtain of light, letting go of the two panels of the heavy wooden door, which slammed shut behind them. It took a few more moments for the brightness to fade, and for both to open their eyes again, and then, at last, Athena and Aphrodite regained full vision and were able to marvel at the breathtaking tableau before them. At their feet lay the lush, sun-drenched nature of Vanaheim.

“It's magnificent,” Aphrodite said after a few seconds. “So different from Midgard and its eternal snow. I'm glad I came, I feel so alive again.”

Athena mused that it wasn't just an expression. To feel the caress of the sun, but without the bite of the cold, to see the kaleidoscope of colors offered by a healthy and resplendent nature, to breathe warm air charged with humidity literally gave her new vitality.

“I understand why Kratos lives here. That makes two good reasons for him, Freya and the climate.”

“Come on,” Athena said in a determined tone, brought back to reality by the mention of Kratos. “We'd better start looking for him. Let's find someone who can give us some information.”

They set off, still happily soaking up the rich, sensual atmosphere of the Realm.

“If things are done right, access from Týr's temple shouldn't lead to the depths of Vanaheim. I'm sure we're not far from a town.”

Indeed, after three-quarters of an hour's walk, the two women caught a glimpse of a village. They approached cautiously, but the village seemed no more of a threat than any of the Midgard villages they'd visited many times before. Noticing a young man carrying a bucket on his way to the well, they stepped forward, endeavoring to show their peaceful intentions in their relaxed posture and kind expressions.

“Remember,” Aphrodite whispered. “You speak. I seduce.”

Athena nodded.

“Hello, young man,” she said in a pleasant voice.

The young Vanir turned and literally dropped his bucket at the sight of the two goddesses. Athena felt compassion. She was aware of the spectacle they were putting on, their unflattering Midgardian garments not being enough to detract from their natural beauty, and certainly not enough to diminish the aura of sensuality emanating from Aphrodite. She was already beauty personified, and her radiance, far from overshadowing Athena, only enhanced the grace and finesse of her features. They must have been like an apparition to the young man, who took a few moments to regain the ability to speak. Athena waited patiently for him to recover from the aesthetic shock he had just endured.

“I, uh... hello,” he stammered.

“We're looking for someone who might be able to help us. Perhaps you're that person? What's your name?”

“I... my name is Holvar.”

“I'm delighted to meet you, Holvar,” Athena said gently. “We've come from Midgard and are a little lost.”

The young Vanir looked at them one after the other, as if wondering how on earth a realm like Midgard could give birth to two such beautiful women. He probably wouldn't have been surprised if they had presented themselves as Aesir gods. This was one of the reasons why Athena and Aphrodite had rarely shown themselves to mortals together since their arrival in the North: on their own, their beauty was undeniable, but next to each other, it became supernatural and suspect. Athena cut his questions short, not wanting to leave any room for doubt.

“We're looking for a man named Kratos. Have you ever heard of him? They say he's in Vanaheim, perhaps with the goddess Freya.”

Holvar's eyes lit up.

“Kratos! But he's not a man! He's a god!”

“Without a doubt,” Athena replied, a little taken aback by the young man's enthusiasm - people usually spoke with more fear than awe of the Ghost of Sparta.

“He's here,” Holvar said, beaming with pride, as if the fact that Kratos resides in Vanaheim was his doing. “He's... We don't know exactly where he is. There are whispers that he's staying with Freya, but she's chosen to live out of sight. We must respect that, we Vanirs, and not seek to identify her home.”

Athena and Aphrodite nodded in understanding.

“There's no way to find him, then?”

“Oh, yes, there is. He doesn't spend all his time hiding in Freya's house. He's always helping to rebuild the Realms, in Vanaheim or elsewhere. There's no point in scouring the Realm for him - you'd just be wasting your time. You need to ask someone who knows.”

“And who are these people?”

“The other gods, of course. But they reside in the City of Vanaheim, and that's far from here. The best thing to do is go to Freyr's old camp and look for Lúnda. She'll surely know where to find Kratos, she's the one who looks after his equipment - at least, that's what I have heard.”

The two goddesses exchanged glances. Holvar continued: “The camp is really close to here. Follow the path from the tall trees over there, and it's straight ahead. If Lúnda isn't there, you can wait for her. She can work anywhere, of course, but she's very attached to this forge and comes back all the time. She'll help you, I'm sure. She's very nice. I like her.”

Athena thanked Holvar and Aphrodite gave him a brilliant smile that made him blush. He added, as he watched the two women head down the path he had indicated: “Good luck finding our future God of War!”

They stopped dead in their tracks and turned to face him.

“I'm sorry,” Athena said. “God of War?”

“Oh, yes. It's only a matter of time. I hear Týr himself has offered him to become his successor. If you ask me, it's a good idea. Kratos saved Yggdrasil. If anyone should bear the title of God of War, today, it's him.”

“I don't understand.”

Holvar frowned, “Don't you know that in Midgard? Kratos led the armies of the Eight Realms against Odin. It was he who rid us of the tyranny of the Aesirs and allowed Vanaheim to be reborn.”

He added, his eyes shining with excitement: “He's the hero of Ragnarok. If you meet him, tell him how grateful we are.”

And with that, he turned to pick up his bucket and throw it into the well. Athena watched in disbelief, trying to make sense of what she had just heard, vaguely sensing Aphrodite gently tugging at her arm to move her in the direction of the path. She let herself do it as if her ability to move on her own had been taken away, as if she'd suddenly become a limp, skeleton-less being, her senses and intellect stultified by the news she'd just learned: Kratos had become a benevolent god.

“Athena?”

Aphrodite's voice came to her as if speaking from Midgard. The Goddess of War and Wisdom shook her head out of the cloud of mist and confusion and turned to her friend.

“I can't believe it,” she said in a white voice. “He's going back to being a god of war in another pantheon.”

“And he seems to be loved here.”

“Yes.”

Aphrodite could feel how shocked Athena was by the news. She looked at her solicitously, anxious to find the words that would ease her friend's turmoil, but even the incredible lucidity she displayed when it came to understanding the emotions of others didn't allow her to understand the precise reasons for Athena's emotion.

They walked again, this time in silence, to the place indicated by Holvar and found Lúnda, who, as they could immediately see, was a dwarf. Her jovial, friendly nature immediately struck the two goddesses: Lúnda  seemed absolutely delighted by their arrival and eagerly answered their questions.

“Kratos! This handsome fellow is still busy with monsters to kill. It never stops here. Mind you, when you've got muscles like that, you might as well use them for something.”

“Where can we find him, Lúnda?” Athena asked eagerly.

“He's off fighting a dragon that's been acting up in the Barri Woods. You can't let them get too comfortable, those beasts."

“The Barri Woods?”

Lúnda pulled out a map and motioned for the two goddesses to approach the workbench.

“We're here, at Freyr's camp. The Woods are here. Moin - the dragon - was seen in this part of the forest,” the blacksmith explained. “This is where Kratos must be. If you leave now, you'll surely see him.”

Lúnda lifted her head from the map and her cordial gaze changed imperceptibly, as if suddenly remembering that she knew nothing of the two women standing before her and that physical beauty didn't necessarily go hand in hand with purity of intent. “Why do you want to see the big man, anyway?”

“We need his help to rebuild our village.”

Lúnda seemed satisfied with this poor explanation. “Ah, quite simply. Very well.”

“Thank you from the bottom of my heart, Lúnda.”

“Are you kidding? It's a pleasure to help you. We don't see many like you come through.”

“Oh, uh... thank you.”

“You're welcome, sweetie.”

And for the fourth time that day, the two Greek goddesses set off again. Athena sincerely hoped that this was the last step on the road to Kratos. Once they were far enough away from Freyr's camp, Aphrodite grabbed her by the arm to make her slow down.

“Listen,” Aphrodite said, “I think I'll let you go on alone.”

Athena turned to her, her blue eyes expressing surprise as much as relief. “Are you sure?”

“Yes. I accompanied you so you wouldn't be alone on this journey, but I personally have no desire to surprise Kratos. And... that's between you. It's...”

She paused, hesitating how to phrase what she was trying to say. But Athena understood. She laid her hand on her friend's shoulder.

“Don't worry. Thank you for coming with me so far, it means a lot to me. What are you going to do?”

“I'm going back to see Lúnda, she seemed to enjoy my company a lot. She can teach me a thing or two about the art of blacksmithing.”

“Aphrodite, you were married to a blacksmith god.”

“Oh, that's true. It'll be a good conversation starter.”

The Goddess of War and Wisdom looked up, amused, and Aphrodite stepped forward to hug her. “Be careful. I'll be waiting for you at Freyr's camp.”

Athena tightened her arms around her, grateful for this unexpected show of affection. As she watched Aphrodite walk away to return to Lúnda, she thought of the condescension she had so often shown towards this too corporeal, too terrestrial goddess, whose functions and attributes were reduced to the realm of emotions and aesthetics. At that moment, she blamed herself for not always treating Aphrodite with the respect an Olympian deserved. She turned away and looked at the path leading to the Barri Woods. Her gaze became harder, more determined, and she banished from her mind anything that might distract her from her quest.

There was no time to hesitate. She was ready to face Kratos.

Chapter Text

She walked. And on. And on. She thought of nothing, striving to silence her mind and heart, her legs moving almost mechanically. Athena feared that giving way to the beginnings of a thought would set her back, and as she put one foot in front of the other, she furiously fought any thought that might slyly turn into doubt. She was going to see Kratos again. Hear the sound of his voice. Plunge her eyes into his amber gaze, so cold and dark. Maybe fight him. Repel him. Love him. Hate him. She honestly didn't know what their reunion would be like.

It was like moving forward in a dream, confused and disorienting. She was walking towards Kratos, decades after having walked away from him.

Her memories threatened to overwhelm her. His last breath, his last act of defiance, that look of anger, the blood everywhere.

Focus on the path and nothing else.

She walked on. Atreus, Vanaheim, God of War...

She no longer knew who he was. She didn't know who she would meet, at the bend in the path that led into the Barri Woods. All she knew was that she would advance to the goal she had set herself. Him, or nothing.

She heard him before she saw him. Amidst the dragon's roar, the crash of its every ferocious movement, the cracking of trees shattered by its imposing mass and the deafening crackle of its jets of flame, she could clearly make out Kratos' war cries. Athena threw herself forward. She ran along the path until it opened out into a clearing below, which formed a gigantic crater in the middle of the woods. She threw her weight back so as not to topple forward, and looked down. The clearing was like an arena, a fighting enclosure where the dragon, enraged by the wounds already inflicted by his opponent, was busy unleashing all his fury. And on the same level as Athena, on her right, watching the rampaging dragon from above, stood Kratos.

Moin, the dragon, used the power of his hind legs to project himself forward, mouth open, offering the terrifying spectacle of his deadly fangs, ready to burn alive this adversary he had thought he could easily destroy. With the speed and agility she had always known him for, Kratos avoided the flames and threw himself forward to land on top of the dragon's head, which reared up and let out a ferocious roar. Kratos grabbed his Blades - Athena's heart sank as she recognized them - and drove them cruelly into the monster's skull, whose roar turned into a cry of anger and pain. With his Blades deeply embedded, the former God of War leapt to the ground, unfurling his chains: once on the ground, he pulled on them, unbalancing the dragon who struggled to remain upright - but it was useless, Kratos' strength forced him to fall backwards, his gigantic mass collapsing with a frightful din. The monster tried to get up, but Kratos, who had recovered his Blades, sent them into his eyes, mutilating his face and blinding him for good. The loss of sight only seemed to fuel his rage. He let out a roar even more monstrous than the previous ones and, using the energy of desperation, hurled himself at his enemy like a demented creature, throwing him several meters. Athena could take no more. Unable to remain a spectator any longer, and well aware of the stupidity of this heartfelt outburst, the goddess threw herself off her ledge. She landed next to the monster and thrust one of her swords into its open maw without hesitation. Kratos, busy getting back into position, looked surprised for the first time since the start of the fight. He rushed towards the dragon and this unexpected ally, who had her back to him, a sword thrust into the beast's jaws; he picked up his axe and dealt the dragon a blow of supernatural violence that sent him tumbling, and Athena's sword, which she refused to let go of, sliced clean through his palate. Taking advantage of this moment to identify his mysterious battle companion, Kratos turned to the figure holding the sword, dripping with Moin's blood. Athena turned around, offering her face to his gaze, and the eyes of the two Gods of War met.

Kratos only had half a second to realize who was standing in front of him before the dragon, jagged in the face and half-mad with pain, charged again.

“Take the left!” Athena shouted.

Kratos obeyed, not because the shock of seeing this ghost of his past appear had anesthetized his free will, but because it was objectively the best thing to do. He moved to the dragon's left and delivered another masterful blow, further distorting its bloodied face. Athena sprang up, as fast as a cat, and struck again, drawing another cry of pain from the wounded animal, which dropped to the ground, flank exposed. Kratos and Athena pounced on him and, in one motion, launched themselves at his chest and delivered a fatal double blow, piercing him through the heart. Blood gushed from the wound, covering them in red, but they didn't let go, and almost out of pity, withdrew their blades to strike again, putting an end to the dragon's suffering as he let out a final roar. His limbs stopped twitching, his eyes closed and all life left his body.

Kratos and Athena gasped for breath before extracting their blades from the dragon's bloody flesh. Without a word, they climbed down from the corpse and gazed at the mutilated animal for a moment.

"Do not pity it”, Kratos said. sensing Athena's scruples at the painful death they had inflicted on a living being. “Dragons are cruel and evil. The death of this one saves many from suffering.”

He turned to her, slowly, almost solemnly.

“Athena.”

His voice, deep, powerful, almost made her want to cry. This was real. Kratos was here, alive, close to her.

“Hello, Kratos."

“You are real.”

She smiled.

“Indeed,” she said. “ I am definitely here.”

She saw a multitude of emotions pass through his amber gaze. Doubt, surprise, suspicion, relief, anger. Athena vaguely wondered which of those he would verbalize first.

It was anger. His eyebrows furrowed, his gaze hardened. “What are you doing here?” he shouted. “What do you want from me? You do not belong here!"

Athena put her hands on her hips, exasperated that he could think his anger could still impress her in any way.

“It's no use talking to me like that, Kratos. It won't make me disappear. Know that I didn't come to the North for you. I learned of your presence here quite by chance, and I simply tracked you down.”

"I did not want to be found. Go, before it is you I fight."

Kratos hadn't waited long before making his threats. Athena contemplated him with her attentive, impassive gaze, and continued as if he'd never said anything.

“I have no intention of leaving. I'm here for Greece.”

“I do not care about Greece.”

“You're lying, Kratos. Don't act as if seeing me suddenly returns you to your old self. I know you've changed since you've been here. I know you've become... Good.”

Kratos glared at her, but it didn't faze the goddess.

“Greece needs this goodness. Greece needs you.”

“I can do nothing for it.”

“Of course you can. We've worked hard, me and the surviving gods, to rebuild our land. We've received infinitely valuable help from foreign gods, but it's not enough.”

She took a step toward him, and her brows furrowed even more, if that were possible.

“Kratos, we need a god of war. We've come for Týr, but...”

He cut her off: “We?”

“I didn't come alone. Apollo, Aphrodite and Demeter are with me.”

Kratos growled, irritated. Four Olympians here was four too many for the Ghost of Sparta. Athena suddenly wondered to what extent she was putting her companions at risk. If the softening of Kratos's personality, undoubtedly real judging by his son's temperament and Holvar's words, had really calmed his tendency to eliminate any Olympian he found in his way. Judging by the way he'd clenched his fists while hearing their names, she wouldn't have said so. She thought it wiser not to mention Helios' return to life immediately.

“We came for Týr in the hope that he could play this role until we find a successor for you and Ares,” Athena continued. “But your presence here changes everything. It's up to you to take action to rebuild our land. You owe it to Greece.”

"What you are asking of me is impossible. It will never happen, Athena."

“Why not? You're alive. Your divinity is undiminished. There's nothing stopping you.”

Kratos remained silent for a few moments.

“My life is here now.”

“Oh, I see. So you're allowed to start a new life? And Greece wouldn't be so lucky, because you don't know the first thing about moral responsibility.”

“There is nothing left for me there.”

Athena felt her anger rising.

“Can you step outside yourself for a moment? I'm talking about Greece, about Greeks, not about your own comfort. I don't care about your scruples, your guilt, your resentment, Kratos. Whatever feelings you have when you think of Greece, Olympus or me, I ask you to come and make amends for the cataclysmic consequences of your actions.”

“What about your scruples, Athena? Your own guilt? Where are they?”

“I'm fighting to right the wrong I've done. The proof is, I'm inflicting myself with this hopeless conversation with someone who has only thought, thinks and will only ever think of himself.”

For a moment, she thought Kratos was going to attack her. Back on Olympus, he would have. But he remained unmoved, breathing deeply. He must have learned to control his emotions.

“Listen to me, Athena. You delivered my eight-year-old brother to Thanatos because of Zeus' paranoia. You made me believe that you would rid me of my memories so you could make me Olympus' weapon. You allowed Zeus to strike me dead by depriving me of part of my powers. You fueled my desire for vengeance to serve your own interests. You made me lead Pandora to the Flame that killed her. You only used me from beginning to end. You are cold, heartless and manipulative. And I owe you nothing.”

Kratos' words tore at her heart, but Athena refused to show how much he hurt her. She retorted: “And you killed me because you were so mad with anger that you didn't even care who you were about to disembowel!”

“You look very much alive to me,” Kratos retorted.

“I owe it all to the magic of a foreign goddess.”

He didn't answer and looked away. Athena could feel how her unexpected appearance was plunging Kratos back into a sea of memories, each more painful than the last, and shattering the stability and serenity he seemed to have built up in the North. For a moment, she almost felt sorry for him. She could imagine the distress he must have felt at being so caught up in his past, at a time, no doubt, when he thought he'd succeeded in putting it behind him. She resumed, in a calmer voice:

“My wrongs have been great and many. I'll never deny the harm I've done you to serve what I thought were the interests of Greece. I ask you to wipe the slate clean for...”

“Clean the slate!?”

“Stop behaving as if you had nothing to reproach yourself for! It wasn't me who held your Blades, Kratos. It wasn't me who drowned Greece in the blood of innocents.”

"I never said I was guiltless. To use your words, 'my wrongs have been many and great'.”

There was silence. Faced with Kratos' stubbornness, Athena suddenly felt like changing strategy.

“I'm not asking you to do anything for me. I'm asking you to do something for the people who were once yours. Please.”

She hesitated, then decided to leap into the abyss.

“Atreus doesn't deserve a father who doesn't take responsibility for his actions and lets innocent people pay the price.”

The effect was immediate. Kratos's eyes took on an orange glow, and the Blades on his back burst into flame.

“Stay away from my son!” he shouted.

“I have no intention of harming him! Atreus is the living proof that you've changed. If you won't act for me, if you won't act for Greece, then at least act for him! Be worthy of your child!”

Athena was short of breath, and the strands of hair that had escaped from her bun during the fight were spreading across her forehead and neck. With a furious gesture, she removed the headband holding her hair back and let it fall messily to her shoulders. She resumed with ardor: “I don't care what you think of me. I don't care if you hate me or despise me. All I care about is Greece.”

Kratos seemed barely to have heard her. “When and how did you meet Atreus?” he asked her bluntly.

“Two days ago. He was presented to Apollo under the name of Loki as someone capable of leading us to Týr.”

“Týr is not there.”

“Don't I know it. We prayed to him in his temple in Midgard to come back and help us. It was Freya - Kratos glared at her at the mention of the goddess - Mimir and Atreus who guided us. I understood that the temple was none other than the gateway to the other Realms, and I came looking for you."

Kratos began pacing back and forth like a caged lion, and Athena felt almost pity for him. He saw his whole world turned upside down, a past that was supposed to be far behind him suddenly resurfacing, his loved ones plotting behind his back to help his former enemies. After a moment, he stopped and looked at her angrily:

“I will not come.”

“I leave you no choice. I hear you're ready to take on metaphysical responsibilities again. The people of Vanaheim are convinced you're going to become the new God of War. But that's not going to happen, Kratos; as long as I'm alive, you won't be another pantheon's God of War until you've played this part in rebuilding our land.”

And Kratos had to admit, deep down inside, that what Athena was saying made sense. For all the repulsion he felt at the idea of becoming a member of Olympus again, he understood the sense of injustice the goddess must have felt at the idea of him giving to a land what he denied to the one he had destroyed.

“This choice of whether or not to help Greece is not yours to make,” Athena said icily. “We're supposed to meet your son, Freya and Mimir tomorrow morning in Midgard to update them on the situation with Týr. I'll be waiting for you there too. Join us in the temple. We'll make this decision collectively. No more secrets.”

She took a deep breath to calm herself and allowed herself to look at him a little more attentively. He had aged a bit, the marks of age more visible on his face, now adorned with a beard. But his intimidating presence was unchanged. It was the same tall stature, the same imposing musculature, the same black eyebrows eternally furrowed, the familiar chains around his arms linked to the Blades he wielded with equal mastery, the aggressive red of his tattoos cutting through his white skin like a river of blood. He always emanated an unbroken halo of power and violence. She plunged her eyes deeper into his. In his amber gaze, in the aggressive precision of his movements, in his rigid posture where traces of his ancient arrogance could be detected, were the marks of his history tinged with blood and anger. Athena could see, in his killer's gaze, the remnants of his murderous rage, but also the weight of infinite regret, the eternal torture of remorse.  She saw the shadow of hesitation, of doubt. And she knew she had reason to hope.

As their eyes met, she suddenly wondered if she really meant what she'd said. That it wasn't about her, but about Greece. It suddenly seemed to her that it was quite the opposite. The choice she was imposing on Kratos was not a choice between the past and the present. Between Greece and Yggdrasil. It wasn't a choice between light and darkness, between wisdom and violence, between good and evil. It had nothing to do with duty or morality, nothing to do with metaphysical responsibility and religion.

This confrontation was their confrontation. It was personal. It was all about them, all about the harm they had done to each other.

Without adding a word, Athena turned away and walked back towards Freyr's camp, bitterly thinking of the last time she had turned her back on him in this way, when Greece was plunged into absolute chaos, leaving him to die, his body pierced. That day, Kratos was bleeding to death, dying was his only horizon, and yet he had managed to emerge victorious from their final battle. He had taken away her long-awaited power in a final gesture of defiance.

Athena clenched her fists.

This time, she would make Kratos bend.

And when she won, Greece would win with her.

Chapter Text

Apollo felt as if he were living in a nightmare. Everything around him spoke of ruin and desolation. The world had taken on the color of despair. The sun was masked behind a black cloud more impenetrable than stone walls, and an acrid rain fell steadily, faint but unstoppable. The once pure and serene air of Olympus had become nauseating, like a breath of death sprinkled with black flies. The lofty edifices of the gods' residence had been shaken to their foundations and looked almost as fragile as the most modest of mortal dwellings. The luxuriant nature of its gardens was withering away. The statues that adorned the various entrances to the Olympian palace seemed to him to be mere puppets, ready to collapse at any moment. All the signs of divine power were nothing more than vain demonstrations of a strength ready to be overtaken, a pathetic attempt to resist the implacable chaos that was spreading. Before the eyes of the God of Arts, an entire universe was dying. Faced with this painful end, with the silent cry of the dying Olympus, Apollo felt only two things: the distress of the mortals praying to him in their final moments, and his own fear.

Apollo hurried towards Aphrodite's room. He didn't know who else to turn to. Artemis, his twin sister, the half of his soul, was long gone. He hadn't seen her since the Titans launched their assault on their home, and all his attempts to connect with her, his silent prayers to her, had fallen on deaf ears. Artemis had fled to who knows where, surrounded by her nymphs, more out of a desire to commune with the wild world to which she felt she belonged than to escape the dangers hovering over Olympus. Perhaps she was dead now, drowned in the tidal waves caused by their uncle's death. The thought tore at his heart, and he refused to entertain the possibility. But dead or alive, Artemis would not come to his aid. And Athena was gone. Deprived of his sister and closest friend, Apollo felt powerless, and the awareness of his own vulnerability chilled him with terror. He had to leave, too. And quickly.

He entered Aphrodite's room and was relieved to find her there. She lay lasciviously on her bed, half-naked. Apollo was not surprised to see her like this. These days, Aphrodite spent most of her days seeking pleasure from herself or her servants. She raised herself and looked at the newcomer, who was striding purposefully towards her bed.

“Apollo,” she said with a seductive pout. “You're interrupting.”

The God of Arts made a serious effort to hide his exasperation. Aphrodite seemed completely uninterested in the terrible conflict playing out outside the walls of her bedroom. He wondered if she was even aware that several Olympians had already been murdered and that Greece was descending into chaos.

“You'll pick it up later,” he replied hastily. “Aphrodite, we have to leave. It's no longer safe here. We must abandon Olympus.”

She burst out laughing mockingly, and for a moment Apollo was tempted to turn on his heels without another word and abandon her to her fate. But in the name of his long friendship with the Goddess of Love, he fought his immediate desire to put as much distance as he could between himself and Olympus and resumed:

“Please, I'm deadly serious. Kratos could be here any minute. I know Zeus has ordered us to do everything we can to stop him, but neither you nor I have the ability to face him. Come with me, I know how we can escape.”

But Aphrodite seemed to have heard only one word. Sighing, she lay back on her bed, stretching her endless legs, playing with her long, braided brown hair.

“Leaving? While Kratos is here? No way. I'm waiting for him.”

She arched her back and cast a longing glance at a bemused God of Arts. He knew that Aphrodite could be frivolous and irresponsible, and that her tendency to wallow in lust had only worsened in recent times. But was welcoming Kratos into her bedroom a real possibility? Kratos, who had rallied the Titans against them, proclaiming that he would bring about the destruction of Olympus? Had Aphrodite become so confused?

"Stay too, Apollo. When it comes to men, you're Kratos's type. He's a wonderful lover, you won't regret it.”

He stared at her. His expression wouldn't have been any different if she'd offered him to sleep with a giant scorpion.

“You can't be serious.”

“Oh, but I am. Come on, don't pretend you've never thought about it. And that's the kind of distraction I could use right now. I'm bored out of my mind.”

Aphrodite stood up and locked eyes with Apollo, who made the mistake of holding her gaze, too stunned to react. Immediately, he felt a strange warmth, familiar but completely out of place at that moment, spreading through his body and numbing his brain. Excitement took hold of him as he was invaded by erotic images and sensations: the promise of oblivious pleasure, the prospect of Kratos' muscular arms around him, the temptation to blindly surrender to the Ghost of Sparta rather than resist him made him lose all judgment for a moment. Apollo looked away and shook his head vigorously, angrily freeing himself from the goddess' bewitching aura.

“Stop it! I know what you're up to. You may have lost all sense of reality, but I haven't! Kratos will kill us, Aphrodite!”

She laughed again: “Kratos will kill us if we attack him. And personally, I'd rather make love to him than go to war.”

Apollo contemplated her for a few more moments as she lay back, closing her eyes and stretching lasciviously on the bed, flooding the God of Arts with her sensuality. Apollo was only slightly susceptible to feminine charms, but Aphrodite's spells were powerful. He gave her one last farewell glance, which she didn't see, all at the thought of Kratos' arrival and the pleasure to come, and turned away from her for good, since he had to lose everything. As he left her room, he heard her call two of her attendants.

Without missing a beat, Apollo hurried along the corridors of Olympus. He hadn't lied to Aphrodite; he had an idea of how to escape. Escaping to Earth was out of the question. Too dangerous. If he had to leave, it would be by air. He headed for his own room, and once there, took the passageway leading outside. It opened onto a large, half-covered space, astonishing in its proportions and variety. This space was not intended for leisure and relaxation, but was home to Apollo's horses and a platform from which his chariot could soar into the sky; it had the good taste to be built opposite the forum and the monumental entrance to Olympus, far from where Kratos was now. Inwardly, he congratulated himself on never having accepted that his horses should live in the much more exposed celestial stables of Olympus.

A glance at his horses confirmed to Apollo that they were in a condition to pull their owner's chariot. The animals were clearly restless, searching the dead grass of their lawns for the few tufts they could still eat, neighing frequently, their sudden movements betraying their discomfort. They too must have felt fear. Noticing his chariot waiting for him, protected by an awning, Apollo strode towards it, stopping abruptly when he heard someone shouting his name.

“My lord Apollo!”

The God of Arts turned around. Behind him, emerging from the same passageway he himself had entered moments before, stood a young man in his early twenties, breathless and pale with worry. Although he was in a hurry to get away, Apollo was glad to see him. His name was Deleas, a Trojan soldier who had survived the destruction of his city and for whom the god had taken pity. Deleas loved horses passionately and seemed to have a gift for understanding them and making himself understood by them; seeing that he had such a talent for dealing with celestial horses, Apollo had made him the guardian of his own.

“Deleas! You're alive! I'm glad,” Apollo said to his servant, putting his hand on his shoulder - and he felt the young mortal tremble.

“My lord, Olympus is dying. What are we going to do?”

“Leave,” the young god replied without hesitation. “Olympus is in danger of falling. Only Zeus can prevent its destruction. There's nothing left for us to do here. Come with me, let's take my chariot.”

He moved to take the chariot, but Deleas did not follow, seeming to hesitate. Apollo turned to him, impatient.

“My lord, I... Your chariot is unusable, remember. It was damaged on your last outing. I... I haven't finished repairing it.”

Apollo stared madly at the young mortal. His heart had just dropped into his chest. How could he have forgotten? Zeus had asked him to fly over the Isle of Creation to check whether Kratos had really mastered the Steeds of Time. On the way back, immersed in his thoughts, the God of Arts had negotiated his landing badly, slightly injuring one of his horses and damaging the rear wheels of his chariot.

“Aren't you finished yet?”

“I... Well... Times were troubled, I didn't... My lord, the repair shouldn't take long. We can...”

Apollo cut off his sorry stammer by grabbing him by the front of the tunic.

“Let's go. Now. Let's fix that chariot and get out of here.”

Deleas nodded, ashamed and realizing too late that he should have prioritized repairing the chariot over all his other duties. God and mortal, like equals, set to work together, combining their efforts to make the chariot fly again. It took them only a few hours, fear and impatience making them more efficient than they could ever have been without the terrible threat looming over Olympus. After a while, Deleas wiped his brow and said in a tired but happy voice:

"It's all right, my lord. The wheels should hold. We can stop here.”

He stood up, rubbing his dirty hands on his tunic.

“We can now tie up the horses. I'll get the harnesses. Don't move, my lord.”

Apollo nodded, relieved, and dropped to his knees beside the chariot. Now he could run away. He could see the end of the nightmare. He allowed himself to close his eyes and breathe slowly, letting his limbs relax after hours of tension. In a few minutes, he would be far away. He would leave with Deleas, start again somewhere else, far from Olympus. Maybe Zeus would survive; maybe not. That was no longer his problem. He thought of his beloved poetry; no doubt he would find a people to inspire the verses that Greece could no longer write. Yes, he would see the birth of new generations of poets and artists, elsewhere, far from here. With Deleas. Why not? The young man was handsome, kind, gifted. Maybe he could give him a chance and...

But Apollon didn't have time to continue imagining his future with Deleas. He was rudely jolted from his daydreams by an inhuman scream. A cry of terror and pain. The God of Arts stood still, frozen in horror, the infinite screams of Deleas ringing in his ears, his eyes still closed, postponing the moment when he would have to face reality and turn around to see the torn body of the young mortal. Seconds passed, eternal, interminable, and Apollo only wished that Deleas would stop screaming, that death would finally silence him; in vain, he continued to agonize noisily and the sounds of metal torturing his flesh added to the auditory torment of the God of Arts.

And then, Deleas fell silent. He let out a few more moans of terror and the life left his body, his eyes closing never to open again. Apollo didn't turn to see his last look or feel his last breath. He still refused to open his eyes, refused to give life to this too terrifying reality. But his sense of hearing was merciless. He heard the clash of blades. The sound of a body falling to the ground. The sound of the footsteps of Deleas' murderer advancing towards him, his weapons clanking under his body's movements. He felt a powerful hand grasp his toga and brutally force him to stand up and face him. He opened his eyes. And his nightmare took shape.

Kratos, his face hard, splattered with the blood of Deleas, holding him firmly by his garment, stood before him, his gaze both evil and pensive. Apollo thought that this would be his last vision: an angry Spartan, ready to kill as if it were the easiest and most natural thing in the world, and he felt like crying. He closed his eyes again, trembling, unable to bear Kratos' cruel gaze, and waited to be pierced.

But it didn't happen. Instead, the Spartan threw him to the ground. Apollo, startled and frightened, crawled back to face his enemy, questioning him with his eyes; with a shake of his head, Kratos indicated the passageway leading into the palace.

“Move.”

Chilled with terror, the God of Arts obeyed. He rose awkwardly to his feet and began to walk. He headed for the passage. Kratos' presence behind him made him tremble. They crossed the path, then his own room, and Apollo sensed that Kratos wanted them to keep walking. But he didn't know where to go. He turned hesitantly to the Ghost of Sparta, who took him firmly by the shoulder and led him out. Once in the corridor, Apollo summoned up all his courage.

“Kratos, wait. Where are you taking me?”

The Spartan stared at him angrily, as if his question was already too much.

“I need your help,” he finally said. “And you're going to bring it to me, whether you like it or not.”

And before the younger god could reply, he pushed him into the corridor and closed the door behind them. The torches that usually illuminated the palace were no longer lit, the darkness was total and Apollo shivered. The next moment, an unexpected source of light spilled into the corridor, igniting torch after torch, to the relief of the young god, who turned to Kratos. He stopped breathing. The Spartan was holding the decapitated head of Helios, using it as a light. The sight of his severed head lifted Apollo's heart, and he looked at his executioner in horror. Kratos made no comment, merely giving him a warning look. Terrorized and disgusted, Apollo began to walk beside him like an automaton. He knew Helios was dead. But he couldn't imagine the level of cruelty and inhumanity the Ghost of Sparta could display.

“Why do you need me, Kratos?” Apollo asked half-heartedly.

“I need your gifts as a healer.”

“Oh. You don't look sick to me,” the younger god ironized bravely.

Kratos didn't reply. After a moment, Apollo spoke again.

“I suppose when you've got what you want from me, you'll kill me? Like you killed Poseidon, Hades, Helios and Hermes?”

Silence. Apollo tried again.

“Can you at least tell me where we're going?"

“To the Labyrinth."

Apollo was careful not to express his surprise. He knew that Zeus had been obsessed with building this labyrinth lately. What did the edifice have to do with Kratos?

“Why?”

The Spartan didn't answer, and that didn't surprise Apollo.

They walked for a long time, deep into the heart of Olympus, in places where the God of Arts had never set foot. Despite his fear, he couldn't help observing the place with curiosity. On the other hand, this was clearly not the first time Kratos had been here. He guided Apollo with far too much confidence. After a while, they reached an elevator, and Kratos gently pushed the young god onto the platform and lowered him down. The young god shivered, feeling as if he were entering the bowels of the palace. They walked into a cavernous tunnel, its walls oozing with moisture; after a short walk, they finally reached the labyrinth room, and Apollo couldn't help but feel a mixture of fear and awe. The place was gigantic.

Kratos left him no time to enjoy the spectacle. He grabbed the God of Arts by the waist and said brutally: “Hold on to me.”

Apollo threw his arms around his shoulders and the Spartan, spreading his wings, flew towards the heavy cubes that made up the labyrinth. He landed on one of its faces, where an opening had appeared. The two gods rushed inside. Once again, Kratos guided his prisoner with too much ease for it to be his first time in the labyrinth. As they progressed, Apollo wondered more and more anxiously what the Spartan expected of him. Finally, they came to a room where an unexpected sight presented itself. Lying on the floor, amid shards of broken glass, was a fainting teenager. Apollo turned to Kratos in disbelief.

“Wake her up.”

“I... What happened to her?”

“She was half drowned. She's still alive. But I was told she needed your care to regain consciousness.”

“Who told you that?”

“You don't need to know.”

Apollo looked at the unconscious girl. He had expected anything but this. Sensing the dark gaze of the Ghost of Sparta, he approached her fragile form and crouched down, placing a hand on her forehead, which he withdrew as quickly as if he'd burned himself on contact. He looked at Kratos in shock.

“Do it,” the older god growled.

“She... She's not human. It's Pandora, isn't it? Hephaestus' creation. What do you need her for?”

Kratos grabbed one of his Blades and took a step forward, making the God of Arts tremble.

“Just do what I tell you,” he said in a low, infinitely threatening voice.

But Apollo did not move, despite the terror he felt. Zeus had spoken to them at length about Pandora. He had explained the danger the girl posed, not only to Olympus, but to all humanity. So it was for her that the King of the Gods had ordered the construction of the Labyrinth. It was her he had carefully hidden inside.

“I can't.”

Kratos took another step, and stroked the young god's jaw with the edge of his Blade, making him bleed slightly. Apollo closed his eyes.

“Pandora is dangerous,” he continued. “She... I can't. Zeus has forbidden us...”

“And you still obey Zeus? His hours are numbered, Apollo. Surrender. It will make things easier.”

“No.”

He didn't know where his courage came from. But his loyalty to Zeus must still have some strength because he refused to help Pandora come back to life. He refused to be the one to offer Kratos the weapon of destruction the teenager represented.

Kratos lost his patience. He grabbed the young god by the neck, threw him to the ground and pounced on him. Apollo tried to shield his face with his arms but the Spartan forcefully pushed them away and began to beat him violently. Each of his blows tore a cry of pain from the God of Arts, and his tears mingled with his blood, painting his face red. He couldn't resist the brutality of the Ghost of Sparta for long.

“Stop! Please, Kratos, stop! I'll do it! I'll do anything you want!”

Kratos seemed barely to have heard him, or else he just wanted to prolong this torture. The blows fell, again and again, until the young god was nothing but a weeping, pleading mess. Then, at last, the Spartan stopped. Rising to his feet, he grabbed Apollo by his golden hair and hurled him to the ground again, this time in Pandora's direction.

"Do it,” he said. "Or I'll be so hard on you that you'll beg me to kill you.”

Apollo closed his eyes, allowing himself a few seconds to let his tears flow, wishing more than anything to be somewhere else, anywhere, composing poetry with his lyre, accompanying Artemis on a hunting trip, or with Athena in her library. Anywhere away from Kratos and this nightmare.

Feeling the Spartan's burning gaze, he shuffled miserably towards Pandora and again placed his hand on the girl's forehead, this time without withdrawing it. It took only a minute for the healing god to restore her consciousness. Under his touch, Pandora stirred weakly, moaning, and finally opened her eyes, which widened in surprise at the sight of the young man with the bloodied face standing over her. Her worried gaze fell on Kratos, standing behind Apollo, and immediately calmed. The Ghost of Sparta crouched beside her.

“Pandora,” he whispered, and it seemed to Apollo that he'd never heard him speak so softly. “Are you all right?”

“Yes,” the young girl replied. “I'm ready now. Let's go. ”

She struggled to her feet and shook her head to regain her composure. With determination, she headed for the door. Kratos turned to Apollo, still lying half on the ground, and casually seized his Blades to put the Olympian to death. The latter closed his eyes, terrified, though almost welcoming death with relief as it would put an end to pain and fear. But before the Spartan could execute him, Pandora intervened.

“Kratos, no! Leave him alone!”

The Spartan turned to her, his expression annoyed.

“He's beaten, he's no threat. And he helped us. You can't do this!”

Apollon looked up at the strange duo with eyes shining with anguish and waited, his whole body trembling with tension. After a few moments, Kratos put his Blades back on his back and gave the younger god an evil look.

“If I ever see you again, I will kill you. Do you understand?”

And without waiting for an answer, the Ghost of Sparta turned away from him and headed for the exit. Pandora hesitated for a moment, but before following him, she crouched down next to Apollo and whispered, “Thank you for what you did,” before running after Kratos.

Apollo lay back gently and closed his eyes, snuggling down like a sick child. He soothed his wounds himself, slowly, gently, taking the time to feel his healing magic permeate every aching limb, every inch of his bloody face, closing his injuries one by one. But no magic could heal the soul wound that had just been inflicted on him. Crushed by Kratos's violence and cruelty, weakened by the blows and nervous tension, Apollo let his tears flow, and it took him many more minutes to find the strength to obey the survival instinct screaming at him to leave the Labyrinth. But he finally got to his feet, faltering and stumbling, and found the resources to escape. As he made his way to the surface, determined to lock himself in his room and never leave it again until all this madness had ceased, he realized that only one thing mattered to him now.

Zeus might die, Olympus might fall. But he never, ever wanted to see Kratos again.

Chapter Text

“I won't go.”

Athena turned to Apollo and frowned.

“I'm not leaving you much choice, Apollo,” she retorted in an authoritative voice. Then, seeing the young god's expression harden, she added in a slightly softer voice: “Look, I know this isn't easy for you. We all have good reasons for not wanting to see Kratos again. But...”

“It's out of the question, Athena. We've come for Týr, and he's the only God of War I'll agree to meet.”

Athena again dropped her verbal precautions.

“You'll come because I'm asking you to.”

"And who gives you the authority, please, Athena? I know you love to pretend otherwise, but you're not our leader. You're no more legitimate than any of us to give orders.”

He took a step forward, pointing an accusing finger at her.

“And I remind you that Kratos tortured me because of you. It was you who asked him to come and get me to help Pandora in the Labyrinth. It's because of you that he beat me and nearly killed me after using my gifts to save her.”

Athena stared at him hard. She was getting more than tired of being attacked from all sides. Kratos was accusing her of ruining his life and his companions of ruining Olympus. She hadn't always made the right choices, but she felt she had paid enough for her mistakes. Just like everyone else.

“Enough! The past is the past. We all agreed to stop blaming each other and work together to rebuild Greece.”

“That suits you just fine,” Apollo spat. “And when it comes to implicating Kratos, as far as I'm concerned, it just doesn't stand up anymore.”

Athena opened her mouth to reply, but was cut off by the arrival of Aphrodite holding Helios in her arms. Seeing them both enter her room, Apollo crossed his arms in a defensive posture. Aphrodite smiled at him, a gentle, compassionate smile that slightly soothed the heart of the God of Arts.

“Apollo, come with us,” she said simply.

Apollo didn't reply. He just stared at his companions, stubborn and determined not to give in.

“Ignoring Kratos won't change anything. He knows we're here. Athena made sure of that,” Aphrodite added, glancing at the Goddess of War and Wisdom - who rolled her eyes. “Now we have two options: he can try to help us, or he can try to kill us. In either case, we have to be ready. There's no point in hiding.”

“Kratos won't attack us. He'll help us, I know it.”

“You're very sure of yourself, Athena,” Apollo whispered angrily.

His eyes fell on Helios, who had not yet opened his mouth, and he questioned him with his gaze. The God of Sun was undoubtedly the one who had suffered most from the brutality of the Ghost of Sparta, and Apollo wondered why the prospect of making an alliance with him didn't make him want to scream.

“I agree,” Helios said simply. “Kratos doesn't deserve to be left alone and we just tiptoed away as if we hadn't seen or heard anything. Let's confront this damned Spartan. Worst case scenario, a bloodbath, but nothing we haven't already experienced, right? And at best, I'll watch with delicious satisfaction as he swallows his hatred and pride and puts himself at our service.”

Apollo sighed. He uncrossed his arms and turned towards the window, staring unseeing at Midgard's snowy landscape behind the dirty glass. Ever since Athena and Aphrodite had returned from their little expedition to Vanaheim, and the Goddess of War and Wisdom had announced that they would meet Kratos the following morning in the temple of Týr to convince him to return to Greece with them, Jorunn's little house had been transformed into a battlefield. Athena, as cold and resolute as a general, had defended her position with all her eloquence, disguising the emotions that guided her as rational arguments. It was always difficult to argue with her, so intelligent did her words seem, but now she'd found someone to talk to. Demeter had burst into flames, seething with rage at the idea of anyone thinking of making anything more of Kratos than a corpse, and stormed out of the house, screaming that they would all pay dearly for this madness. She hasn't been back since. Aphrodite, more hesitant, ended up siding with Athena. Helios, strangely enough, was jubilant at the idea of seeing Kratos again. And Apollo, overcome by traumatic memories, had been true to the principle he had set himself in Greece decades ago, after being tortured by the Spartan: he refused to stand in the same room with him. Quite simply.

He felt Athena's hand on his shoulder and turned to her, helpless.

“Apollo, listen... I'll protect you. I don't believe for a second that he'll try anything against us, but if he attacks, I'll fight back. I won't let him hurt any of us.”

“You're not strong enough against him.”

“Don't be so sure,” Athena replied with a smile.

She'd never faced Kratos, at least not physically, and she didn't need to be reminded of what he was capable of. But she was confident in her own abilities as a warrior, and she knew that Kratos would be unable to use his greatest weapon against her: his rage.

Apollon gently disengaged himself from Athena's touch, and went to sit on his bed, taking his head in his hands, all his body language expressing great despondency. He didn't want to see Kratos again. But he couldn't oppose Athena, he couldn't disassociate himself from her, for the goddess's presence by his side was one of the few things that kept him sane. Her aura of wisdom, her penetrating, gentle gaze and her intelligence soothed the young god and kept him grounded. He needed her, her reassuring presence. And he suddenly realized that he would follow her, even if the path she took was the same as the one of his worst nightmare.

Apollo raised his head, defeated.

“Very well,” he murmured. “I'll go with you. But I don't want to... I can't...”

He fell silent, unable to express the unspeakable fears that agitated him.

“You'll have nothing to fear. I promise.”

Apollo didn't reply. The prospect of tomorrow seemed to have dropped like a black, icy veil over the world.

                  **********************************************************************************************************

The temple of Týr came into view. Kratos, accompanied by Freya, Atreus and Mimir, who was hanging from his belt as usual, paused for a moment to contemplate the edifice that stood before them. This place was special to the little group, in many ways. It was from here that they had unleashed their attack on Asgard, Ragnarök, from here that they had changed the fate of the Nine Realms by bringing about the end of Odin's despotic reign. Kratos turned to his companions, and Atreus and Freya looked on in silence. The God of War had not been pleased to learn that his companion, son and best friend had met his former enemies without telling him. His displeasure had turned to anger when Atreus had been forced to tell him that he had spent time alone with one of them. He had lectured his son at length, reproaching him for his imprudence, and only Freya's intervention had succeeded in calming him down. The Vanir goddess had explained to him that they had thought they could send these unwelcome gods away without telling him, so as not to disturb the still precarious peace they had managed to establish. Kratos hated being kept in the dark. But he chose not to resent his family's desire to keep the secret, because he understood that it was out of a desire to preserve his inner balance that they had acted in this way. And their approach was not without foundation: the presence of the Olympians so close to him brought back old, dark instincts in Kratos that he had thought buried and gagged. Even if he would never have admitted it out loud, part of him would have preferred them to have succeeded in completely hiding the reappearance of these ghosts from his past.

But Athena, of course, had not allowed him to be left in blissful ignorance. Damn her.

Kratos felt Freya's hand on his bicep. He turned to her.

“Are you sure this is what you want? You don't have to go. You don't have to do anything. I can go alone, meet these gods and tell them to leave right now. You owe them nothing, Kratos.”

The Spartan wasn't so sure about that. He grunted.

“It is not up to you to solve this problem. They are here because of me, it is my responsibility to make them go away."

Freya nodded, concern clearly visible in her warm brown eyes. Atreus also looked at his father with a trusting yet worried gaze. Sensing his family's preoccupation, Kratos decided not to waste any time.

“Let us go.”

They headed for the temple.

Once in front of the heavy wooden doors, the God of War pushed them open with a powerful movement, and the four of them stepped inside.

In front of them stood the Olympian gods.

Kratos couldn't remember ever having felt such tension in his life.

Or maybe once. He was fourteen and had been caught stealing food from the training camp kitchens. This food wasn't even for him. All the boys in his camp were regularly subjected to food deprivation for days, even weeks at a time; they were then required to fend for themselves for food, or die. Kratos was resilient and resourceful, but his younger brother Deimos, with a more fragile constitution and much less suited to the merciless training to which they were subjected, was wasting away. Breaking the rules to help Deimos had been the most natural thing in the world for Kratos, but facing the consequences of this grave infraction had been far more difficult. The Spartan remembered being brought before the instructors of his legion; he remembered their stern looks, some expressing disappointment, others sadistic satisfaction at the idea of the punishment to come, and he could feel as if it were yesterday the anger, the hatred, all the pure rage that had agitated him at the sight of these cruel beings who were preventing him from taking care of his little brother - and who were even going to punish him for having tried. But he also remembered the shame and the guilt. He remembered the fear. Then the pain, as they beat him almost to death. It was perhaps the last time he would feel all these emotions at once. Shortly afterwards, Deimos was taken from him, and his world was brutally simplified.

He would be on the side of rage and violence. Fear and pain would be for his enemies.

The gods of Olympus knew all about it.

But today, Kratos felt threatened once again by all these contradictory emotions. Hatred. Shame. Anger. Guilt. It was as if he were fourteen again, with the certainty of having chosen the only possible path and the paradoxical regret of having followed it. He pushed aside all these unwelcome emotions, refusing to let them get the better of him.

He looked at Athena first, of course. Her azure gaze, calm and determined, attracted him like a flame. To his right stood Apollo. The God of Arts was pale and Kratos felt a dark, involuntary satisfaction as he detected in his eyes the same fear he had read there decades before, when he had forced the young Olympian to revive Pandora. Apollo's life had been saved only by the young girl's intervention, and the Spartan felt the Blades on his back and the chains around his arms warm imperceptibly, as if his weapons were showing their impatience to finish what they had been unable to complete so many years before. Kratos made an effort to calm himself and concentrate on the soothing presence of his family. To Athena's left, his gaze fell on Aphrodite, who was watching him with an expression difficult to decipher, like a mixture of hostility and curiosity. He looked away. It was hard to look at her without thinking of their last, more than cordial, encounter, and he didn't want to let himself think such thoughts. Especially since in the arms of the Goddess of Love was the most surprising and unexpected thing he could have imagined: the head of Helios back to life. Seeing one of his victims here, alive, in Midgard, Kratos could not maintain his frozen expression and his features expressed contained surprise. Satisfied with his effect, Helios gave him a joyless smile.

“Hello, asshole.”

Kratos didn't reply. He risked a glance at Atreus, who seemed no more surprised than that by the presence of a second living decapitated head. The Spartan concluded that he had already met Helios and pushed aside the feeling of trepidation that threatened to overwhelm him at the thought of what the Sun God might have said to his son. Given the choice, he would have preferred to tell him the story himself. But he would worry later about the damage to his image with his family.

“Where is Demeter? You said she was with you in Midgard,” he said, addressing Athena.

“Demeter did not wish to attend this meeting,” Athena replied in a calm voice.

“A roundabout way of saying that she hasn't forgiven you for the death of her daughter,” Helios added acidly. “Fortunately, we're more magnanimous. So, Kratos, ready to become our God of War again? I must say I'm delighted at the idea. It went so well last time. We'd be foolish not to try it again.”

Freya took a step forward.

“There's no way,” she said in a voice that betrayed her anger. “Kratos isn't going anywhere with you."

“With all due respect, Majesty, that's not your decision to make,” Athena said.

The two goddesses glared at each other. Athena didn't seem particularly fazed by the aura of power emanating from Freya. She felt no fear whatsoever.

“As I've said over and over again, we need a God of War to help us rebuild Greece. Týr was our best option until we learned that our former God of War was alive and well and able to resume his duties. This is therefore what I... We are asking him to do.”

There was silence. Kratos looked at Athena, his eyes full of those flames that burn away tears.

Mimir's voice came from behind Kratos. The Spartan grabbed his friend by the rope around his skull, allowing him to see and be seen.

“Ahem... If I may... I don't know what your motives are for wanting to make Kratos your God of War... But let's rely on experience. There's been a lot of bad blood between him and Olympus and...”

“There's been a lot of blood at all,” Helios interrupted. “But here's a perfect opportunity for our Spartan to redeem himself. Let him give us a hand in rebuilding what he himself destroyed. Sounds fair, doesn't it?”

Kratos fixed him with a murderous stare that didn't intimidate Helios. The sun god gave him another aggressive smile.

“Oh, don't look at me as if you could kill me a second time, Kratos.”

“Helios is right,” Athena intervened. “It's your responsibility, Kratos. I already told you that at Vanaheim, and I'll tell you again as many times as necessary.”

“Perhaps,” Aphrodite added, eager to soften the blow, “we could find a compromise. Kratos can come and help us while we find a successor. His departure for Greece doesn't have to be final.”

“If you think I'm going to let Kratos go with you, you're sadly mistaken,” Freya retorted icily.

“And if you think I'm going to let him stay and play father and husband in the North while his native land continues to suffer, you're sadly mistaken too,” Athena added in the same tone.

Freya drew her sword. Athena did the same. Apollo stepped back, paler than ever. Helios gave a satisfied exclamation.

“Blood! Why not, after all? It's our second option, if you refuse to obey.”

Seeing Athena and Freya draw their weapons, Kratos immediately reached for his Blades - his first instinct had been to grab his axe, but he decided on his Greek weapons. He pointed one of them at the Goddess of War and Wisdom, coming between her and the Vanir queen.

"Come any closer to her, Athena, and I swear I will kill you. And this time, my blade will indeed be for you.”

“Father, no!”

Kratos gestured at Atreus, who was trying to get in front of him. Athena smiled at him, not in the least intimidated.

“You always choose violence, don't you, Kratos? Very well, then. So will I."

She seized her second sword and added: “Once defeated, I hope you'll listen to reason and submit.”

Athena raised her blades, ready to engage, and Kratos did the same. Just as they were about to rush at each other, a voice was heard. A powerful, authoritative voice, a familiar voice that stopped the two Gods of War dead in their tracks.

“Stop!”

The eight gods in the temple froze and turned to face the newcomer. His tall figure, much taller than theirs, stood out in the doorway. The brightness of the snow behind him darkened him by contrast, making it impossible for the others to make out his exact features and clothes, but there was no doubt about it: before them, his stature commanding respect and his Bifröst eyes sparkling in the shadows of his face, stood Týr, the Norse God of War.

“Lord Týr!” Mimir exclaimed, relief clearly perceptible in his voice. “What a sense of timing. You've come at just the right time to avert disaster.”

Týr stepped forward, emerging from the shadows, and closed the doors of his temple behind him. He took a moment to contemplate the scene before him: Kratos and Athena, all weapons drawn and ready to strike each other, were surrounded by Freya, who had also drawn her sword and was holding back by the waist an Atreus ready to come between her father and the Greek goddess; on the other side, Aphrodite held the delighted head of Helios and stared incredulously at the two fighters, while Apollo had moved as far away from them as possible, an expression of anguish on his face.

Týr sighed.

“Obviously, Mimir,” he said simply.

He approached.

“You can all put away your weapons,” he said calmly. "This is no time for confrontation. Athena, I have heard your prayers. I've come to give you the help you've asked for - and, to tell the truth, a little more than that.”

Athena lowered her weapons and bowed slightly.

“Týr, it's an honor to see you again."

“Likewise, goddess.”

The God of War's gaze of light swept the room. He stopped on Kratos, Freya, Mimir and Atreus.

“My friends, I'm glad to see you all together. What I have to say concerns each and every one of you.”

“It's good to know you're back, Týr,” Freya murmured.

“And it's good to be home. Listen to me. I know what the Olympians want from me. But I can't play that role.”

“ Well,” Aphrodite said, “we're out of luck. Three gods of war in this room, and none of them willing or able to help us!”

Týr turned to her and she held his gaze in an almost challenging attitude.

“Aphrodite,” Týr said. “I hadn't had the honor of meeting you on my previous trips to Greece. I'm delighted to make your acquaintance.”

“The pleasure is shared,” the Goddess of Love replied, her voice strangely lascivious given the circumstances.

They exchanged a smile.

“Týr,” Athena resumed, feeling the need to tear them away from each other's contemplation - this was no time for Aphrodite to conquer another God of War. “You said you had news for us. You said... you said you couldn't help us.”

“Indeed,” the god replied. “I can't help you rebuild the Greek Pantheon, for the simple reason that it's going to disappear.”

A look of shock crossed the faces of the four Olympians.

“Disappear! What do you mean, disappear? What's all this about?” Helios stormed.

“What do you mean, Týr?” Athena asked in a white voice.

Kratos could feel the fear emanating from the goddess. An emotion he had rarely seen her express. Little did the Spartan know that Týr had just brought the painful thickness of reality to an indefinable feeling that had been vexing Athena for some time, and about which she had confided in no one. An uncomfortable feeling of being torn apart had been hanging over her for some weeks; as if her divinity was under an unspeakable strain. On hearing Týr's words, she had immediately made the connection between the terrible news he was bringing them and this feeling of rupture, of division that refused to leave her alone.

Týr raised both hands as a sign of appeasement.

“Don't worry, your lives are not in danger. It's not death that awaits you, but rebirth.”

He paused and continued: “I've just returned from the South. Greece no longer dominates the Mediterranean world with its influence, culture and power. The terrible events that struck Olympus years ago have put an end to its rule, and your efforts will do nothing. Not that they were in vain, of course: the reconstruction you have undertaken has been successful, and the Greeks can once again populate their land. But Olympus as you knew it will no longer reign. It is finished. However, your Pantheon is not destined to die forever. Since you left for the North to find me, a culture has decided to adopt it and make you its new gods. A culture, which comes from a city in Italy, whose unrivalled power is no longer in doubt.”

“Which city?"

“Rome.”

There was silence. Athena, paler than ever, stared intensely at Týr. Atreus had moved closer to his father and Kratos, without even realizing it, had put an arm around his son's shoulders. The Spartan waited for Týr to resume his explanations and confirm the terrible doubt that was beginning to creep up on him.

“Rome will dominate the Mediterranean world culturally and militarily for centuries to come. The Romans will define themselves as a very pious people and will venerate your Pantheon in its new form.”

“In its new form?

“Rest assured, the change will be derisory. If I have understood correctly, you will be given new names.”

The Olympians looked at each other, trying to digest the news.

“But... Our Pantheon is still incomplete. How can we preside over the destiny of a people when we no longer have a king, and still no God of War?”

It was Apollo who had spoken thus, speaking for the first time since the beginning. Týr turned to him.

“Zeus, Ares and all the gods who died in the conflict with Kratos are going to be reincarnated. Actually, it's done. They had already come to life under their new identities when I left Rome.”

Kratos allowed himself to close his eyes and hug Atreus tighter to him for a second to help himself control the flood of emotions that threatened to overwhelm him again.

“How do you know?” he asked gruffly.

Týr sighed.

“I'm sorry, Kratos. But it was the Sisters of Fate who told me. I went to Rome out of curiosity, eager to see this city whose reputation is beginning to spread beyond the borders of Italy. I was surprised to find that Rome had taken on Greek deities, and that the strength of its belief was great enough to bring them back to life. I wanted to know more, so I set out to make contact with the master deities of destiny - the Sisters of Fate, or should I say... the Parques. That's what the Romans called them, and that's how they define themselves today. They've explained everything I've just told you. That and something else.”

He paused again. The tension in the room was palpable.

"The Parques have charged me with bringing you all back to Rome. The balance of this new Pantheon is precarious, and without the reunion of all its members, it may die before it has a chance to really exist.”

“Very well!” Kratos said. “Let it die.”

“Do you really want to be responsible for the destruction of a new land, Kratos? The Romans ignore the difficulties their gods face in their very identity. Let their Pantheon collapse, and they will meet the same fate as the Greeks lifetimes before them. No, that's not an option. You must all go to Rome. Yes, even you, Kratos. Ares will take his place again, but as the most recent God of War in the latest version of Olympus, your presence is required."

Kratos frowned, but Athena gave him a warning look before he could reply.

“You must all,” Týr resumed, “and I mean all, consecrate an object that represents your power to the land of Rome. It is only on this condition that the Pantheon will be able to maintain itself and Rome become what it was destined to be.”

He looked at them all in turn and concluded: “That's all. I've passed on the message of the Parques. You now know as much as I do.”

Athena took a step towards him.

“We'll leave as soon as possible. All together.”

“No,” Kratos growled. "I am not going anywhere. I do not care whether this Roman Pantheon lives or dies, it does not concern me."

“Here we go again!” Helios ironized.

Atreus disengaged himself from his father's embrace to face him and plant his gaze in his own.

"Dad! You have to do it! You have to go to Rome! And I'll come with you! I'll...”

“Atreus, that's enough.”

“It's too dangerous, Atreus,” Freya said, her voice laden with concern. She turned to Týr and asked: “Do the Roman gods remember their past in Greece? Do they remember Kratos?”

Týr nodded, confirming their fears.

“Their memories are intact.”

“Then it's out of the question for Kratos to go. Let alone you, Atreus.”

Freya's tone was firm and definitive, but it didn't deter Athena. She opened her mouth, intent on her usual refrain about Kratos's responsibility to right his wrongs, but it was Apollo who spoke first.

“If Zeus is alive, and remembers everything, then he has no interest in knowing where Kratos is, does he?”

The Spartan glared at him, but Apollo didn't look away.

“If you go to Rome with us, Kratos, we'll support the official version of your story. We'll tell Zeus that you died with him at the summit of Olympus and were never reincarnated. But if you refuse... Then he'll know where you live. Where your family lives. Where your friends live.”

He took a step forward, carried by an unusual courage.

“Athena is right. You won't get away with it. I refuse to disappear because of you. You'll help us save ourselves, Kratos, just as you forced me to help you save Pandora.”

The Blades on Kratos' back burst into flames and Apollo couldn't hold back a shudder.

“I should have killed you that day,” the Spartan whispered. “Threaten my family and friends all you like, Apollo. It will change nothing. I am not going to come. And if Zeus decides to come after me, I will kill him a second time, and you along with him."

“Father!”

Atreus' voice was full of reproach, and Kratos felt embarrassed at having expressed a desire for violence so cruelly in front of his son. He realized with horror that Atreus didn't know who Zeus was, that he had no idea that the King of the Gods was none other than his grandfather. There was so much he hadn't told his child. For a moment, he imagined sailing south with him. He imagined going to Rome, then Greece, showing Atreus the places where he had lived, telling him, perhaps, about Lysandra and Calliope. Seeing his native land again, breathing its hot, dry air, eating its colorful food, bathing in the warm, salty waters of its seas. To look into the eyes of the past, without fear or hatred, to face the memory of Olympus, never to return. To give back to Zeus what had been taken from him, and get rid of his ghost once and for all.

Watching father and son stare at each other, Athena, standing next to Apollo, couldn't help but smile. Apollo's threats might be ineffective, but not Atreus'. She knew, in the back of her mind, that they would win.

Kratos would come to Rome.

Chapter Text

Kratos and Freya walked together, side by side, along the snowy path through the Wild Woods of Midgard that led to the home of the Greek god. Kratos was always happy to return to Midgard, but he had to admit that he no longer felt the need to live in the cabin that had been his whole world for years. He had built it with Faye, his lost love, and had seen their child born and raised there. The wooden building was the symbol of what he'd managed to do when he'd thought it impossible: lead a simple, peaceful life with his wife and son, spending his energy hunting, fishing, tending their vegetable garden, maintaining their house, chopping the wood he sold at markets in the surrounding villages. A life no longer punctuated by incessant battles, violence and countless deaths. His former self, the young Spartan captain and the god-killer at war with Olympus, would never have believed such a tale. But Faye had succeeded in making him perform this miracle.

And Atreus had shown him he could fight again. But for the good this time. His child had put his weapons back in his hands and forced him to use them to build a better world. And his father couldn't have been prouder of him.

His universe had expanded since then. He had opened his heart to the world around him: he had friends, allies, and he had even allowed himself to love again. He had allowed himself to call other places “home”, and no longer needed the steadying environment of his Midgardian cabin so much. He trusted in his inner strength, trusted that he wasn't in danger of becoming the Ghost of Sparta again simply because Faye was gone and he no longer lived in that sanctuary of peace and protection he'd built with her.

And if he had to be completely honest with himself, Kratos had to admit that he was finding it increasingly difficult to live away from Freya. There was nothing simple about their relationship, but he couldn't see what misplaced scruples should have prevented them from spending as much time together as possible. Everything was softer and more beautiful when she was by his side.

Not to mention the climate. If the God of War had had a hard time adapting to the heat of Vanaheim after so many years in the crisp, cold air of the Mortal Realm, his Mediterranean nature had quickly become accustomed to living in a warm climate, and he had happily gone back to living shirtless most of the time, as he did in Greece. Now it was when he came to Midgard that the temperatures bothered him.

Kratos felt Freya take his hand. She hadn't spoken a word since they left Vanaheim together, and this suddenly seemed strange to the Spartan. He knew Freya was angry, but she wasn't the type to refuse to express even the most negative emotions - quite the opposite. Shutting himself away in silence after an upset was more his kind of thing.

“You are quiet.”

“I'm still trying to figure out where to start expressing how much I disapprove of your decision.”

“Freya...”

“No, Kratos. I know nothing I can say will change your mind, you've made that clear enough. But don't expect me to show any enthusiasm either.”

She refused to look at him, but she hadn't let go of his hand. He knew it was worry that was driving her anger, and he paused, putting an arm around her waist, gently forcing her to turn toward him.

“Your reasons for being worried and angry are legitimate, Freya. But fear not. Athena has assured me that the other Olympians will remain in total ignorance of my coming. It will only be a round trip, the time for me to dedicate this object to the land of Rome. Neither Zeus, nor Ares, nor any other god of the Greek Pantheon will be aware of my presence and of Atreus', and my death will be confirmed to them."

“And you trust Athena?”

“I... I do.”

Freya gave him a piercing look. She gently disengaged herself from his embrace, and resumed her walk towards the cabin, the snow crunching beneath her footsteps.

“You're submitting to Apollo's blackmail, Kratos, that's what you're doing.”

“No. I do not fear Zeus, or any other god. I meant what I said: if they come after me, or my son, I will kill them a second time."

“The best way they won't seek revenge on you is to let them die by refusing to go to Rome!”

“I will not let another land be destroyed because of me, Freya.”

The goddess Vanir lowered her eyes. All in her fear of seeing Kratos get closer to the gods he had once faced, she had somewhat forgotten that the survival of an entire population was at stake. They walked on for a few minutes in stony silence.

“Your reasons for going there are many and complex, and I'm not sure I understand them all,” the goddess continued.

Kratos felt like replying that he wasn't quite sure he understood them himself, but contented himself with saying: “They are, indeed. I will go to Rome. I will ensure the survival of the Romans and their Pantheon. They will live, and I do not particularly like that thought, but they will never know that I live too. That is all that matters to me."

“In that case, why agree to Atreus coming with you? And why does he want to come, to begin with?”

Kratos' cabin was in sight. He watched for a moment as the silhouette of the house stood out against the Midgard twilight before answering.

“Atreus has a deeply empathetic soul. He would never forgive me for letting a people die if I had the chance to prevent their destruction."

“So be it. But it's your presence that's required, not his.”

Kratos sighed.

“My son cannot stand still and wishes to see the world,” he said. “He has already spoken to me several times about going south, as much because of his desire to visit my homeland as in his quest for the lost Giants. I will not keep him within the confines of Yggdrasil for long."

“And you agree with that? You're okay with your son taking a leisurely stroll through Rome and Sparta?”

“Of course not. I have many enemies there.”

“Then I don't understand.”

“I would rather be with him when he gets there,” Kratos replied simply.

Freya nodded. Perhaps Kratos was right. If Atreus was to go to Greece one day, or to Rome, he might as well have his father by his side to protect and guide him.

“I still disapprove,” the Vanir Queen said.

“I know.”

They had arrived in front of the cabin. Without another word, Kratos let go of Freya's hand, pushed open the door and stepped inside. He hadn't been in for some time, and there wasn't a candle left burning; the cabin was plunged into darkness, a ray of twilight filtering through the closed shutters being the only source of illumination. The God of War seized one of his Blades, approached the hearth and, igniting the weapon by sheer force of will, set fire to the half-burnt logs lying there. Immediately, the room was bathed in a kind of unreal light, the flames of primordial fire dancing in the hearth.

Kratos turned to Freya. She gave him a slightly tense half-smile.

“So,” she said. “What have we come for?

“An object from my past. The one I am going to dedicate to the land of Rome."

“Oh,” Freya replied, surprised. “I thought you'd choose your Blades.”

"I cannot. They are bound to me by an oath, it would not work."

The goddess Vanir watched him kneel before a trapdoor in the middle of the cabin.

“Would you, if you could?”

“I do not know. They are... Useful.”

Freya suppressed a smile, sincere this time, all too lucid about her companion's complex feelings towards his legendary weapons. As much as Kratos hated these Blades, symbols of a violent and shameful past that he had definitively rejected, she knew he would have found it hard to do without them. She knew that part of him felt as much disgust as relief when he wrapped their chains around his forearms. She knew how much freer and more serene he felt when he wasn't wearing them, but also how the the weight of the Blades on his back made him feel whole. Freya didn't care: she had fully accepted her lover's ambiguous nature, that of a god whose power was expressed in violence, capable of both the worst and the best. She said nothing more and watched as the Greek god opened the trapdoor and dropped inside. Freya did the same.

“I thought you'd brought nothing back from Greece, except the Blades.”

“I brought what gave me strength,” Kratos replied.

He opened a small chest and the two gods bent down to look at its contents. Inside were three pieces of golden armor of different sizes. Kratos grabbed the largest piece, adorned with forged ram's horns, and looked at Freya, who questioned him with her eyes.

“This is the Golden Fleece. This is an armlet I wore during my war against Olympus. It has the power to counter attacks.”

“And you brought it here?”

“Yes. When I tried to get rid of my Blades, on my journey to Midgard, I sought to remove the Golden Fleece as well. But I could not bring myself to do it. I was afraid... afraid of having to fight without it."

“And did you have to?”

“I never used it again after fighting Zeus.”

Kratos stowed the piece of armor in the bag he wore around his waist, looking away from the object as if he couldn't look at it for another second.

“Will this be enough to represent your power?” Freya asked, placing a soothing hand on the Spartan's arm.

“I think so.”

They climbed back up from the trapdoor, and Kratos closed it again, thinking that this time it held no more relics of his past. He headed for the door, eager to get back to Vanaheim and Atreus.

“We should go back.”

The goddess hesitated.

“Kratos... There's still something I'd like to ask you.”

The Spartan turned to her. Freya seemed to think for a few moments about the best way to ask her question, then decided on raw frankness.

“What was the nature of your relationship with Athena?”

It was Kratos's turn to hesitate.

“We were close,” he finally said reluctantly. “After she made me the Olympian God of War, we became equals. She was one of the only Olympians I felt I could trust. One of the only ones I could be myself with. Until things changed.”

“And here I thought Athena was a virgin goddess,” Freya couldn't help but retort.

“She is. She never wanted to take that step with me.”

“Oh. Well, unlike Aphrodite.”

Kratos stared at her for a few seconds.

“She couldn't help letting me know she'd slept with you when she first met me,” the Vanir goddess clarified with a dismissive tone.

“We slept together, but I never had the slightest feeling for her, nor she for me.”

Kratos approached her, threw his arms around her waist and planted his amber gaze in hers.

“You are the only one who matters,” he murmured, and his low, sincere voice made her shiver.

“I know,” she replied proudly, smiling.

“No other questions you wish to ask me?” he said, kissing her forehead.

“Just one. That you trust Athena, that's one thing. But how can you be sure the others won't set a trap? Apollo, for example. He didn't hesitate to threaten you and Atreus. Do you really think he won't try to hurt you when he's surrounded by his own kind in Rome? Do you really think he'll let you off that easy?”

Kratos's flame-bathed face hardened at these words.

"Apollo will not try anything against me, because he will not want to face my wrath. Believe me, I have left him with a painful enough memory that he will not want to risk going through that again."

“Mmmh. You went really hard on those Greek gods, didn't you?"

“I did.”

And without giving her a chance to add anything, Kratos drew Freya against him and kissed her passionately.

                           **********************************************

Atreus ran towards the sea, as excited as the day he had started this incredible journey with his father at the age of eleven. It was the first time he'd ventured outside the Wild Woods where he'd been born and raised; since then, the young boy had had the opportunity to travel to every one of the Nine Realms, and that was still not enough. Today, he was leaving Yggdrasil. He was embarking on the high seas with his father to reach the southern continents.

“Atreus, wait."

The teenager obeyed. They were all gathered in the central square of the coastal village of Ásfriðr. If the village was modest in size, the same could not be said of its harbor, from which countless ships set sail for other parts of the world. The ship that was to take them to Rome had been chartered by the Vanirs and was waiting for them, its imposing silhouette silhouetted against the low Midgard sky. As the ship's masts came into view, Kratos felt a slight twinge of sadness. He had arrived in this very port years ago, leaving behind a past tinged with blood and rage; now, he was about to embark once again to plunge back into what had once been. Maybe Freya was right, maybe he should have refused to return to the South, and left the Romans, gods and mortals, to their fate. Perhaps he should have. But there was no time to back down. Near the boat, he recognized Athena, Apollo, Aphrodite and Helios and approached them.

“Where is Demeter?” he asked rudely as a greeting.

“She does not wish to join us,” Athena replied. "We explained to her that her presence was necessary in Rome to act out the rebirth of the Greek Pantheon into a Roman one. She simply told us that she would go to Rome on her own.”

“She doesn't wish to see you, Kratos,” Helios added. “We can't blame her.”

The God of War said nothing. He'd never faced Demeter, but if she tried anything against him, he'd be merciless.

“Thank you, Kratos,” Athena said after a few moments' silence. “For coming with us. We promise you once again that you and Atreus are in no danger. We'll vouch for that.”

“This is a temporary alliance” Kratos growled. "I will leave Rome as soon as I have accomplished what I have to accomplish. After that, I will never see you again."

“That suits us perfectly.”

“And,” the Spartan added, “I forbid you to go near Atreus for the duration of this journey.”

Athena nodded. No one added anything. Kratos gave each of them a brief warning glance, and turned away to join his family; Freya was hugging Atreus good-bye.

“Be careful, Atreus,” she whispered. “Obey your father and don't take any unnecessary risks. Mimir, I'm counting on you to look after them.”

“I promise.”

“Aye, I'll keep an eye on them, Majesty.”

The Jotnar hugged her back, then turned to his father.

“Did you say goodbye to Angrboda?” he asked.

Atreus nodded.

“Yes, this morning.”

“Kratos!”

The small group turned with one motion to Lunda, who was coming towards them, arms loaded with the Blades of Chaos.

“And that's it! I've made the changes you asked for. That should do it!”

Kratos nodded. He grabbed the Blades and put them on his back. Then he took the chains handed to him by Lunda, and wrapped them around his forearms with almost menacing slowness, conscious of the Olympians' gaze upon him. Once fully armed, he addressed the blacksmith:

“Thank you, Lunda.”

“You're welcome. Have a good trip, all three of you. Get back in one piece and don't hang around too long, we need you here!”

“We promise, Lunda!” Atreus answered cheerfully.

A man was walking towards them. He had the tanned face of sailors who've spent their lives on the water, skin hardened by the sun and salt-laden air.

“Hello everyone,” he said, stopping in front of the small group. “I'm Haeringr, captain of the Vitgautr, the ship you see just behind. You're with us, I believe? You are on your way to Italy, aren't you?”

“Yes, to Rome.”

“Then you'd better get aboard, we're about to leave.”

Atreus followed suit, and Kratos turned to Freya. The Vanir goddess threw her arms around his neck and hugged him, showing a rare sign of vulnerability.

“Please, stay safe.”

“I will. I promise.”

He kissed her one last time, doing his best to tell her with his body everything he felt unable to articulate at this moment, how much he needed her and would do everything in his power to get back to his queen. Freya kissed him back just as intensely. They finally parted, breathless.

“I must go,” Kratos murmured.

“Yes, you must.”

The God of War gave her one last look before turning away from her for good, following his son and the captain. He climbed the gangway and stepped onto the deck of the ship, inhaling deeply of the sea air, letting the charged oxygen slowly flow into his lungs and into his bloodstream. Kratos had always loved sailing. In the darkest hours of his life, the sea had even been his refuge.

The sailors began to undo the heavy ropes holding the boat moored, and it began to rock gently away from the quay. Kratos rested his hands on the railing, his gaze riveted on the land and on Freya, but always aware of Atreus' presence, who pestered the captain with questions. With a patience that amused the Greek god, Haeringr did his best to explain to the teenager how the device worked, while giving orders to his crew.

The ship fully unfurled its sails, began to turn, banking slightly to take on the direction of the ocean, and, having turned towards the desired course, picked up speed. Kratos watched the silhouette of the Vanir goddess shrink until she was no longer visible. He watched the shores of Midgard grow further and further away, the land that had welcomed him, given him another chance, another love, a son he didn't deserve, a future made of something other than violence. His throat tightened and he abruptly averted his eyes... To meet Athena's who was watching him from the other side of the deck. But the goddess did not hold his gaze.

Kratos sighed imperceptibly and set off in search of his son, who had undoubtedly left to explore the ship. Atreus' curiosity knew no bounds. The Spartan would set them for him, however, when they got to Rome. He would open the door to his past while keeping his child away from certain truths that were too brutal.

At least, that's what he hoped.

Chapter Text

Olympus was abuzz with joy - a frenetic, universal, profound joy. This happiness was everywhere, in every corridor and corner of the palace, and even in the mortal world, on the terraces where the crowds gathered to celebrate this day of festivities, their colorful garments like clusters of multicolored flowers blooming in the air. The gardens of Olympus had rarely been so beautiful. Boughs of myrtle and laurel dotted the paths, and wisps of incense with warm, honeyed fragrances rose at regular intervals. Lines of white flowers described long parabolas as sparkling as stars. In the central square, a long table had been set up in the shade of the fig trees that had been placed there in numbers, their long, graceful branches loosening lazily under the Greek sun. The gods had gathered around this richly laid table, covered with the rarest and most luxurious silverware and the finest dishes, to celebrate the wedding of one of them.

It was the wedding of Dionysus and Ariadne.

For the occasion, eager to honor the nature of his beloved son, Zeus had ordered three days of festivities for mortals, during which numerous theatrical performances would be held and plenty of wine consumed, and had a sumptuous banquet prepared in the gardens of Olympus for the gods to celebrate the newlyweds. Dionysus was radiant, barely taking his eyes off his bride, to whom the King of the Gods had offered immortality as a wedding gift; at his side, the Cretan princess made no secret of her joy and pride at sitting among the gods. Whatever moods and quarrels were tearing the Olympians apart on this festive day, the happiness emanating from the two lovers like a warm current had been enough to ease tensions, and the assembly of gods seemed united and pacified at that moment. Only one of them didn't seem particularly sensitive to the atmosphere of joy that had infected the immortals.

Kratos. Seated between Aphrodite and Apollo, the God of War remained resolutely silent, his face betraying no emotion other than boredom and an unmistakable eagerness to get these exhausting festivities over with as quickly as possible.

Dionysus rose to his feet, his cup in hand. Kratos looked up, absent-minded. The God of Wine turned to Ariadne, his eyes shining and his complexion flushed.

“To you, my wife, my love, my sun! I can't live without you since I met your gaze on Naxos. You're doing me the greatest honor in the world by agreeing to marry me. I...”

Kratos stopped listening. The babble of a god in love was of no interest to him. Worse, it irritated him. Why should he be moved and delighted by an Olympian's love for his wife, when his own had been ruthlessly snatched from him by another?

This was dangerous territory, he knew. But he couldn't help losing himself in his memories. As Dionysus' inebriated, adoring voice continued to sing Ariadne's praises, the Spartan thought of his own love. His Lysandra. Well aware that he'd pay dearly for every second he spent thinking about her, he remembered her face, her smile, her eyes so dark and proud, her long brown hair and her straight nose; he relived her modest, undeniable, human beauty; he remembered the sound of her voice, her gentle, firm gestures, her soft skin, her supple body. He thought back to their first meeting. He thought back to the way he'd tried to seduce her, just like that, as a game, because she was pretty, because many other soldiers coveted her, and she wasn't easily wooed. He had thought he was seducing her and had fallen madly in love. So he had conquered her, day after day, week after week, month after month, overcoming one rival after another. He thought back to their first night together. Their wedding. The birth of their daughter... Kratos closed his eyes furiously, trying desperately to stop the flood of memories, and Dionysus' voice suddenly seemed the most unbearable sound in the world. Aware of the outrageous boldness of his behavior, but unable to take it any further, the Spartan hurried to his feet and left the table, eager to be left alone in the tranquility of his personal apartments. Dionysus acted as if he hadn't noticed - or perhaps the alcohol really had clouded his senses to such an extent that he couldn't see anything that wasn't Ariadne. Kratos didn't turn to answer the question.

The God of War rushed to his room and lay dressed on his bed, breathing heavily. He did his best to tuck Lysandra away in the secret corner of his heart where he tried to keep her and the pain her murder constantly brought him. Kratos pressed his face against the cool silk of his sheets, hoping the contact would soothe his fevered skin if it failed to soothe his burning soul. He remained like this for an indeterminate time, helpless, every fiber of his body and mind busy fighting against the memories he'd been promised to take away.

Until he heard three knocks on the door. Kratos raised his head. It had to be Athena, and her presence was not unwelcome. He got up and went to open the door, but it wasn't the Goddess of Wisdom standing behind it. It was Aphrodite. Kratos stared at her. She smiled.

“Did you need some privacy, Kratos?”

He didn't answer. The aura of sensuality emanating from the goddess seemed a little more powerful than usual.

“You're right, Kratos. I could use a break myself. The bride and groom are lovely, but tiresome.”

She placed a hand on his chest and gently pushed him away from the doorframe so she could pass through and enter the room. Kratos relented and watched her walk confidently into the room, climb onto the bed and lie there with all the lasciviousness in the world.

“What do you want, Aphrodite?”

“Oh,” the goddess said playfully, half rising, “isn't that clear enough? Well, I'll make sure the message is understood.”

She rose from the bed, stood and, planting her gaze in his, began to undress. Kratos watched her remove her clothes one by one, his face impassive, his hard, fixed gaze betraying none of the arousal he was beginning to feel at the sight of this divine body unveiling itself in front of him. When she was completely naked, she started walking in his direction, their eyes riveted to each other, and once at his height, put her arms around his neck.

“I need someone to take my mind off things. Why don't you show me what Spartans are capable of?” she murmured, brushing her lips gently against his.

Kratos placed his hands on her waist and drew her body to him. She was perfect, cold perfection, divine, out of time and out of the world, and the perfect distraction that would make him forget, for a second, his love sacrificed by Ares. He placed his lips on hers, nodding silently, and felt the goddess smile into their kiss. She took him by the hand and guided him to the bed. He looked at her flawless form, the promise of infinite pleasure, and in that moment, as he followed her movement and lay above her on the bed, he didn't know if he wanted to be her master or her slave.

He'd be both. Aphrodite would make sure of that.

**************************************

The journey to the Italian coast had been extraordinarily uneventful. They had sailed on a sea of absolute calm, without encountering the slightest obstacle, so much so that Kratos had ended up wishing for some hostile sea creature to attack them, hoping for a monster to fight to snap him out of his reflections. He lacked his son's wonderfully sociable nature: while Atreus had managed to make friends with every member of the crew, Kratos had been left alone with the thoughts and feelings that stirred him internally. The Olympians had also isolated themselves, obeying the Spartan and staying away from Atreus. Kratos knew he'd have to talk to them before reaching Rome, if only to find out what the rest of their journey would be like. Athena and the other Greek gods had spoken at length with Týr before the start of their journey, but he had not wished to join them, shunning the presence of his ancient pantheon. He put off day after day the moment when he would have to approach them to be told precisely what was expected of him, but now that the Italian coast was approaching dangerously, he had little choice.

The God of War, standing on deck by the railing, watched the water as the ship split open. Without him even realizing it, it had changed from a grayish, foamy color to an azure blue almost as pure and serene as a cloudless sky. It was the sea, his sea, the immemorial sea of gods and heroes, the silver-armored sea that irrigated so many civilizations, and to its colors responded the sounds and fragrances of the Mediterranean world. It was the crucible of encounters, exchanges and culture, where all the gold of ideas came from. Kratos knew it as violent, unchained, its sky coppered with bruises, its waves as big as the panic of sailors trapped in its wrath; he loved it no less. But for the moment, she was covered in light, and the Midgardian eyes of the sailors, unaccustomed to such brilliance, struggled to grasp anything more than the drops of light and azure that trembled at the edge of their lashes.

Kratos turned, hearing footsteps on the deck behind him. The prospect of their arrival made the Spartan nervous. He didn't want to show it to Atreus, as he was determined to take full responsibility for his decision, but he had often regretted taking him along on this journey.

But it wasn't his son who was striding towards him. It was Aphrodite. Kratos watched the Goddess of Love approach, eyebrows furrowed.

“Where is Atreus?” he asked - it was the first thing that came to mind.

The goddess rolled her eyes.

“How should I know? You forbade us to go near him. I don't keep a record of his every move.”

With nothing to reply, the Spartan remained silent. Aphrodite smiled slightly and came to stand beside him, close to the railing. They watched the sea together in silence for a few moments.

“Your son can't stand still,” she resumed. “He makes me dizzy running around. But from what I've seen, you've got a lot to be proud of. He seems kind, brave and intelligent. I suppose he takes after his mother. Is he Freya's son?”

Kratos hesitated. Unlike Apollo, Aphrodite wasn't afraid of him; unlike Helios, she didn't hate him; and unlike Athena, she had no power over him. Which made her the Olympian he was least reluctant to talk to. However, he wasn't sure he wanted to go into the details of his Nordic love life with her. After a moment, he decided to answer.

“No. Atreus's mother died over five years ago.”

Aphrodite turned to him, and he looked away, determined to block her access to his heart.

“Oh. I'm so sorry. That must have been terrible for both of you.”

“It was.”

“You loved her.”

“I did.”

The Goddess of Love sighed deeply, almost a little ironically.

“Two true loves since you began your new repentant life in the North,” she said. “It's more than you deserve, Kratos.”

“I am... aware of that, Aphrodite.”

“But if these two women have contributed to making you harmless and protecting the innocent from the monster, then I grant you this immense privilege” the goddess replied with a chuckle. “A little softness in your life should do you no harm.”

“Freya is not soft.”

“No. But she softens you.”

“Yes.”

“She softens you, when you deserve to suffer a thousand deaths for eternity.”

She had said this in an almost cheerful tone, and Kratos didn't know what to say.

“Although,” she continued after a moment, her voice as playful as ever. “I'm in a good position to know that you can love suffering.”

Kratos stared at her.

“I'm only joking. Well, not really. It's funny, Kratos. You've left everyone with painful, traumatic memories. Their hearts cloud over when they think of you or hear your name. I'm the only one who received nothing but pleasure from you. Hours of pleasure when you were still Olympus' God of War... I'd like to, but I can't do anything against my nature, it's hard to forget such a thing.”

“I was a different man, Aphrodite.”

“I know.”

They looked at each other for a few seconds. She smiled.

“It's so strange to see you in love... Almost as strange as seeing you with a beard.”

She placed her hand on his cheek and he allowed this insignificant contact between them. He sensed that Aphrodite had no desire whatsoever to enter into a game of seduction with him. She was only expressing herself according to her nature, sensual, alive, incarnate.

“Don't get me wrong, it suits you. It makes you look more... wise.”

He answered nothing and she withdrew her hand. They gazed again in silence at the infinite blue of the sea.

“It's good to be home,” Aphrodite finally murmured.

“I am not home,” Kratos replied.

The Goddess of Love gave him a piercing look and said nothing more.

Kratos suddenly remembered the existence of his child and turned away, leaving Aphrodite to contemplate the sea and the past alone, to search for Atreus. A sailor told him he was in the captain's cabin with Mimir. Kratos thanked him and headed for Haeringr's cabin. He stepped inside after announcing his arrival with a brief knock on the wooden door: in the small, sparsely furnished space, the captain was bent over a map with Atreus. He was showing him the various countries surrounding the Mediterranean Sea and the major cities that made up its main ports.

“So what's this island here?”

“This is Sicily. See how strategic its position is? It's right in the middle, and a lot of people are interested in it. The Italians, the Phoenicians, the Greeks, the Carthaginians... There are a lot of them fighting over it.”

“Oh, wow. But the Sicilians, what do they think? Maybe they just want to... stay Sicilians.”

“That's a good way of thinking, lad,” Mimir interjected. “People should always have the right to determine who they are. But in reality, it's often the strongest who decide the fate of others.”

“It was the Greeks who made Sicily what it is. It was they who founded the capital, Syracuse,” Haeringr clarified.

“But before the Greeks, who was there?”

“Difficult to say."

Atreus remained thoughtful for a few moments. He looked up at his father, who was watching him from the doorway.

“The South is complicated. It seems everyone spends their time trying to fight their neighbor.”

The captain chuckled.

“There are conflicts too, in Yggdrasil. In fact, I've seen it everywhere I've sailed.”

He put his hand on the teenager's shoulder.

“It won't be long before we see the coast of Italy. Don't you want to go back on deck?”

“Sure!”

As they climbed back out into the open, they saw that land was indeed looming in the distance. Atreus leaned over the railing.

“I can't believe it! It really is Italy!”

“It better be, lad, otherwise it would mean the captain was on the wrong course.”

"I wouldn't! I've made this trip over fifteen times, I could even do it blind.”

Kratos squinted to make out the distant coastline, which was slowly growing in size. He felt a presence near him and turned to see that Athena had joined them.

“Here we are at last,” the Goddess of Wisdom whispered. “Rome."

“Yes.”

He forced himself to add, low enough for the captain not to hear him: “Where shall we go when we get there? What did Týr tell you?

“Only that we would be met by someone to act as our guide.”

“Someone?”

Athena shrugged.

“A purely Roman deity, powerful and all-knowing. He knows we must come. That's all.”

“Can we trust him?”

“Can we trust Týr?”

Kratos didn't answer. He felt he had soon to fight a growing sense of paranoia.

The port of Rome, Ostia, was now in sight. Countless sails could already be seen, all converging on the tall silhouette of its lighthouse. The other Greek gods had also climbed aboard to join Athena, and they all stood on deck, their noses to the wind, their gaze turned towards the city where their destiny, and that of the Mediterranean world, was about to be written.

The ship began to slow down, and the captain stepped away from his passengers to give his orders. They passed the lighthouse and drew nearer to the stone and wooden buildings that encircled the port and jutted out into the sea; they opened onto a passageway wide enough for a ship three times their size to pass through, adorned on either side with imposing statues.

“It looks like... Greece,” Athena murmured to Kratos.

The Spartan didn't reply, but he could see what she meant. Whether intentionally or not, the Romans had designed their port in accordance with Greek architecture. Aesthetically, there was little difference. The ship sailed silently across the now flat water, and when they reached the statues that guarded the harbor entrance, their silence was charged with surprise and bitterness.

One of them represented Poseidon.

So it was true. The Romans had drawn so much inspiration from the Greeks that they had adopted their gods. Kratos may have known it, but seeing the rebirth of the Olympian cult with his own eyes was another story altogether. He gazed silently at the statue of Poseidon in all its glory, head held high, arm raised to the sea, gazing out to the horizon, so different from the god he'd slaughtered all those years ago.

“Ah, Poseidon's back. After all the trouble you went through to kill him, Kratos,” Helios ironized.

Kratos felt Atreus' gaze move from the statue to his father. Mimir must have realized that he was going to demand to know this story, because the voice of the smartest man alive was heard:

“Who does the second statue represent?”

“No idea, but it's not Olympian. Maybe a mortal ruler, the statue is a bit recessed and smaller,” Athena replied.

“Ah yes, good point, my lady.”

The ship eventually slowed, gently, until it came to a complete stop opposite the quay, clearing a path between two imposing galleys. Immediately, a handful of sailors jumped ashore to tie her down, and deployed a gangplank to allow passengers to disembark and goods to be unloaded.

Kratos, with Mimir on his belt, Atreus and the Olympians bid farewell to the crew before leaving the ship for good. As they stepped ashore, the gods all felt, in turn, the bond that would now unite them with the Italian land. They looked at each other in silence, aware that they were all experiencing the same phenomenon, and a little worried. Now what?

“Hey, over there!”

They turned back to the man who had just shouted at them. He was an ageless man, dressed in an inelegant black cloth toga, with a rather ugly face and a nasty look on it. He staggered towards them, leaning on a wooden stick that seemed too short to offer any real support. The gods watched him arrive, a little surprised. When he reached them, he stopped, grumbling, clearly struggling to catch his breath, his respiration a little labored. After a moment, he looked up at them, one after the other with a grim stare.

“There they are, our gods,” he spat contemptuously. “Arrived by commercial ship like common sacks of wheat.”

“Who are you?” Kratos asked, taking a step forward towards him.

“Your guide,” the man replied, looking down at the Spartan, even though he was half his size. “My name is Quirinus.”

“You... you're a god?” Athena asked in surprise.

“Can't you tell?” Quirinus abruptly barked. “I don't tick the boxes, do I? You Greeks think everything must be read in appearance. καλὸς καὶ ἀγαθός, all that. A god must necessarily be handsome, tall and strong, right? I really don't know what they see in that bunch of superficial degenerates...”

“They?”

“The Romans. They adore you. One wonders why. We had a whole bunch of local deities who could have done the job just fine. But no... They need something exotic, understand...”

“No,” Kratos replied, starting to get seriously annoyed with Quirinus. “I do not. Who are you? Explain yourself or stop wasting our time.”

Quirinus turned to him, not intimidated.

“Calm down, Ghost of Sparta. I told you, my name is Quirinus. I'm a primordial deity of Rome. I presided over its foundation and development. I tried to create a typically Latin pantheon with Etruscan and Sabine gods, but it didn't work. The Romans turned to Greek myths. They weren't interested in the deities of their own land.”

The god sighed and spat on the ground in spite.

“I represent the Roman spirit, but I can't stop this stubborn people from choosing the identity they want. Rome dictates, and I write, not the other way around. That's why I'm here. I take Greek gods and turn them into Roman gods, as the Romans wanted. Believe me when I say it's not for pleasure, but it's either that or see the nation I've seen born and grow collapse."

“And... will you be part of this Pantheon?” Apollo asked.

“No,” Quirinus answered sadly. “I don't belong there. The Romans will soon forget who I was and what they owe me. My cult won't survive the consolidation of that of Zeus and all his arrogant mob. But this is the price to pay for the salvation of Rome, and I pay it gladly.”

He spat on the ground again and looked at them moodily.

“Come on, let's not dawdle. We've wasted enough time on your little tour of the north.”

He beckoned them to follow him and started walking away from the sea.

“Wait a minute,” Kratos growled, stopping him with a gesture. “Where are you taking us? Where are the other Olympians? I agreed to follow you on this journey on the sole condition that I would never have to cross paths with them.”

Quirinus looked at him as if he were particularly stupid.

"Do you think I'm that dumb, Kratos? Do you think I didn't realize on my own that it's better not to get you mixed up with the Olympians you once happily slaughtered? No, Ghost of Sparta, I need your physical presence and a symbol of your power. Not another demonstration of your creativity when it comes to making a god suffer.”

Furious, Kratos opened his mouth to reply, but realized he had nothing to say. There was something about Quirinus that commanded respect; behind his ungraceful appearance and bad temper lay an imponderable wisdom and intelligence that forced the Spartan to remain silent. The Latin god smiled contemptuously.

“Don't worry, I'll protect you. No one will recognize you or your son.”

He turned to the others.

“Let's go.”

“Where?”

“To my temple on Mount Quirinal. You'll be safe there. The Romans built it a long time ago, just a few days after the founding of the City. I've forbidden mortals to enter because I get tired of receiving demonstrations of worship. That said, even if I wanted to, I don't get many these days. We'll be quiet there.”

“Do you live alone there?” Atreus intervened.

“With my daughter Bellona. She'll keep you company while your father does what he has to do for Rome. She's a little older than you, you'll like her.”

“And the other gods, where are they?” Aphrodite asked.

“In their respective temples. They're forbidden to leave for the duration of the process of creating their Pantheon.”

“Would that put it at risk of failure?”

“Not at all. I just want them to leave me alone while I work on saving Rome. Once I'm done, they can all repopulate Olympus and begin their existences anew as they please.”

“Olympus?”

“Of course, Olympus. The Romans aren't creative enough to find a new place for you to live. Does it suit your lordships?"

No one was foolish enough to risk a comment. They followed Quirinus' lead out of Ostia and into the new center of the Mediterranean world. Rome awaited them.

Chapter Text

The walk from Ostia to Mount Quirinal had been longer than they had expected, and by the time they reached the temple of Quirinus, night had long since fallen. The little troupe had had little time to catch a glimpse of Rome before the sun disappeared behind the hills of the Latium region, and what they had passed through was too dimly lit by torches, so they could scarcely form an idea of what the city looked like. Quirinus had also made them avoid the main arteries, multiplying the detours by small side streets and perpetually adding to the length of their trip. Kratos and the Olympians soon realized that the god had a gift for concealment, which he had obviously extended to their entire group: the few Romans they passed paid them no attention, despite the fact that their group was made up of an obviously foreign teenager, a two-meter-tall man with red tattoos, armed to the teeth, a goddess of beauty and two severed heads. The few passers-by didn't turn around any more than they would have at a flowerpot.

Once they'd arrived at his temple, Quirinus had proved no more than a friendly host, contenting himself with showing them a place to sleep and grumbling. The place was unwelcoming, devoid of any decoration or source of warmth, but it was huge, and everyone was entitled to their own space.

“Rest,” Quirinus said. “Tomorrow you will definitely become Roman gods.”

He turned to Kratos and added: “Well, except you, Ghost of Sparta. I'm afraid the Romans have chosen Ares over you.”

“Good. The sooner we can get out of here, the better. I have no desire to be part of this Pantheon.”

“Oh, I know you don't. You wouldn't even be here if the spirit of Rome didn't demand your presence. And to be honest, I couldn't blame you. You don't have only good memories of the Olympians.”

“We don't have only good memories of him either,” Apollo murmured through gritted teeth.

Quirinus pretended he hadn't heard. Without another word, he turned away from them and stomped off, muttering unpleasant words into his beard. Kratos followed, taking Atreus by the shoulder to head for their room. One by one, all the Olympians did the same.

The next morning, the gods' chambers were flooded by the Italian sun, a sun, frank, massive, so similar to the Greek sun. They all left their rooms for the main hall of the temple, where no daylight could penetrate, and where Quirinus was already standing, looking exactly the same as the day before. It was the same black toga, the same unsympathetic air. He looked at them impatiently.

“Come on, come on, let's not dawdle,” he grumbled. “I didn't bring you here to lounge around. Ah,” he added, as Kratos, Atreus and Mimir emerged from their room after the others, “the best guests always come last. Come closer.”

They obeyed, making a circle around Quirinus.

“Bellona!” the Latin god called in a loud but affectionate voice. “Bellona, hurry up, you lazy girl!”

A few moments later, a young woman in her early twenties burst into the room from the part of the temple opposite the one where the Olympians had spent the night. She had jay-black hair, with almost blue highlights, that fell in messy waves to her waist, and eyes of a similar color. Her mouth, red and sensual, stood out against her pale, freckled skin. There was something proud in her regular features of undeniable grace. Bellona looked at the newcomers with her fiery gaze and gave them a smile whose gentleness contrasted with her almost aggressive beauty.

“Bellona, my daughter”, Quirinus said casually, indicating her with a wave of his hand. “Bellona” he repeated, this time addressing her, “We have business here. I entrust you with this young man. His name is Atreus. Why don't you show him around?”

Atreus barely had time to raise a hopeful gaze at Bellona before Kratos had already taken a step forward, his eyebrows furrowed.

“No way,” he growled. “Atreus is not going anywhere without me.”

“As you wish, Kratos,” Quirinus replied with a shrug. “All your son has to do is stand on the steps of my temple. He can watch Rome from there. How very exciting it will be for him.”

“Father, please! I'll be very careful, and anyway, nobody knows who I am here! I'm safe!”

“No.”

“I'm not going to stand by while I have a chance to explore Rome!”

"Atreus, enough is enough. The city is full of Olympian gods. I will not let you take such a risk."

“No one will see Atreus, and certainly not the gods of Olympus who are all staying in their temples,” Bellona interjected. “I have the same ability to go unnoticed as my father. Your son will be safe with me.”

Kratos turned to her, displeased.

“Brother,” Mimir added. “I'll go with them. If Bellona has the power not to be seen, then I really don't believe the boy is in any danger.”

Defeated, the Ghost of Sparta grunted.

“Very well,” he conceded. “But use caution, Atreus. Never let your guard down. Be back before sunset.”

Bellona turned to the Jotnar, looking cheerful.

“Let's go.”

Kratos handed Mimir to his son and followed him with his eyes as he left the temple with Bellona. He tried to banish the bad feeling that tormented him at the thought of his child walking away from him.

“Good,” Quirinus continued. “Where was I? Ah... Ah yes... Making you Roman gods... Hell, I could use a little help...”. He added, shouting a name for the second time, “Vesta!”

Again, a woman entered through the same door by which Bellona had arrived. But this one was not so young: her gentle, peaceful face was marked by age, and her hair, almost as long as Bellona's but more carefully coiffed, was a sparkling silver-grey. As they recognized the newcomer, surprise flashed across the Olympians' faces, and Aphrodite gave a little cry.

“Hestia!”

The old goddess laughed and opened her arms to embrace the Goddess of Love.

“Aphrodite, my darling,” she murmured. “It's so good to see you again. And you too, Athena, Apollo, Helios. I'm so glad you're in Rome. It's... good news for our new nation. And... Kratos. You're here, too. I guess you have to be.”

“Hestia, we were worried,” Aphrodite said, clasping the hands of the Goddess of Hearth between her own.

“It's Vesta now, my dear.”

“You've been in Rome all this time? Why didn't you say anything?”

Vesta sighed.

“I was called to Rome long before Rome existed. I have no other explanation” the old goddess replied sadly. “I had to establish my cult among the peoples from whom the Roman nation would rise.”

“My own mother was a priestess of Vesta,” Quirinus clarified with a grunt. “And I'm the one through whom the founding of Rome was possible.”

“Why didn't you say so?” Athena repeated.

“You're young and sentimental, you wouldn't have understood.”

“You were so determined to restore the Greek Pantheon that I never had the heart to tell you that your efforts were in vain,” Vesta clarified, glowering at Quirinus. “I preferred to join the future land of Rome without explanation or goodbye. I knew I'd see you there one day.”

She placed her hand on Aphrodite's cheek in an affectionate gesture. The two goddesses had always been very close, and Vesta's disappearance had greatly affected the Goddess of Love. Vesta turned to the Spartan, who was observing the scene as if he wished he were anywhere else, and her face hardened.

“Kratos, I suppose thanks are in order... Even if I have more reason to curse you than to thank you.”

“I've never done you any harm, Hearth Goddess,” the Spartan retorted moodily.

“Debatable,” Vesta retorted harshly. "You've always been a plague to my people, and you always will be. Rome will take from you what it needs, and that's all. Nobody wants you here. Which doesn't stop me from expressing my gratitude for your act of redemption today.”

“You are brave to talk to me this way,” Kratos growled menacingly. “But we agree on one thing. Rome does not need me, and I do not need it."

He glared at Quirinus.

“Let us get it over with, Roman god.”

“Er... yes. Let's go.”

Quirinus looked at Vesta, who nodded. The old goddess made an authoritative gesture towards the extinguished hearth that occupied the central space of the room, in the center of the temple, and it immediately caught fire. The flames now danced there, powerful, sacred flames, imbued with the mystical force of the Latin gods and the spirit of Rome. Quirinus and Vesta, the guardians of this power, stood on either side of the hearth, their age-scarred faces illuminated by the flames.

“Step forward,” Vesta said, and her voice vibrated with a strength she hadn't had a few minutes before. “One after the other, when I call your name. Place the object representing your power in the sacred fire. If the object is sufficient, then it will burn. If not, you'll have to find something else.” She paused, then looked up and called, “Athena.”

The Goddess of Wisdom approached the hearth with determination. She knelt before the flames, her light-blue eyes showing a resigned serenity. She picked up one of the two swords she wore at her belt and placed it in the hearth. No sooner had it come into contact with the fire than the blade burst into flames and was reduced to ashes in a matter of seconds. Athena remained kneeling for a few seconds, letting her new identity flow through her veins like molten gold, and with her gaze riveted on the flames, her lips parted to pronounce her new name.

“Minerva,” she murmured. “Minerva.”

She repeated the three syllables several times, as if to get used to the foreign sound. It was Vesta who finally interrupted her, calling out Aphrodite's name. The Goddess of Love took Athena's place in front of the fire, and took a deep breath before unbuckling the belt that adorned her waist. Again, the object was consumed the instant it touched the sacred flames. She smiled.

“I suppose I'll just have to make a new one.”

She rose to her feet.

“Venus,” she murmured. “I like it.”

“Helios.”

It was Quirinus who carried the decapitated head of the sun god before the fire. He took his golden crown, infused with sunlight, and threw it into the hearth. For the third time, the fire consecrated the object by reducing it to ash.

“Kratos.”

The Spartan grunted and reluctantly approached to kneel in front of the hearth. He took hold of the Golden Fleece he was carrying in his bag and looked at it for a few seconds before throwing it into the fire. The armband also caught fire, but the flames took on a strange, almost black color. Kratos looked at Vesta, who nodded in satisfaction.

“Apollo.”

The God of Arts stepped forward. He took an arrow from his quiver and placed it in the fire. The object remained intact; the flames danced around it, harmless.

“It didn't work.

“Try another object.”

Apollo grabbed the laurel branch hanging from his tunic and dropped it into the blaze. Again, nothing happened. The branch burned no more than if it had been made of stone.

“I don't understand.”

“You must sacrifice something else, Apollo,” Vesta insisted. “Something important.”

Apollo hesitated for a few moments, then took hold of his lyre, which he kept permanently on his belt. The instrument was extremely important to him and he loathed the idea of getting rid of it, but he had little choice. He laid down his lyre and waited. In vain.

The fire had no more intention of consuming the lyre than the laurel branch or the arrow.

The young God of Arts looked at Vesta, his heart pounding. The old goddess frowned.

“Your lyre should have done the trick,” she murmured. “That's strange.”

“Perhaps Apollo's assimilation into the Roman pantheon will be in some other way,” Quirinus said, thoughtfully.

“Perhaps.”

“He always has to get noticed, our handsome artist,” Helios said in a mocking tone.

“What if my transition never happens?” Apollo asked worriedly. “What would happen? Would I have to disappear?

“No,” Vesta answered solicitously. “You'll be honored in Rome, just like the others. Don't worry.”

“There's got to be an explanation, Apollo,” Athena said reassuringly, placing a hand on the young god's arm.

“There is, and we'll find it,” the old goddess affirmed. “Our pantheon is now complete. Apart from Apollo's, all the transitions have been made.

“Even Demeter? We haven't heard from her.”

“Demeter arrived two days before you did. She's already gone through the fire ritual, so you'll see her again soon. In the meantime, you should all get some rest. You don't realize it yet, but your bodies and minds have just been through a real ordeal. Go and rest.”

The Olympians nodded, already feeling the tiredness creeping up on them. Athena turned back to Kratos, eager to meet his gaze before returning to her room. But he was already gone.

                                        **************************************************

“I can't believe this place exists. It's so beautiful!”

“Isn't it!”

Atreus looked at the Roman goddess with eyes shining with excitement. They were standing in the middle of the Forum, and the young Jotnar had never seen a square so large and beautiful.

“This is where all the city's big events take place. Last week there was a wedding between two young people from the oldest and noblest families in Rome. The Forum was decorated with thousands of flowers, it was magnificent, you should have seen it. Well, it doesn't happen every day! But it really is the living center of the city... A bit like the Agora, in Athens.”

Atreus shook his head and gave her a questioning look.

“Wow, you're Greek but you don't know what the Agora is?”

“I've never been there,” Atreus replied with a contrite smile. "And my father doesn't like to talk about his homeland. That's why I'm so happy to be here, there's so much I'll be able to understand. After Rome, we're going to Greece.”

Bellona gave one of her sweet smiles that never failed to make Atreus's heart miss a beat, and nodded. Atreus asked: “And your father, what's he like? He doesn't always seem so easy-going either.”

“Oh, Quirinus isn't my real father.”

“No?”

“No. But he's been taking care of me since I was born. It's not easy for us Roman gods to find our identity. The Romans chose their gods from everywhere... I don't even know who I am. I don't even know what I'm a goddess of. I don't even know who my parents are. I just know I exist, because Rome wants me to exist,” she said in a falsely cheerful tone.

She sighed, a veil of sadness passing over her dark eyes.

“I understand,” Atreus replied with sincere empathy. “I, too, have had trouble understanding who I am. I belong to a race that struggles to survive, it's not easy. But at least I know who my parents are, I know my heritage. I hope you'll find your path as I've found mine."

“Oh, I'm sure I will. Even if it's not easy being children of gods.”

“Definitely not!”

The two young gods smiled at each other. They were interrupted by Mimir's voice.

“Young ones, maybe we should go home now.”

Atreus, Bellona and Mimir had been roaming the city for hours, and the sun's rays were slowly beginning to decline. The Latin goddess had had time to show them many things that had delighted Mimir and amazed Atreus: Mimir had said he wouldn't mind an extended stay - he'd been particularly interested in the public libraries, which had no equivalent in Yggdrasil. Here, learning was widely available to ordinary citizens, whereas Odin had jealously guarded access to knowledge for his own personal enjoyment, and that of a select few Aesirs, throughout his interminable reign. As for the Jotnar, he had been seduced by Rome, its proud architectural beauty, its energy and vitality. It was the first time he had seen a city of this size, and it contrasted with the smaller villages dotting the Realms of Yggdrasil. Atreus was overjoyed to discover this place, and when Bellona made comparisons with Athens, Alexandria or Pergamon, he felt only one desire: to continue exploring the Mediterranean world.

But it was getting dark, and he didn't want to worry his father. They were back in the Forum, and the temple of Quirinus wasn't far away. Bellona nodded in understanding. She smiled at the young god.

“We're going home,” she said. “There's just one more thing I want to show you.”

“Okay, but hurry!”

“Hey, don't worry. You trust me, don't you?”

“Of course, but...”

Bellona took him by the arm without giving him time to formulate an objection and pulled him along behind her.

“You won't regret it, believe me.”

Atreus didn't reply and accelerated to keep up with her. He saw that they had taken an unfamiliar road, one they hadn't ventured down before. Mimir's voice came from his belt.

“Lad, maybe we shouldn't...”

“Bellona, where are we going?” Atreus cut in.

“It's a new part of town,” she replied without looking at him. “You'll love it, you'll see.”

Without slowing down, she turned left, then right, then left again. Then right again. Atreus tried to make a mental note of the path they were following, but eventually gave up and just followed her as best he could. He felt a pang of worry begin to compress his heart.

“Are you sure we have time? The sun's really low.”

“Of course we do. Stop being a killjoy.”

Bellona sped off into the outskirts of Rome, quickly moving away from the hustle and bustle of the Forum and the main thoroughfares.

“Keep up with me, Atreus!”

“Hey, wait for me!”

Without warning, the Roman goddess made another sharp left turn and darted into an alleyway. Atreus braked to follow her, but when he rushed into the same alley, Bellona had disappeared.

“Bellona!”

Silence. Atreus began to run to the end of the alley, his heart pounding. But it was a dead end.

“Where did she go?” Mimir said. “What's the meaning of this?”

“I don't know,” Atreus replied, his mouth dry. “Bellona!”

“Stop shouting, lad. We'll attract attention. We've got to get back to the Forum.”

“But how? I have no idea where I am.”

“Start by retracing your steps.”

The young Jotnar obeyed. He returned to what could best be described as the main street, but it didn't make him feel much better. Now that he was no longer running after Bellona and had plenty of time to look around, the place suddenly seemed strangely fixed. He felt an indefinable sense of unease in the form of a soft, dangerous intimacy. Atreus was no stranger to fear; he'd already felt its contours, on the outskirts of certain Midgard villages where it was said it was better not to linger ; but even in the most disreputable, there was always the clatter of existence, the voices of women, the cries of domestic animals, the sound of wood being chopped, the crackling of the fire that served as public lighting, all those everyday noises that isolate one from death, keep one from fear, and give one the courage to flee or to confront. But not here. No matter how hard Atreus listened, no matter how much he looked around, no matter how many senses he used, there was no life around him. This suburb had no food, no pets and no human voice. Not the slightest sound of a window slamming, not the slightest sound of birds, not the slightest breath of wind. It was totally devoid of life. And, in the fading daylight, Atreus began to feel fear. Real fear, deep, visceral, unquenchable.

But Atreus had no time to give himself entirely to this fear. He didn't have the time to let it take complete possession of him and to let himself panic. For before he could understand what was happening to him, as he stood there frozen in anguish, unable to act or think, he suddenly felt an immense pain, so strong that it knocked him unconscious. He only had time to hear Mimir cry out his name before sinking into total darkness. And when he woke up several minutes or hours later - he couldn't tell - Atreus was no longer in that cursed street. He was lying in a small, dark, unfamiliar and inhospitable room, his aching limbs chained in an uncomfortable position. Standing opposite him was Bellona, her dark eyes shining with a triumphant gleam, and all the sweetness of her smile gone, replaced by a carnivorous, almost sadistic expression. On either side of the young goddess stood two men Atreus didn't recognize - but their violent expressions boded no good. And in a corner of the room, a fourth figure, whose aura of divine violence was unmistakable, watched the Jotnar with interest. At the sight of him, Atreus swallowed nervously. The man was tall, heavily armed and armored, and his cruel features were framed by long hair shining with an orange glow.

In his fear-fogged mind, Atreus could only think of one thing.

This really wasn't good.

Chapter Text

Atreus tried to stand up, pulling on the chains holding him in a prone position. He struggled to raise his upper body, propping himself up on his elbows, which painfully pressed the steel rings into his flesh, but at least allowed him to look his captors in the eye. Bellona continued to smile at him, watching him struggle with the chains that were binding and injuring him.

“Welcome among us, Atreus,” she said sarcastically.

“Where am I?” the Jotnar asked, his mouth dry.

“You don't need to know.”

Atreus looked at her, his eyes moist with pain. Bellona was no longer anything like the kind, vibrant goddess who had introduced him to Rome.

“I don't understand. Why? What do you want from me?”

“To have fun,” the young goddess replied simply, shrugging her shoulders as if the whole situation was no big deal.

“But Quirinus...”

“Quirinus is a fool. He doesn't understand me. Or rather, he doesn't want to understand me. I'm a goddess of war, Atreus, of destruction, of death. Oh, he knows that! He's been raising me in his temple since I was born. But this sentimental old man thinks of me as his daughter and refuses to see who I really am. He thinks I'll become a better person. But I can't escape my nature, and in fact, I don't even want to! I flourish only in the conflagration of all hostilities, all violences, all vengeances; I live only for the hour when crime gives all its flame and hatred all its darkness; I accompany the frenzied combatants of merciless war; I am death coming with a torch in hand, Atreus, and I'm tired of Quirinus' poor attempts to prove otherwise."

Atreus felt himself trembling. As she spoke, the young goddess seemed to have transformed herself: her deep-black eyes and hair had taken on a dark gray hue, and her fleshy mouth looked as if it had been painted with blood. Her deformed features no longer had the same appeal: she looked at Atreus with fearful tenderness, and he had the impression of being face to face with death itself. He glanced at the two men standing beside him, who had not lost their sadistic, frightening smiles. The third was still watching the young god with his penetrating, indecipherable gaze.

“But why me? What have I done to you?”

It was one of the two men flanking Bellona who replied.

“You, nothing. Your father, on the other hand... That's another story.”

Of course it is, the teenager mused. Why else would he find himself chained in a cellar by Roman gods? A thought suddenly assailed him: Mimir. He couldn't see him anywhere in the room. He frowned as he looked at his captors, doing his best not to let the fear he felt transpire.

“I'm not my father,” he replied in the bravest tone he could muster. “And I don't even know who you are.”

The man who had spoken stepped forward. He had long, smooth, almost white-blond hair that reached down to the middle of his back. His elegant head carriage and harmonious, almost feminine face contrasted with the glint of violence in his pale eyes.

“You're right, young man,” he said in a voice too soft not to be frightening. “Let me introduce myself and my twin brother. My name is Phobos, and this is my brother Deinos. We've been... looking forward to meeting you.”

Atreus would never have guessed that the two men were brothers, let alone twins. Phobos was as blond as Deinos was brown; his features were as delicate as his brother's were thick; where Phobos's posture was almost aristocratic and his gestures refined, Deinos stood slightly slouched, and his whole attitude was that of a warrior, masculine and brutal. The only thing the two had in common were their eyes: the same almost white color, the same flame of violence, the same surge of madness that could be read in their identical gazes. These two shared a passion for inflicting pain.

“Are you Greek gods?”

“Oh, yes,” Phobos replied with a chuckle. “Well, Roman, I hear, now. So it seems. Whatever the new name we've been given, we're still the same. I'm the God of Fear, Atreus. And my brother - you won't hear him talk much, he doesn't like it - is the God of Terror. You won't get bored with us. And neither will you, Bellona.”

The goddess merely smiled, an eager expression on her distorted face, as if she was looking forward to what was about to happen.

Atreus turned to the third man, who still hadn't opened his mouth. There was something about him that intimidated the Jotnar infinitely more than Bellona, Phobos and Deinos combined. These three seemed to be motivated by nothing more than a taste for destruction. Perhaps they weren't even acting out of a desire for vengeance against his father; they only seemed to want an opportunity to see someone suffer, to inflict fear and pain. But Atreus sensed that the man in the corner of the room had an entirely different story to tell. He looked into his eyes and, with disconcerting ease, seemed to feel the contradictory emotions his very existence provoked in this unknown god. His ice-blue eyes riveted on him, he tried to address a silent prayer to him, to use the soul bond they obviously shared to ask him without using words for help.

The god frowned. Without taking his eyes off Atreus, he addressed the other three, and his authoritative voice only reinforced the impression of power he exuded.

“Leave us alone.”

“What? But...”

“Silence, Bellona. Leave this room. Don't come back until I tell you to.”

Bellona, Phobos and Deinos gave Atreus a warning look before obeying and disappearing through the heavy iron door that was the only way out of the place. There were no windows.

Once the door had closed behind them, there was a silence that the young Jotnar couldn't bring himself to break. He simply stared at the man, helpless and speechless. The man smiled slightly, and finally opened his mouth to address his prisoner.

“Hello, Atreus.”

Atreus summoned up all his courage to reply.

“I... I don't know you.”

“Indeed,” the god replied. “But your father does.”

Atreus suspected he did, but he wasn't sure it was good news.

“Who are you? What do you want with me?”

The god approached him, and if Atreus could have stepped back, he would have. However, without needing to touch them, with a single snap of his fingers, the stranger untied the chains that held him prisoner, and Atreus felt immediate relief, the pressure of the metal on his limbs abruptly ceasing. He feverishly massaged his wrists and tried to stand up, but his legs refused to carry him, and he had to settle for sitting with his back against the wall. At least he was no longer lying down, and he gave the god a look that was half-grateful, half-pleading.

“There's no use looking at me like that, young man,” the god said with annoyance. “I won't be the one to save you.”

Atreus struggled to banish the impression that he'd been brutally filled with lead as he crushed his barely-hatched hope.

“I... I still don't know your name.”

An indefinable veil descended over the god's gaze. As if he were suddenly trying to remember who he was.

“My name is Ares,” he finally replied. He paused for a moment, before adding, his gaze hardened: “I'm the only true God of War on Olympus. And you, Atreus, are the son of Kratos of Sparta, who once usurped my throne.”

Words died in Atreus' mouth. He didn't know what to answer, or even what to think. He just stood there, staring at the Olympian with his big, dazed teenage eyes.

“You obviously don't know this story,” Ares added with a slight smile.

“I know that my father was the Olympian God of War. I don't know what you mean by 'usurped' but...”

Ares cut him off with a grim laugh.

“Atreus,” he said, glaring at the Jotnar, “your father hid so much from you. So, so much.”

The God of War turned away scornfully and glared at the wall in front of him. When he spoke again, his voice was sharper than the dagger Kratos had given him, years ago, just before he used it to finish off a god.

"Long before you were born, long before your father left Greece for the land where he met your mother, wherever it was, I was the only God of War Olympus had ever known. Feared by some, hated by others, but undisputed. And worshipped by all, whether they liked it or not, on pain of reprisal. Among the cities that worshipped me not out of fear but out of true devotion were the Spartans.

“The Spartans? They're my father's people!"

“Indeed,” Ares confirmed with a joyless smile. “Sparta was a warrior city where my cult was particularly strong. And your father was a pious man. He knew nothing of his divine nature and honored me as any mortal should. His career in the Spartan army was dazzling and drew my attention. I saw something in him. A destiny, a calling, something I thought I could use for my own benefit. So, the day your father saw his army routed by northern barbarians and found himself about to be killed by their king, the day he called on me to save his life and those of his men, vowing to put his existence at my service if I answered his prayer... That day, I sealed my fate and his. I saved Kratos, and agreed to this pact: he would live, but his life would now be mine."

He paused, and Atreus heard his father's voice ringing in his ears. I made a deal with a god that cost me my soul. So, this was what it was all about.

“Kratos has proved himself more devoted to my cause than I could have hoped,” Ares continued, piercing Atreus with his intense gaze. “He has become the general of my private army, ridding himself of all scruples that held him back from his humanity. He killed, in my name, in my honor, again and again, and exceeded all my expectations. I made him a formidable weapon and began to see in your father an instrument of my victory over Zeus.”

“Zeus? The king of the gods?”

Atreus remembered asking Mimir this question a few weeks ago, when the Greek gods had landed in Midgard. He had replied that Zeus was the king of Olympus, the most powerful of the gods.

“My father,” the God of War simply clarified. “And your grandfather, Atreus.”

“My... What?”

“Your grandfather. Zeus is your father's father.”

“But... But...”

“But what? My father wasn't known for his faithfulness to my mother, Hera, the queen of the gods. He was seduced by your grandmother, as by many mortals before her, and she gave birth to Kratos. Don't look so shocked, young one,” Ares added, his tone slightly amused. “There's nothing more commonplace for the gods of Olympus than the birth of a bastard son of Zeus somewhere in Greece."

“But my father killed his father... Does that mean he killed the king of the gods?”

“Oh, so Kratos told you at least that much. Yes, you understand, Atreus. Your father defeated the King of Olympus. Which makes you the Prince of Olympus, I suppose?” Ares replied as casually as if they were chatting on a terrace of the Forum.

Atreus shook his head.

“You said you wanted to use my father against Zeus."

“That's what I said. I hated my father, Atreus, as much as he hated me. I wanted to see him die and take his place as King of Olympus. Ironically, it was Kratos who succeeded where I failed. Although I doubt he would have considered himself King of Olympus for a moment after killing Zeus...”

“I don't think so.”

Ares grinned grimly.

“It doesn't matter. As general of my armies, your father was no longer surrounded by the Spartan fellows with whom he'd grown up and evolved. I kept him isolated, close only to me, and encouraged him not to form bonds with any of his soldiers - I didn't want him to be distracted from the missions I entrusted to him by something as pointless as friendship. But there was something, something I had no power over, a bond I couldn't destroy myself that prevented your father from becoming fully what I wanted him to be... Death itself."

Atreus felt a new form of fear spreading through his heart and began to shudder. He felt that Ares was about to tell him something terrible, something that would definitively tear the veil separating him from his father's past. He wanted to scream at him to shut up, to stop talking, to keep the words he was about to utter to himself. But the God of War took no notice of the teenager's trembling, his flame-filled gaze now far removed from the small cellar, staring into a bygone past filled with cries and regrets.

“What your father could never understand, or never wanted to understand, was that I acted in what I believed to be his best interests. I had a destiny for him, for us. I wanted him by my side in my fight against Olympus. I would have been king, he would have been my prince. My personal God of War. How could I have imagined that the love he felt for his wife and daughter could be stronger than this destiny? That his attachment to his family was worth more than the world we intended to shape together? In my madness, I thought they were just a distraction I had to push aside so he could devote himself entirely to me.”

Ares turned back to the teenager, who was more unable to speak than if his tongue had been cut out. It seemed to Atreus that he'd never felt such a shock. His father had had a family back in Greece. Faye wasn't his first wife, and Atreus wasn't his first child. A daughter. His sister. The seconds passed, endlessly. He forced himself to gather his thoughts and regain the use of speech; he didn't even recognize his own voice.

“What do you mean, a distraction you had to get rid of...”

“I made him kill them,” Ares replied simply, and Atreus felt like both screaming and crying. “I ordered your father to destroy a village that honored Athena and neglected my cult. I placed his wife and daughter inside the temple that stood in the middle of that village, and fed your father's murderous rage like never before. It worked just as I'd hoped. Drunk with blood, entirely devoted to the carnage, your father didn't even notice who he was murdering until there were no survivors and his fury subsided. I never hid from your father that I was responsible for the death of his wife and daughter. I've never forgotten the look on his face at that moment. I read in it all his despair, his distress, his rage, his hatred, and so I understood that even dead, I would never be the strongest against them. I was right. He perjured himself and never wanted to see me again.”

As Ares spoke, Atreus stopped fighting his tears and let them flow silently. He wept quietly, as much for his unknown sister and her mother as for Kratos. At the thought of what his father had been through, at the thought of all the suffering Ares had inflicted on him, whatever crimes he had committed, Atreus wanted nothing more than to hug him.

Ares watched him cry, coldly.

“You're crying for a murderer, young one,” he said harshly.

“You are the murderer. You had no right to do that,” Atreus replied, his teeth clenched in anger and his eyes blurred with tears.

“Yes, I am. And no, I had no right. I'm aware of that, Atreus. And save your tears for those who truly deserve them. The helpless, the powerless. Your father is not one of them. He made me pay dearly for my crime.”

The Olympian fell silent for a few seconds, painfully.

“He killed me. He was strong enough to kill me, I, Ares, the God of War. How right I was to see in him the power incarnate... How wisely I chose my champion... My fellow gods, to thank him for ridding them of the danger I represented, offered him my throne. Isn't that ironic, Atreus?”

The young Jotnar didn't answer. He suddenly felt exhausted by all the emotions he had experienced since Bellona had led him to lose himself in this lifeless suburb, and he wished for nothing more than to be home again, in his home in Midgard with his father, in Vanaheim in Freya's place, in Jotunheim in the arms of Angrboda, or better still, in the house of Sindri surrounded by all those who loved him. Far from here, far from Rome, far from Ares.

“But now... Now,” the God of War added, mercilessly, “Olympians are entitled to a second chance. I am entitled to a second chance.”

“But I had nothing to do with it,” Atreus pointed out in a pleading voice. “Look, I know you have good reason to be angry with my father - he killed you, after all - but you have to let me go. You have to. What would be the point of you taking it out on me? Except to unleash his wrath on you again? I'm not...”

"Taking it out on you? You mean, revenge? No, Atreus, you don't understand. I don't wish for revenge. I don't wish to face your father again.”

“Then let me go. I won't tell him, I promise.”

Ares shook his head and looked at the teenager, his eyes reflecting an emotion close to sadness and regret.

“I can't.”

He knelt down beside Atreus, who was still huddled against the stone wall.

“I want to be part of this Roman pantheon. I want to be an Olympian, again. But Zeus... has his doubts about me. I must prove my loyalty to him. And you, Atreus, will help me do it. You will be my return gift. My pledge of good faith. I'll deliver to him the son of the Ghost of Sparta, the son of his murderer, to show him that I'm on his side and that I deserve my place back.”

“That's unfair.”

"It is. But we're gods, Atreus. Nothing is fair to us. And using a child isn't worthy of me, but I have no choice.”

Ares stood up and walked to the door. He put his hand on the doorknob and stopped when he heard Atreus's voice.

“You know my father. You know this is going to end badly.”

“I guess Zeus knows what he's doing,” the God of War simply replied.

“Who warned him of our presence in Rome?”

“Bellona, of course. She promised Zeus she'd help me capture you.”

“Then Zeus will reward her, not you.”

“No. We've come to an agreement. The glory of your capture will go to me, provided I offer Bellona something.”

Atreus felt a foreboding.

“What does she want?”

“She's already told you. To have... fun."

Ares opened the door, hesitated for a moment, then turned back to the Jotnar one last time, giving him what looked like a farewell glance.

“For what it's worth. I'm glad I met you, son of Kratos. And I am sorry.”

“No,” Atreus replied fiercely, his gaze full of reproach. “No, you're not. Or you'd do something about it.”

Ares didn't reply. Without another word or glance, he left the room. Atreus waited, his heart pounding. Moments later, the handle turned again and Bellona, still accompanied by Phobos and Deinos, entered.

“So, young god,” Phobos said in his dangerously soft voice, ”where were we?”

“Please, Father,” Atreus whispered to himself. “Please, Father. Come and find me.”

Chapter Text

Atreus tried once more to get up, but when he tried to lean on his arms to stand, he realized that the chains were once again binding his limbs. Ares must have snapped his fingers again, trapping him back in the metal ties. Atreus considered his options at full speed. He didn't have the strength to break his chains; he was too emotionally and physically exhausted to resort to his transformation. His bow and arrows were nowhere to be seen, nor was his knife. He was completely helpless.

“Do you love your father, Atreus?” Phobos asked in his smooth voice, cutting him off in his reflections.

“Of course I do,” Atreus replied, making an effort to calm his trembling.

“Mmmh. Can you really say you know him?”

“I can. And if you know him too, you should know that you really shouldn't mess around with me."

Bellona gave a little laugh. She dropped to her knees beside Atreus and leaned into him, too close and almost lasciviously, invading the personal space of the young god who couldn't back away, already pressed against the stone wall.

“Look who's trying to be intimidating. But I don't see your father in this room, do I? And who's to say he'll ever know what happened here?”

Atreus looked at her, his eyes bigger with fear.

“What do you intend to do?”

“Oh,” Phobos resumed. “We only have good intentions. We thought you'd like to know a little more about who your father really is. And when we think you know enough, we'll take you to Zeus. Your grandfather will no doubt be... Pleased to make your acquaintance.”

“You're crazy. Do you seriously think my father is going to let this slide?"

Bellona let her long, cold fingers run over Atreus's neck. He shivered at the contact and closed his eyes painfully, as if her touch disgusted him.

“Surely not,” the God of Fear answered. “But you see, young god, the situation is very different today. Back then, your father was unstoppable. He had nothing to lose. I could do him no wrong because he feared nothing. He hoped for nothing. His soul was consumed by the flames of hatred and vengeance, and his humanity was gone. What can a god of fear do against a man who feels nothing but a blinding desire to kill? Nothing.”

Bellona wrapped her fingers around Atreus's neck and squeezed lightly. He could feel how Phobos' words excited her, how the mention of the existence of a being dedicated to death and destruction thrilled her.

"But I'm willing to bet that your existence has turned the tables on your father. I'm willing to bet he's capable of feeling fear again. For you. And that opens up new and particularly exciting perspectives for me, Atreus.”

“You're sick.”

“Maybe we are. Who cares?”

Phobos glanced at his brother Deinos, who was still looking at the teenager with hatred, without a word.

“Realize that, Atreus. We do hate your father. But I have to say, I'm personally quite in awe of what he's managed to do. To inspire such fear, not only in mortals but in the gods, I must say, commands respect. I've personally fed on that fear.”

Phobos leaned forward, and Atreus felt his hot breath on his face. Bellona's fingers were still encircling his neck, and he felt a burning desire to pull himself away, to escape the madness of these black-souled gods.

“Why don't you experience it for yourself? Because, young god, the best part is that I can play with these memories all I want.”

The God of Fear tossed back his long, almost white-blond hair and smiled. He held out a pale, ghostly hand, on which veins of an almost black color stood out. He placed it on Atreus's forehead with a false tenderness, like a mother wanting to soothe her child's tremors, and the contact plunged the young god into a whirlwind of emotions that made him want to scream. He closed his eyes and tried to free himself, but Bellona's fingers tightened around his neck, preventing enough air from reaching his lungs for him to stop struggling immediately.

“Just watch, son of the Ghost of Sparta,” she whispered contemptuously, ”watch and feel.”

Atreus closed his eyes and whimpered. Phobos' hand did not leave his forehead as the emotions Kratos' victims had experienced in their final moments flooded and tortured him. The Gods of Fear and Terror made him feel all the horror these mortals, these gods, these creatures had felt at the moment of death.

“See, young one,” Phobos murmured in a voice vibrating with excitement. “This is your father's work.”

Close your heart... Close your heart... Atreus repeated to himself in his wounded mind. But it was as useless as ordering himself to stop being self-aware. His empathic nature had never been good at not feeling the suffering of others, and even if it had been, Atreus could no longer control the emotions that invaded his heart. They weren't his own, and he could neither rationalize them nor put them aside. He was compelled to endure them, to feel the hellish fear of the end, the despair at the absence of a way out, the terror of the agony. All he could do was close his eyes and silently pray for the nightmare to end.

But Phobos and Deinos were not merciful. Soon, the foreign emotions that had been torturing the young Jotnar's heart and soul became clearer, turning into visions. To his own horror, Atreus realized that the collective and indefinite dread he'd been feeling was giving way to personal fears, and that he was beginning to make out faces, hear voices, glimpse silhouettes. And his father. His father, younger, his beard gone, his look one of infinite cruelty, giving death with an ease that pierced Atreus' heart. He saw men and women die, the weakest as well as the most powerful, those who begged as well as those who remained silent, those who resisted as well as those who gave in, but all had within them the fear, the true fear that seizes the heart of beings at the moment of leaving this world and threatens to suffocate the young god. He saw his father kill with his bare hands, rip off limbs, disembowel his victims, and he felt all the terror he inspired in them as they tried in vain to escape his murderous rage.

Unable to bear it any longer, he began to struggle, indifferent to Bellona's fingers, which once again threatened to strangle him.

“Stop!” Atreus shouted. “Please, stop!”

Phobos didn't withdraw his hand, instead flooding him once again with traumatic images and sensations.

“Help! Please!”

It was useless, Atreus knew. There was no one around to help him. He was forced to endure this torture, which hurt far more than if they had attacked his body. He almost hoped that some physical pain would distract him from the mental agony Phobos was inflicting on him. But just as he thought his will would break and his mind would slip into unconsciousness to escape the visions, the God of Fear withdrew his hand.

Emotions abruptly stopped flowing, visions faded, and Atreus felt as if he could breathe normally again, despite the panicked beating of his heart and his skin damp with sweat. From far away, Bellona's laughter reached his ears. He looked at her. She had regained her dangerous beauty, her features once again painfully harmonious. Atreus' terror seemed to have regenerated her.

“Don't worry, Atreus, there's always a time in a man's life when he questions his father. It just happens to you a little earlier than to others, that's all. But we all go through it.

“Including your own dad,” Bellona added in the same mocking tone as Phobos.

“You're sick, all of you” Atreus retorted weakly. "You thrive on the fear and suffering of others. You disgust me.”

Phobos's expression turned dangerous again.

“Let's see,” he said in a falsely pensive tone. “How can I punish you for this? Oh, I've got it. Bellona, hold him.”

The goddess grabbed Atreus by the neck again. This time, the teenager made no attempt to free himself.

“You can do whatever you want to me, it won't change a thing. It won't change me.”

“Maybe it won't. But in the meantime, it's fun.”

And again he placed his icy hand on the teenager's forehead, and he closed his eyes, prepared for the influx of visions and emotions. But he felt only one: a unique fear, a naive, childlike fear. A child's fear. Atreus gritted his teeth. Phobos had changed his strategy; rather than pouring indistinct and numerous terrors into his heart, he had chosen to impose a single, unique vision: that of a child. A little girl.

Oh, no, the young god thought. No, no, no...

But there was nothing he could do but endure, to live out the last moments of this sister he knew nothing about. She was young, even younger than he had been when he had traveled with their father to Jotunheim, and clinging to the hand of a woman who could only be his mother: she had the same deep brown hair, the same dark eyes, the same delicately tanned skin and the same delicate features.

"Mother? What's going on?"

The woman grabs her daughter by the arm. She's frightened. She knows something's wrong. A few hours ago, her husband's soldiers came to get her and her daughter and took them to this village, lost in the countryside around Sparta. She trusted them, of course, these men obey Kratos and are as devoted to him as followers of their god; from whom else could they take orders that would endanger the family of their beloved general? And yet, she feels in danger. They are in danger, she knows it.

"Come, Calliope. We can't stay here. We must find shelter."

The village is under attack. It doesn't make sense. It's Kratos's men she hears coming, and their intentions are clearly not peaceful. The woman hesitates. Part of her wants to run to meet them, find her husband and throw herself into his arms. Another wants to take cover, to protect her daughter from the oncoming warriors. But what if Kratos wasn't there? What if he didn't know they were here? With a firm gesture, the woman takes Calliope with her, still holding her by the arm.

The villagers are aware of the danger. They've seen Ares' soldiers arrive. They too are frightened, and start running, seeking the comfort of a husband, father, brother or son who can protect them. But they are not warriors. They don't want to fight and have neglected the worship of the God of War. They will die for it. Some of them rush to Athena's temple in the center of the village. The woman decides to follow them. Calliope watches the turmoil with childlike eyes. She doesn't understand. She too is afraid, as are the villagers.

The mother and daughter enter the temple and stay there for endless minutes. Huddled up against the woman, Calliope says nothing. She's not used to feeling her mother tremble. It frightens her more than anything else. And then the attack begins. She closes her eyes, wanting to disappear. She hears the shouts of the victors, she hears the cries of the dying, the flames that ravage the village illuminate even the interior of the temple. Some villagers carry heavy wooden beams to barricade the doors. The little girl clutches her mother. She cries. She feels the need to speak, simply to drown out the howling outside, and to hear her mother's voice.

"Mother! What's going on out there? The people! The fire!"

“Ssht, stay close, Calliope.”

The woman knows she'll die before she lets anything happen to her daughter. But she can't promise her anything. Kratos is here. Kratos should be here. He's the one who ordered them brought here... He must have a good reason.

“Mother, I'm scared... are they coming to get us?”

“Your father will protect us.”

Calliope doesn't answer. Her father. Why isn't he here yet? He'll be here. He will come. The doors will open, she'll see her father's imposing figure silhouetted against the flames, he'll kneel down and open his arms for her to nestle in. All around her, people cry, scream, pray.

The doors open, suddenly, and Calliope and her mother gasp. It's him, Kratos, facing them, eyes flashing, entering in the glow of the burning temple. He's got blood on him, and the path behind him is paved with bodies.

Screams resound. Some try to speak, to make the demon desecrating Athena's temple back down with words, but it's useless.

“Daddy?”

“Kratos!”

The soldier of Ares neither hears nor sees them, any more than if they had been invisible. He raises his Blades to strike. Villagers die, one after the other. Mouth open, eyes wide with fear, Calliope watches her father slaughter the innocent. Soon, only they in the temple are still breathing. Kratos turns to his latest victims, his killer's gaze blacker than the thickest darkness. The woman wants to scream, but doesn't have the time. Her husband's blade pierces her, spurting blood from the body he has loved and desired so much. She falls to the ground, lifeless, an expression of surprise still on her face, her mouth still open with a scream she'll never utter.

“No, Father...”

Calliope feels her mother's hand gently loosen its grip on hers as the life leaves her body. She finds herself alone, the last survivor of the massacre, in front of the father she loves so much, who raises his blade to strike again. She cries, but Kratos still doesn't see her. When she feels the weapon enter her flesh, she looks up, slowly, and it seems to her that it's not the blade that's going to kill her, but this feeling of terror that chokes her as she watches her father murder her. She screams. But not for long. Soon, it's all over.

Phobos brutally withdrew his hand and Atreus began to scream. His sister's agony, his father's crime, which he had experienced so vividly, had ripped through his heart, and he gave up all pride, all courage. All he wanted was for it to stop.

“Silence, young man,” Phobos warned, stretching out his hand again towards the teenager. We still have many memories to show you. Keep quiet for a while, it's not over yet.”

But Atreus couldn't bring himself to do that. He couldn't see more. He began to struggle, the chains digging painfully into his flesh with every movement - but he couldn't care less anymore. In his desperation, strangely enough, only one name came to mind. He began to call it out with all the energy he had left.

“Ares!”

Bellona tried to cover his mouth with her hand to prevent him from screaming, but the teenager turned his head violently to stop her and continued to shout the name of the God of War.

“Ares! Please!”

Moments later, the door burst open and Ares entered the room, his expression as stern as ever. He looked at the scene before him, Atreus in chains, covered in sweat and looking distraught, and Bellona and Phobos on either side of the teenager, trying to hold him in place. The god heaved a sigh of exasperation.

“What have you done to him?”

“Nothing more than we planned to do,” Phobos said, rising to his feet. “We haven't touched him, as promised. He's... only journeying into his father's past."

Ares stared at him for a good half-minute, then turned away, annoyed.

“I'm tired of this family calling me for help. But that's enough. You had what you wanted, now leave him be. It is time to take him to Zeus.”

Exhausted, but almost relieved, Atreus let his head fall back onto the stone floor, as the chains loosened again and as he felt hands grasp him to force him to his feet. This ordeal was over. He would now move on to the next one.

He had never missed his father so much.

******************************************

In the temple of Quirinus, Kratos was consumed by worry. The sun had long since set and neither Atreus nor Bellona had reappeared. The God of War knew his child: Atreus could be undisciplined and reckless, but Kratos doubted he was enough to linger carelessly at night in the streets of an unknown city, in the company of an unknown goddess, when his father's mortal enemies were there. The more time passed, the more he became convinced that something was wrong. He felt his anger rising, against Atreus for not being more cautious, against Quirinus for his blind trust in Bellona, against himself for not listening to his instinct to keep his child close to him. Kratos missed Mimir's grounding presence by his side. This cursed city, this cursed pantheon. He'd only been in Rome twenty-four hours and already he felt a growing urge to burn it all down.

Waiting any longer would be pointless. Suddenly determined to search for him, Kratos grabbed his weapons, strapped his axe and Blades to his back and hurried out of his room. As he entered the main hall of the temple, he saw Quirinus standing before the fire, which was burning as brightly as when they had consecrated the objects representing their power. The old god stared blankly into the flames, as if hypnotized. Hearing the God of War enter the heart of his sanctuary, he looked up, and Kratos could read a concern similar to his own on his graceless face.

“They haven't returned,” he said quietly. “That's not normal.”

Kratos took a step forward, struggling to control his anger that threatened to go straight to Quirinus.

“My son is with your daughter,” he replied in a cutting voice. “She knows this town. Where could she have taken him?”

The Roman god raised his hands in a gesture of helplessness.

“How should I know? Rome is big and there are many things Bellona could have wanted to show Atreus. They could be anywhere.”

“Is your daughter trustworthy?”

“She's my daughter, Ghost of Sparta.”

“That means nothing to me. Is she trustworthy or not?”

A shadow passed over Quirinus' face. The god was not objective when it came to his precious Bellona. She was his weakness. He looked at her as one admires a star shining in the blackest night, indifferent and blind to the darkness surrounding its brilliance. But even he had been able to feel, in a flash of lucidity, the flicker of violence that so profoundly defined the goddess. Quirinus shook his head.

“Yes,” he replied. “She would never harm Atreus, I can vouch for that.”

But Kratos had seen the doubt clouding the Roman god's eyes. He approached him, more menacing than ever.

"You are going to help me look for them; and if your daughter has harmed my son in any way, you will wish you were the one who had disappeared. Where do we start?”

“I don't know, Spartan!”

“I thought you were omniscient.”

“I'm not omniscient. Not in the way you think, anyway. I'm the keeper of the spirit of Rome, Kratos, that doesn't mean I know everything that's going on in every one of its streets at every moment!”

Quirinus had lost his nonchalance and phlegm, and the Spartan could begin to read on his face the well-known fear he had inspired in so many people. He did nothing to allay this fear. Quite the opposite, in fact.

“I think you are lying, now.”

With a brutal gesture, the God of War grabbed Quirinus and forced him to bend over the fire. He saw the terror pass into the Roman god's eyes, the glow of the flames dancing across his face.

“Where has your daughter taken Atreus? Answer, or it is you I shall sacrifice to Rome!"

“I told you, I don't know!”

Quirinus tried to free himself from Kratos' embrace, but the Spartan easily prevented him and brought his face closer to the flames.

“Kratos! What are you doing?”

Kratos and Quirinus turned around in unison. The God of War let go of his victim, who fell near the hearth. Before them stood Athena, hands on hips, her gaze shifting from one to the other, questioning and reproachful.

“Athena!” Quirinus exclaimed, his voice slightly broken. “I thought you'd gone to your temple, like the others, by now.”

“The others have left, indeed, but I needed a little more time with myself before I went. Kratos, what's wrong? May I ask why you were about to burn our host alive?” And the Goddess of Wisdom added, before he had time to reply, “Where's Atreus?”

"We do not know. He and Quirinus' daughter have not returned. We are going to look for them. Quirinus has yet to tell me where he thinks they are.”

Quirinus struggled to his feet and turned to Kratos, his expression both hostile and sorrowful.

“You were right not to want to come to Rome, Ghost of Sparta. Your new-found wisdom soon gives way to your old violence here. Very well, then. I don't know if these flames can burn me, but I don't want to find out. I'm not omniscient but I know someone who is. He'll know where Atreus and Bellona are.”

He was interrupted by a coughing fit.

“But you have to promise me something,” he added after regaining his composure. “Whatever happens, don't hurt my daughter. Please.”

Kratos glared at him.

"I would not promise such a thing. Not when there is a chance she might have hurt my son."

“Bellona is still so young. She's innocent.”

“Then she has done nothing wrong and you have no need to make me promise anything.”

Quirinus' gaze was pleading. The God of War ignored him, willingly turning away from the sight of a father fearing for his daughter's life, and turned to Athena.

“We are going in search of Atreus.”

There was a brief silence.

“I'm coming with you.”

Chapter Text

It was almost darker in the Temple of Quirinus than in the streets of Rome, so brightly lit was the city with a multitude of torches burning into the night. The mild, humid air was reminiscent of Vanaheim. After a day spent within the stone walls of the temple, Kratos might have enjoyed the walk if worry hadn't been so much in his heart. He hadn't felt such fear since learning from the Norns that Heimdall intended to kill his son in Asgard. The God of War remembered the heartbreaking feeling of helplessness that had driven him half-mad: Atreus was in an inaccessible realm at the mercy of a god who wanted him dead, and there was nothing he could do.

He walked behind Quirinus, who hadn't said a word since they'd set off, draped in a strange, almost resigned silence. The Spartan mused that, as the undisputed deity, he must not have liked his somewhat offensive way of interrogating him like a common street punk; but perhaps he also saw the beginning of a new tragedy, like the farcical and heart-rending repetition of a history he'd thought he could rewrite. Or maybe he was simply terrified for his child, too. Either way, the Roman god's state of mind mattered little to Kratos. He didn't care about his sensibilities when Atreus was nowhere to be found and when he was his only lead to his child.

Next to him, Athena was equally silent. Several times, she had looked at him out of the corner of her eye, and he had sensed that she was about to speak to him, no doubt to say something comforting and reassuring, to assure him that they would undoubtedly find his son safe and sound. But she had chosen not to, and part of him was relieved. He was grateful to her for accompanying him and for her concern for Atreus, but he didn't need to hear empty words, and he didn't want to have to think about how he might answer her.

After a long walk that took them well away from the city's nerve center, Quirinus finally stopped in front of a tiny, single-storey house with a ragged roof and a rather shabby appearance. Athena cast a puzzled glance at Kratos, astonished that an omniscient being could be in such a cheap-looking place, and the God of War remembered that for the Greek gods, power must always have the appearance of power. He knew from his time in the Norse pantheon that those who seemed the humblest could sometimes turn out to be the most powerful.

Quirinus cleared his throat, then raised his fist and knocked three times on the door. Moments later, the door opened on a man in his early twenties, dressed in an unflattering toga that looked as if it had been cut from cheap cloth for someone twice his size, and which contrasted with the striking beauty of his face. The young man looked at Quirinus, who merely nodded, and smiled. With an elegant gesture, he invited his visitors to enter, which Quirinus did immediately. Athena and Kratos exchanged glances once more, then entered the small house.

The main room was narrow and mansard-roofed, even smaller and more miserable than the exterior suggested. The young man had furnished it only with a table, a chair and a bed, and the walls were dirty, almost blackened by the smoke coming from the fireplace where meals were cooked; but the simplicity and poverty of his lodgings didn't seem to hurt him particularly, nor did they seem to shame him. He looked at his hosts with a pleasant expression on his face and smiled again, a strange, penetrating smile. Despite his benevolent face, there was something painful about this young, handsome stranger that made him intimidating. As he held his gaze, Kratos felt an emotion that almost resembled awe: the stranger's eyes may have been turned in his direction, but it seemed to the Spartan that he could see far beyond him, into worlds and times that he himself could not even imagine. He exuded a kind of paradoxical sadness, an unfathomable, serene sadness that almost resembled joy. Kratos could hardly look him in the eye, so much did he seem to carry within him everything that has made humankind, from the dawn of time to the end of civilization.

He was a god, that much was clear. And not just any god.

“Hello,” the stranger said after a brief silence. “I'm pleased to receive you.”

He bowed slightly toward Kratos and Athena.

“Do you know who we are?” the Spartan asked.

“Of course, Kratos of Sparta,” he said, without relinquishing that distinctive smile. “I don't mean to sound immodest, but there are few things that... I don't know.”

The God of War decided not to waste time with a show of skills.

“In that case, you know why I am here and how to help me.”

The young man nodded.

“Indeed I do. And you'll know what you want to know, Kratos, but it's not me who's going to tell you.”

“Explain yourself and do not wasting my time with your riddles.”

“Wait a moment, please.”

“Wait?”

The stranger smiled again and raised his hand in a soothing gesture, as if inviting him to patience, seriously making Kratos want to consider violence.

“We can't wait,” Athena said, and the Spartan could sense that she was just as annoyed as he was. “A child is missing and...”

The door opened, stopping the goddess dead in her tracks. A young woman stood in the doorway, hesitant and visibly intimidated by the presence of the three visitors, her gaze shifting from one god to another. Kratos paid her no attention, too busy looking at what she held in her hand.

“Mimir!”

"Brother! Oh, by the gods, thank you...”

The Spartan stepped towards the young mortal woman to retrieve his friend. She moved to back away, but the voice of the unknown Roman god reassured her.

"It's all right, Tulla, you can give him Mimir. The two of them are friends."

He turned to the Greek gods and added: “Forgive me for not fetching Mimir myself, I knew you were coming and didn't want you to find the door closed. Tulla is my servant and friend, she has my full trust.”

Kratos barely listened. He raised his arm, bringing Mimir's face level with his own to better speak to him.

“Mimir, you were with Atreus. What's happened to him? Where is he?”

“We were attacked. Two men I didn't see coming, nor Atreus. I don't know how they appeared... We were in a street where there was strictly no passage... They hit Atreus on the head, he fainted and they stripped him of all his weapons. They threw me into a dark alley. I didn't say anything, I didn't want them to know I was... well, alive.”

Kratos turned to the young god.

“Who are these men? You know everything, speak up.”

“I'm sorry, but I can't say a word,” he replied sadly, shaking his head. “My gifts are not meant to be shared with others, gods or mortals. I have no right to determine the outcome of anything by revealing its beginning and end. I am condemned to remain alone with this infinite knowledge, and all I can do is set you on the path to truth. I'm sure that, between you all, you'll manage to find Atreus.”

“You are so helpful,” Kratos grumbled.

“I sent Tulla to the place where those two men abandoned Mimir. I didn't do it to help you find your son, but there's nothing to stop you using what your friend tells you to that end. I won't give you answers, Kratos, but I'm on your side."

The God of War turned away from the penetrating gaze, both near and far, which made him slightly uncomfortable, and turned his attention back to Mimir.

“How were those two men? What can you tell us?”

Mimir sighed.

“Not much, unfortunately. They didn't say a word, I couldn't even hear the sound of their voices! But I could make them out, before they got rid of me. One was very blond, with long, almost white hair. The other, on the other hand... Smaller, more muscular, with black hair and a henchman's physique...”.

“Gods or mortals?”

“I don't know, brother.”

Kratos glanced at Quirinus and saw that the old god had turned livid. His gaze was almost as distraught as when the Spartan had half-rushed him into the sacred fire of his own temple.

“You know who they are, do you not.”

Quirinus nodded, resigned.

“I may be wrong, but Mimir's description of them makes me think of Phobos and Deinos, respectively God of Fear and God of Terror. And Bellona, where was she?” he added, looking at Mimir.

“Far away. We lost her a few minutes ago. Or rather, it was she who had lost us! She started running through the alleys of this suburb like a deer trying to escape the arrow. Atreus couldn't keep up with her, and as this place is a veritable labyrinth...”

What little life remained in Quirinus' face fled.

“This certainly looks like a trap,” Athena remarked, crossing her arms.

“It certainly was.”

Kratos tried to control his anger by taking a long breath. He knew the young unknown god wouldn't say anything, so he turned back to Quirinus, and when he spoke, his voice was more threatening than ever.

"I have never faced Phobos and Deinos. They never crossed my path. They did not kidnap Atreus to take direct revenge on me, they did it in the name of an Olympian. Do you agree with that?”

“We can only make assumptions, Spartan.”

“Then make assumptions. Which Olympian might they serve? Who are they close to? Who do you think ordered them to capture my son?”

“I...”

“Answer, or your whole city will burn.”

Quirinus swallowed and looked at Athena and the unknown young god, but neither seemed willing to come to his aid. Finally, he answered, looking at the ground.

“Ares. Fear and Terror are servants of Ares. They always have been.”

He raised his head and added: “Is this really a surprise?”

Kratos' face showed no emotion, and when he looked at Athena, he saw that she was as impassive as he was. It was definitely not a surprise.

“Where is the temple of Ares?”

“It's outside the city. The Romans are superstitious, they know that their God of War brings rage and destruction, and they wish to keep their city calm and ordered. The war, they will wage it outside the walls."

Kratos attached Mimir to his belt with a swift gesture.

“Let us go.”

The Spartan turned back to the unknown god and added: “Thank you for your help.”

And without another glance, he headed for the door and left, followed by Quirinus and Athena.

****************************************

Once again, the old Roman god led the way, guiding the two Gods of War.

“We're in luck,” he said. “Ares' temple is on this side. We don't have to go through the whole city again.”

Kratos said nothing. He felt Athena's hand on his arm and turned his face towards her.

“What is it?”

“What exactly are you planning to do? Kill Ares? Again?”

"I plan to find my son and get him to safety, then go after anyone who has ever hurt him. If that includes Ares, so be it. And I will leave this city with Atreus, whether my presence is still needed or not. We should never have come here in the first place."

“If you kill Ares again in revenge for what he did to your child, it means nothing has changed. History repeats itself, Kratos, can't you see the problem? Violence only brings violence, I thought you understood that by now.”

"I am only interested in the safety of Atreus. Not the fate of Rome.”

“I hope with all my heart that we find your son safe and sound. And that you'll be content with his life without having to take someone else's in payment at the risk of starting a war between you and the Olympians again. You've already burned my Pantheon once, Kratos. Don't do it again.”

“If my memory serves me correctly, you played a big part in that.”

“Don't confuse me with that degraded and corrupted version of myself you had to deal with during your battle against Olympus.”

Kratos didn't reply. He realized that Athena didn't deserve his anger, and he remained silent, eager not to make her suffer the consequences of the worry that was compressing his heart.

As they walked, the landscape became less and less urban. The houses became more and more rarified, the path more and more uneven and less and less maintained. The torches that served as streetlights in the center of town had disappeared, and they were reduced to relying on moonlight and starlight for lighting. They continued on their way, and soon a tall stone structure came into view in the darkness. The forecourt of the Temple of Ares was illuminated by two braziers that framed the doorway and bathed the place in an orange glow. In front of the gate, two silhouettes could be seen, one tall and slender, the other short and stocky, and as they drew closer, Kratos recognized the two men Mimir had described. Phobos and Deinos.

Quirinus turned to Kratos and Athena.

“I suppose these two will tell you all you need to know.”

Phobos and Deinos stepped forward, descending the steps leading to the forecourt to meet them.

“Welcome, welcome, my friends!” Phobos said in a charming, cheerful tone, as if they were receiving them at a party and were all about to have a good time.

“Who are you?” Kratos asked, although he already knew the answer.

Phobos smiled, revealing perfectly white, aligned teeth.

“An admirer,” he replied. “I am Phobos, God of Fear, and this is my very silent brother Deinos, God of Terror. He prefers action to words, so you won't hear much from him. But he's very efficient, in his way.”

Phobos patted his twin affectionately on the shoulder, but the latter remained impassive. Kratos wasted no time in asking the only question he needed to know the answer to.

“Where is Atreus?”

The God of Fear smiled again.

“Not here, I'm afraid.”

“We know you captured him on Ares' orders,” Athena said. “Tell us where he is, or pay the price with your life.”

“Oh, we will. We were indeed ordered to capture this little boy, but it wasn't Ares who did it. It's Zeus.”

Kratos' gaze hardened further, if that were only possible. He took his Blades from his back.

“If anything happens to my son, you will all pay the price. And you first. Where is he?”

“We took him to see his grandfather. By now, they must be getting to know each other. What an experience-rich trip for Atreus! After learning so much about his father's past, he's now getting to know his grampa."

The Spartan felt an involuntary tremor run through him.

“What did you tell him?”

“Oh, more or less everything. And we didn't just tell him - we made him see and feel. Now your son has a very clear idea of what his sister went through when you murdered her.”

There was nothing he could do. At the mention of Calliope and the fact that Phobos had put Atreus through her agony, Kratos felt his Spartan Rage take full possession of him. He was vaguely aware of Athena and Quirinus retreating behind him before the world turned to fire and blood. His Blades ignited, and he threw himself at Phobos without a second thought.

The God of Fear made no move to defend himself. But just as he was about to strike, he was stopped in his tracks by a suffocating sensation of fear that paralyzed him.

“Yes!” Phobos triumphed. “The Ghost of Sparta is once again able to feel fear. There's nothing you can do against us, Kratos. We can make you die of terror, if we so choose. Come on, one more time.”

The God of War tried to resist, to fight against this foreign emotion that took up all the space and prevented him from both acting and thinking. In vain. A new wave pierced him, torturing him. He couldn't even tell how long he remained there, kneeling, eyes closed, features taut with the struggle against these feelings that weren't even his own and that were paralyzing him. He felt as helpless as when Modi had electrocuted him all those years ago. The process wasn't so different, he mused in his foggy brain. In both cases, he'd been reduced to impotence by an immaterial, unstoppable flux. How had he managed to resist Thor's son's discharges again?

Oh, yes. Atreus. Atreus in danger.

Atreus was with Zeus.

The thought was terrifying. The idea that Atreus was in grave danger frightened him. But not the kind of fear Phobos and Deinos used to immobilize him and render him harmless: this was a fear that gave him more power than he'd ever had, even more than the desire for vengeance that had guided his arm against the Olympians. This fear could make him destroy worlds, but it could also make him rebuild them. It was stronger than any rage.

Kratos raised his head. His child needed him. He concentrated on this single, obsessive thought, which gradually chased away the foreign emotions Phobos was forcing him to feel. With difficulty, the Spartan got to his feet, slowly, and picked up the Blades he had dropped when the God of Fear had begun torturing him. He sensed behind him that Athena and Quirinus were being subjected to the same treatment. He forced himself to concentrate on the feel of his weapon handles in his hands. Phobos was nothing more than another god standing in his way, and he was the Ghost of Sparta. Nothing he couldn't handle. Nothing, really, to be afraid of.

He swung his Blades at the God of Fear, and the torture ceased. Phobos fell back to avoid the flaming weapons and swore.

“Oh, have I underestimated you, Kratos?” he said evilly as he rose to his feet.

“Yes. But you are not the first.”

The Spartan threw himself at him again. Deinos tried to intervene, but it was Athena who stopped him, having recovered her senses. The goddess struck him in the leg, and the god roared with pain and anger. He turned back to her, his features distorted by hatred. Kratos decided she was capable of dealing with him on her own. He turned his attention back to Phobos, who just smiled at him.

“Very well, then.

Before Kratos' eyes, he transformed. His limbs and face lengthened. His eyes widened. His hair took the form of colorless snakes that floated around him. His mouth twisted into a scary grin. His arms took on the shape of long, crab-like claws. The Spartan watched impassively as he metamorphosed into a frightening creature, halfway between man and monster, straight out of the most terrifying of nightmares, that would have frightened anyone.

But not Kratos. If Phobos thought he was more intimidating in this repulsive form than when he made him feel the terror of his own victims in their final moments, he was sadly mistaken. This was familiar territory for him and he threw his Blades in the creature's face as stoically as if nothing had happened. Phobos continued to send him emotional shocks of fear, but they were less intense and Kratos now repelled them with ease. He confronted his enemy with the violence and determination he brought to every fight, tearing at his deformed flesh, tearing at his limbs, drawing blood. When he struck him in the chest, brutally thrusting the Blades of Chaos into the bloodied creature's torso, Phobos let out an inhuman scream and collapsed to the ground. He raised his repulsive head and when he spoke, his voice had lost its softness and sophisticated accents.

“My death will change nothing, Kratos” he spat hatefully. “Your son knows the truth. I made him see your work, I made him feel the emotions of your countless victims before you finished them off. He knows who you are now, and you're going to lose him. I've made your deepest fear a reality.”

Kratos didn't reply, merely thrusting his Blades deeper into his heart. Phobos didn't even have the strength to scream. He merely flinched for a few moments, his eyes rolling back, blood pouring from his mouth, before closing his eyes for good, his body now inert.

The God of War withdrew his Blades from his enemy's body and looked around. Quirinus had curled up against a shrub, his face pale, and Athena was standing over Deinos' mutilated body, panting and covered in blood. She looked up from the corpse.

“He was difficult to defeat,” she said simply, her breathing short.

"He will no longer be a problem for us. Thank you for what you did.”

Athena shook her sword to make the blood drip more quickly.

“You're welcome. They deserved it. What they did to us was... The world will be better off without them.”

Kratos was tempted to ask her what emotions the two brothers had used to mentally torture her, but decided against it. The goddess was pale, visibly upset, although this had clearly not affected her warrior qualities, as Deinos' violently bloodied corpse attested.

“Listen,” she said, turning to the Spartan. “Zeus has Atreus. Gods are still dying. This... This isn't right. It's not the right way. But I think I know what we must do. I think... I think I have an idea. Quirinus!”

The old Roman god seemed to have aged ten years since they had landed in Rome. He disengaged himself from his shrub and walked towards them with his clumsy step.

“Yes, I'm here, I'm here. What now?”

“I need your help. I need to talk to someone.” She added, looking at Kratos: “Find Atreus, and stall for time. I'll be as quick as I can.”

The Goddess of War turned away, ready to set off, but Kratos grabbed her arm.

“Athena, wait.”

She planted her gaze in his.

“Trust me, Kratos. Just this once.”

“What are you going to do?”

“Something I should have done a long time ago.”

Athena gently disengaged herself from his embrace.

“Go save your son,” she murmured. “I'll take care of Zeus.”

She added nothing, and merely waved to Quirinus.

“Let's go.”

“More walking,” the Roman god grumbled. “You're going to be responsible for my death.”

“Don't be so dramatic. You're a lame god, but a god nonetheless.”

Kratos didn't hear Quirinus' reply. He watched their silhouette disappear into the darkness of the Italian night and was left alone in front of the temple. Trusting Athena was a task that always seemed very difficult, whatever changes had taken place in her since their last meeting, just after Zeus' death. She had little in common with the manipulative, power-hungry creature who had guided him down the path of vengeance and destruction. The Athena he saw today reminded him of the goddess who had welcomed him to Olympus as the new God of War, softer, humbler, more empathetic. But she seemed so much happier too back then. Things had changed. They had changed.

The Spartan thoughtfully made his way to the temple entrance. He climbed the stone staircase, and with each step, his mind drifted further away from Athena and by the time he reached the forecourt, he had forgotten her.

Kratos looked up at the heavy doors leading to the temple of Ares. Ares. He was here. He knew it. He could feel it. With a powerful movement, he pushed open both doors and stepped inside. There was not a single light in the room, and it took a few moments for his eyes to adjust to the darkness. He looked at the altar and the figure standing in front of it, his back turned.

It was dark, but even in complete darkness, it seemed to Kratos that he would have recognized him.

It was Ares.

The God of War turned slowly towards the newcomer. He gestured with his hand, and the torches on the temple walls ignited, lighting up the room with a harsh glow. Without a word, Kratos looked at his former master.

And Ares looked at his former servant.

It was he who broke the silence.

“Hello, Kratos,” he began, the shadow of an indefinable smile on his tough face. “It's been a long time. Welcome back.”

Chapter Text

The deep voice of the god who had both saved and ruined his life echoed throughout Kratos' body and brought back all the emotions he had felt towards him, from the purest veneration to the fiercest hatred. No one had ever betrayed him as his god had.

“Ares.”

The God of War nodded without breaking his slight smile.

“As perceptive as ever.”

He took a step forward, approaching his murderer who remained more motionless than a statue.

“I'd missed hearing you speak my name, Spartan.” He added, before Kratos could open his mouth: “I suppose you're going to ask me where your son is. He's not here. But we'll be joining him soon.”

“Phobos told me he was with Zeus.”

“He is.”

“What does he want with him?

“You'll know when he tells you.”

Ares made a casual gesture with his hand. It was strange to feel him so relaxed in the company of his murderer, when every muscle in Kratos' body was tense, ready to attack, ready to defend. But the Olympian merely looked at him, an almost fond expression on his warrior features.

“You've grown old.”

“It is the privilege of those who stay alive.”

Ares gave a small laugh.

"You look as powerful and fearsome as the day I last saw you. And yet, you've changed a lot.”

“Who told you that?”

“No one. All I did was talk to your child. It's obvious that the Kratos I turned into a monster - with his active participation, of course - could never have raised a soul as kind as Atreus's.”

Kratos forced himself to take deep breaths. Hearing Ares pronounce Atreus's name, mentioning the fact that he'd spent time with him sent shocks of rage through his entire being.

“What did you tell him?” he asked in a low, anger-laden voice.

"I simply told him our story. What we've been through.”

“There is no we, Ares.”

“No. But there could have been. Things could have been very different, Kratos.”

The Olympian turned to the altar in the center of the temple and gazed at it pensively. For a moment, only the crackling of the torches illuminating the place could be heard.

“Things could be different, but they're not. Basically, nothing's changed. I'm going back to being the God of War in Zeus' pantheon. Play my part. The Romans are a warrior people, they'll pray to me when they have a battle to fight, and I'll intervene on their behalf. What else can I do? I can't imagine any other destiny. Not anymore. Death puts a lot of things into perspective.”

He turned back to his former servant.

“But another world was possible. Aren't you curious, Kratos, about what we could have built together?”

“Your grand plans are of no importance to me. The only thing that matters to me is my child.”

Ares rolled his eyes.

“As usual.”

At the indirect mention of Calliope's loss, which had caused him to turn his back on his god, Kratos felt his rage threaten, and the Blades ignite.

“Enough,” he growled. ” You are wasting my time. Take me to my son, since you are only here to do Zeus' bidding."

Ares frowned.

"Do not think I take the slightest pleasure in this. Seeing you again is one thing, seeing Zeus again is another. I hated him more than anything else in the world, and I still do.”

“And yet you sacrifice my child to him today.”

"I am not sacrificing anyone. Zeus forgets nothing, and forgives hardly at all. He demanded that I deliver your son to him if I am to have any hope of redemption. I'm doing what I must to reinstate my Pantheon, but don't think it gives me the slightest pride or satisfaction.”

Kratos was unable to restrain himself any longer from asking the question that was burning his lips.

“What does Zeus want with Atreus? Take his life? Take revenge on him against me?"

The Olympian stared at him for a few moments.

“No,” he finally replied. “Zeus has learned from my mistakes and his own. His intentions are a little different. Come with me, Spartan.”

And Ares turned away from him and headed for the back of the temple. He walked around the altar and stopped in front of the back wall, where he placed his hand. Immediately, a doorway of dark bluish light appeared on the surface, reminding Kratos of the mystical access points that allowed travel from one realm to another in Yggdrasil. The God of War looked at him.

“This access leads to the temple of Zeus. That's where he is, and where your son is. After you, Kratos.”

The Spartan didn't move, merely returned his gaze. It was hard, impenetrable. Ares raised an eyebrow, questioningly.

“I just have one question.”

“I think I know what you're going to ask.”

"And will you answer? ”

“Of course.”

Kratos's gaze changed imperceptibly. Someone other than Ares wouldn't necessarily have seen the pain and sadness that slightly colored his fiery gaze.

“My wife. My daughter. Why, Ares?”

“Why not? I'm a cruel god, everyone knows that.”

"That is not an answer. ”

“Indeed, Spartan. But it's a hard one.”

He tore himself from the grip of this man's eyes, to whom he had subjected the worst of torments, and sighed.

“I wanted them dead. I can't deny it. I wanted you entirely devoted to my service, and I quickly had the project of removing you from the softening sweetness of family life. Your wife, Lysandra, had too much influence over you, and your love for her seemed too powerful not to thwart my plans. And your daughter... They possessed you, Kratos, and as long as they possessed you, it seemed to me that your life could never be mine... Just as you promised me on that battlefield. They had to die.”

He paused and sighed again.

“Of course, I considered having them killed discreetly, and making their deaths look like accidents. But that wasn't worthy of you, Kratos, you weren't born for such a trivial fate. By opting for this solution, I would have turned you into a commonplace, grieving widower, unlucky and unhappy. You might even have lost your passion for battle. I wanted you torn apart by pain and hatred. Heroes always suffer more than others, Spartan, that's what makes them so legendary. I was convinced that by making you commit their murder, I was going to turn you into a being devoured by the most fearsome grief. Oh, I knew you'd hate me! I imagined you would storm, scream, plunge into the most extreme rage to reach out and hurt me. But you wouldn't have succeeded, would you? And in the end, you would have stopped wanting it. You would have lost the desire to see me suffer when you'd realized that I was all you had left. When you'd have realized that while the whole world condemned you for your crimes, I was the one who would forgive them, who would understand them, who would welcome them. The one who would walk by your side despite the blood that stained your hands.”

Ares' eyes glowed with an indefinable bewilderment, illuminated by the memory, and it seemed to Kratos that if he could have described that look, he would have been able to identify the nature of the great madness of war. He remained silent, unable to respond to what his former master had said, and after a moment, Ares' gaze became human again.

“But it didn't happen like that, as you know,” he continued, his voice laden with everlasting regret. “You ran away from me. You didn't try to reach me. You found other gods to serve.”

“I did not feel powerful enough to defeat a god, Ares.”

“Obviously not. Strangely enough, if you had sought to confront me, I'm sure you would have returned to my service. You've given yourself to war... But not to me.”

There was another silence.

“If you've asked a question, I'm entitled to one too, aren't I?”

"As you wish. Be quick. Atreus is waiting for me.”

"Would you have been with me, if I hadn't committed the madness of making you kill your family? Would you have stood by me against my fellow gods, if I had asked you to?”

Kratos hesitated. He owed Ares nothing, not even the truth. And yet, he chose to be sincere.

“I would have followed you anywhere, no matter what. I worshipped you, Ares, and more than that, I trusted you. You broke that trust.”

Ares looked at him thoughtfully.

“Indeed, I have. And I've sealed my fate. I think it's time to seal yours. Let's go, Kratos. Let's meet your son."

Kratos didn't answer. He gave the Olympian one last dark look and stepped through the door of light, Ares behind him. Once on the other side, he blinked once or twice to chase away the blinding glare obscuring his vision. The clouds of light dispersed, and soon Kratos could make out what was waiting for him behind the door.

Or rather, who.

They had entered a large, majestic room, built in a harmonious blend of marble and stone, and as in the temple of Ares, an altar occupied the central space. On this altar lay Atreus, visibly unconscious but alive - Kratos' heart missed a beat as he saw the teenager's chest rise slowly. Beside him were a golden liquid-filled vial and a sword. Behind the altar stood Zeus, his hated father, his slaughtered father, arms crossed over his mighty chest, standing full height, his imperial white gaze looking down on the newcomers. And behind him, fully assembled in a line like judges ready to pronounce their sentence, were the Olympians.

Only Athena was missing. Bellona, on the other hand, was here, more beautiful and triumphant than ever. She stood to the left of the Olympians, a little way back, as if her status as a Roman deity still maintained her in a state of slight inferiority to the resurrected members of the Greek pantheon, and she devoured Ares with her eyes as if he were the most beautiful thing she had ever seen. The God of War had made no move to rejoin his fellows and was content to stand motionless beside Kratos, no doubt waiting for Zeus to allow him to regain the place his rebellion had cost him.

The Spartan wanted to run to his fainting child, but his instinct was to stay put. He could feel the gaze of every one of the gods of Olympus, victims and survivors alike, and he tried not to let himself be paralyzed by the stakes, but rather to feed off the tension that pervaded the place, transforming it into the adrenalin he knew would fuel his strength and power.

The Sky Father's gaze passed from one to the other, several times, before he decided to speak.

“Ah, two of my Gods of War have finally arrived. My prodigal sons reunited, a rare sight. Well, well, well. We're almost complete. I hope my dear daughter won't be too long in coming.”

Zeus's falsely cheerful tone failed to mask the hatred that thickened his voice. Kratos stepped forward.

“Zeus.”

“Yes, Kratos.”

“What have you done to my son?”

"I'm glad you know the joy of having a son. But be careful, they can sometimes be unpredictable and unruly. I advise you to be firm.”

"Do not play this game. What do you want from me?”

Zeus stepped around the altar towards the two Gods of War.

“To offer you a deal. And for that I need... Atreus, right?”

Kratos clenched his fists in anger, but answered nothing. He concentrated on two thoughts: saving Atreus, and not giving in to the rage that the proximity of the Olympians and Zeus in particular threatened to unleash in him.

“You see, my son, death has made me think. You've defeated me, Kratos. No doubt favored by circumstances not even the Sisters of Fate could have foreseen, but I recognize that you have defeated my Pantheon, and proved yourself more powerful than I.”

Zeus squinted and added, his voice laden with hatred: “What I could accept dead, but not alive. How can I become King of Olympus again now that I know the one who once took my existence is still breathing?”

“That goes for a lot of us.”

Kratos looked up at the god who had spoken. Poseidon.

“I'd rather stay dead than tread the same earth as you. What you have inflicted on me is an abomination that no sacrifice, no prayer, nothing that men or gods can do can ever atone for.”

“And so do I,” Helios added, having regained his body and now standing like the others. “There is no world where Olympus and the Ghost of Sparta both live on.”

A murmur of assent ran through the assembly of gods. The Spartan looked at the God of Sea and Sun for a few moments. He remembered the fear, thick as molten lava, that had emanated from them when he had slaughtered them. Phobos had painfully reminded him of this. He frowned.

“Is it my life you want?"

“No,” Zeus resumed. “We want you to do the right thing.

On the altar, Atreus moved feebly, and once again Kratos had to summon all his willpower not to rush towards him.

The Sky Father cleared his throat.

"I am not attached to Rome. I didn't choose this city and I don't yet feel bound to its destiny. I'd rather be Jupiter than dead, of course, but what I'd like most of all is to become Zeus again. When I heard you were alive, I spoke to the Sisters of Fate. They offered to rewrite history in a way that would allow me to remain Zeus, but a Zeus who would never be threatened by you. This is possible: but we need your agreement."

There was silence. The tension was unbearable. Kratos waited, all his senses alert.

“We'll travel back in time to the moment when you asked Ares to save your life. He'll come, and he'll save you, of course! It's not death I'm promising you, Kratos. He'll save you, plain and simple, with no strings attached. You'll owe him nothing but your gratitude. And you can go on with your life as if nothing had happened. You'll stay alive, continue your career in the Spartan army until you retire or die on a battlefield. Your wife and daughter will never be murdered by the Blades you never received, and you'll enjoy them until the day you die. Perhaps you'll have another child, who knows. You'll honor the gods and ignore your divine nature and your father's identity for the rest of your life. You'll never know the destiny that was meant to be yours.”

Kratos listened, his eyebrows furrowed, his gaze hard. Zeus continued.

“I will remain the undisputed king among the gods, and Olympus will reign as it should always have done. As for Ares, he will never try anything against me.”

Zeus cast a warning glance at the God of War, who answered nothing. His gaze was as dark as Kratos's, his features almost as tense.

“If I'm not mistaken, it's everything you dreamed of. What do you say?”

Zeus had a point. For a long time, being able to go back had been his only wish. And even now, despite himself, Kratos felt his throat knot at the thought of accepting this offer. Becoming a Spartan again. Resuming his profession as a soldier, completely unaware of the other paths offered by life and the world. Seeing Lysandra and Calliope again. Holding them in his arms, hearing their laughter. Living the life that had been stolen from him, that he had stolen from himself. Waging war on his enemies, making love to his wife, honoring the gods, watching his daughter grow up, and never questioning a thing. Letting himself live and die when the time would come, and finding it perfectly normal.

Kratos looked down at the motionless form of his son.

Regaining Calliope at the cost of losing Atreus.

He couldn't.

He couldn't imagine a world without Atreus. It was the most absurd thing, the most inconceivable, the most frightening.

A life in which he would never have known Faye. A life in which he would never have known Freya.

He looked up at Zeus and his eyes became merciless again.

“No.”

Kratos felt Ares' gaze turn to him, but he was content to support Zeus', who stared at him silently, longingly.

“No?”

“No.”

The King of the Gods sighed.

“You're not making this easy for me, Kratos.”

The Spartan felt hatred bubbling in his veins.

“Listen to me, Zeus. I will walk out of this temple and this city with my son. Nothing and no one will stand in my way, and certainly not you.”

“I see. In that case, the time has come for me to inform you of the second branch of the alternative I propose. You should know that, much to my regret, your son is dying.”

Kratos's heart began to beat faster. Next to him, he sensed Ares' surprise, who stopped looking at him to set his eyes on their father. Zeus turned away from them to walk to the altar and seized the vial lying there.

“I suspected there was a high chance you'd refuse and we'd be forced to stick to this... Roman destiny. But Jupiter won't tolerate your existence any more than I. So I took precautions. This,” and he raised the vial, ”is the antidote to the poison he swallowed.”

Before Kratos could make a move, Zeus shattered the vial, throwing it to the ground. The liquid spilled onto the ground, unusable.

"And now there is none left. And before you throw yourself at me,” he added as he saw the flames shooting from Kratos' chains, ”there's another way to save your child. Attack me, and you'll never know. I'll let him die - and I don't want that, Kratos. Atreus doesn't deserve death, he's such a sweet child.”

“That's not what we agreed on, Father,” Ares said.

Zeus ignored him, his attention focused on Kratos.

“Speak up,” the Spartan growled, his face hardened with rage.

Zeus turned once more to the altar, this time seizing the blade.

“The poison that is killing Atreus can be warded off in two ways. The first spreads at our feet and will be of no help to us. The second requires a slightly more complex application, but the principle remains simple. Atreus can be saved by a sacrifice. Yours, Kratos. By this blade, impregnated with the antidote.”

He held out the sword.

“Are you trying to tell me I have to kill myself with this thing for Atreus to live?”

“Precisely.”

“And you expect me to believe you?”

“Yes.”

“Then you are even more foolish than I thought.”

“If you don't believe me, then just watch your son die.”

Zeus waved his hand in the boy's direction. Kratos approached him and laid his hand gently on his forehead, colder than the Helheim wind. Atreus was pale, even more so than usual, and his breathing was so slow that he seemed to be plunged into an irreversible sleep. Zeus' voice came from behind him.

“As I told you, he will only awaken at the cost of your life."

The Spartan refused to give in to fear.

"I cannot trust you, Zeus. I cannot."

“Can you trust me?”

Kratos raised his head as he heard a soft, sad voice he recognized immediately. The pale, distant-looking young god who had put them on Ares' trail was standing near the temple entrance; too busy looking at Atreus, Zeus and the Olympians, Kratos hadn't noticed him.

“Roman God,” he growled. “What are you doing here?”

“My name is Janus, Kratos. I am the God of Beginnings and Endings. And I'm here to help you make the right decision. This blade is magical: it has the power to save Atreus, but only if it ends the life of another.”

“Another?”

“Yes, another. Zeus wants it to be yours. I'm sorry, Spartan.”

Kratos held Janus' infinite gaze and knew, deep down, that the young god was telling the truth. Atreus would only live if someone else died in his place. He looked at the Olympians. He looked at Ares, still standing beside him. He looked at Zeus. And he suddenly decided, in his mind clouded with hatred and fear, that one of them would die. Now.

Desperate and ready to kill, Kratos lunged for the blade. But before he could touch the sword's hilt, he felt a wave of energy push him backwards, with a violence similar to that of Ragnarok piercing the heart of Asgard. The impact threatened to knock him unconscious. He shook his head angrily, determined to keep his senses, and rose to his feet.

Zeus grinned grimly.

“Do you really think I'm going to let you attack me like this? You underestimate me, Kratos.”

Kratos didn't reply and reached for his Blades, but once again Zeus sent another wave of lightning that hurled him against the temple wall with an out-of-this-world force. Stunned, Kratos fell to his knees and took a few seconds to get to his feet. But the King of the Gods gave him no such chance. He struck him again, violently, intensely, and Kratos could do nothing to escape this new torture. His helplessness confused him.

He knew Zeus. He'd faced him on several occasions, and competed with him to the point of surpassing him. So why was he now unable to counter his attacks?

The Spartan tried to concentrate on the danger Atreus was in, as he had done with Phobos, and with Modi before him. Saving his child's life had always been, along with his desire for revenge, the most effective driving force behind his killing power.

Why, why wasn't it working now? Under the effects of torture, even his rage seemed to be slowly weakening, like bubbling water that gradually loses steam. He tried to awaken it, to regain the breath of hatred that had made him unstoppable and enabled him to burn Olympus to the ground, but to nothing avail.

He would have killed Zeus twenty times over to save his child. But right now, he simply didn't have the strength. This time, the rage was on Zeus' side, this fallen king from whom he had taken everything: his kingdom, his family, his pride.

And now, this king was claiming his life to save Atreus'.

The pain of the lightning bolt left him little time to think. But Kratos suddenly had the impression that his entire journey to Rome had been aimed at making him die on the altar of the temple of the King of Olympus. Perhaps this sacrifice wasn't just required to save Atreus' life; it was demanded so that the new pantheon of this Rome that was reviving the murdered Greek gods could thrive. Maybe Helios was right, maybe he really was naive to think that Olympus could exist again in its Roman version while the Ghost of Sparta continued to walk this earth. He had to die for Rome to survive.

And somehow, it almost seemed right.

Had Tyr been aware of this when he'd delivered the message from the Sisters of Fate? Or had he been fooled too?

The pain ceased, but every fiber of his body continued to protest. Kratos remained on the ground, exhausted by the ordeal, feeling as helpless as when Zeus had killed him in the city of Rhodes in front of his Spartan army, many lifetimes ago. He looked up to meet his father's gaze of light, standing over him, blade in hand, ready to strike.

“You must do it for Atreus,” the King of the Gods whispered. “And I must do it for Rome.”

“No, Father, you must do it for yourself. I know that. I have been there. But vengeance will bring you nothing."

Kratos looked away to meet Janus' eyes. The Roman god stood behind Zeus, a strangely peaceful, almost reassuring expression on his face.

He knows how this is going to end, Kratos mused. And he almost had the impression that Janus was the one pulling the strings, the one responsible for this weakness that left him unable to defend himself against Zeus.

Those damned gods.

But this would not be the end.

“You know me, Zeus,” he murmured. “Death will not prevent me from seeing my son grow up."

“If you refuse to stay dead, then the sacrifice will probably no longer be worth it. You want to make sure your son grows up, Kratos? Do not come back."

And he felt as if he'd been struck by lightning again. He sought Janus' gaze again, but this time to address a silent prayer.

Protect my son.

Janus nodded, understanding.

“Brother!”

This almost made him smile. He was glad the last voice he'd ever hear was that of his best friend, and not the father who'd killed him and whom he'd killed in return.

“It is all right, Mimir."

Perhaps this really was the end, after all.

He looked at his sleeping Atreus. Soon, he would wake up.

Without his father. But it would be worth it.

He could only hope that Atreus would be strong enough not to seek revenge.

Zeus raised his blade, but all Kratos could see was the pale, peaceful face of his child. He barely heard Athena's voice stopping the King of the Gods dead in his tracks.

“Father!”

Zeus stood still, turned around, and Kratos tore himself away from the contemplation of his boy. Behind them, Athena had finally joined the Olympians in the temple, and she wasn't alone. Quirinus stood next to her, his breath short and his expression as acerbic as ever, along with a woman Kratos had never seen before. She was tall, probably taller than Zeus himself, and of a cold but undeniable beauty. Her long curly hair framed a face with perfectly regular features and piercing eyes. Kratos didn't recognize her, but Zeus obviously did. He stared at the newcomer, a barely contained expression of surprise on his face.

“You!”

The woman smiled sarcastically.

“Yes, my love, me. Me, me, me.”

She placed her hand on Athena's shoulder, as if to thank her with this touch, and advanced towards Zeus. Her step was as proud and distinguished as that of a queen.

For the first time, Zeus seemed genuinely unsettled. And judging by the triumphant smile Janus now wore, Kratos felt he surely had reason to be.

Chapter Text

The woman - or rather, the goddess - stood before the King of the Gods, who had stopped in mid-swing. She glared at him with contempt, then turned her imperial gaze on Kratos, on the ground at Zeus' feet, ready to let himself be killed, weakened by a force that had drained him of his vital energy and would not even allow him to get up.

“Perhaps you got what you wanted,” she said, addressing the Sky Father proudly. “The Ghost of Sparta is crawling before you, and obviously offers no resistance. Do you really need to kill him?”

“You have no business here, Mnemosyne,” Zeus replied. “I do not allow lesser deities to enter my sanctuary.”

"Lesser deities! My dear, you haven't changed. You still have as little regard for the women you bed. Do you even remember who I am, to treat me like this?”

Zeus raised his eyebrows, and his forehead contracted in anger, but he said nothing. He turned to Athena and addressed her in an angry voice: “Good to see you again, my daughter. What new treachery are you up to this time? Wasn't it enough to guide my enemy's arm against me?”

“Father, believe me when I say I mean you no harm,” Athena replied, humbly bowing her head - she hadn't expected any displays of affection and hoped a show of modesty would help her cause. “I only wish to mend what has been broken, not reopen old wounds.”

“And to that end, you bring me this woman. I can't quite see what you're trying to achieve, Athena. Could you enlighten me?”

“We must wipe the slate clean,” the Goddess of Wisdom said, taking a deep breath. “Rome, our Pantheon, cannot be born in the blood of a god. This new city does not need to be consecrated by an unjust sacrifice. Don't you understand, Father? Killing Kratos won't give you back what you've lost. It won't make you more powerful. It will only base your new reign on anger and suffering.”

She glanced at Kratos, then turned to Atreus, still passed out on the altar.

“All the power in the world is not worth shedding the tears of an innocent child. If you take his father away from Atreus, that's exactly what you'll do.”

“Touching. Did Kratos care about the tears of the innocent when he destroyed our beloved Greece?”

"I did not care, Zeus. I only cared about seeing you crawl in your own blood, and that is what I got. Kill me now, take your revenge.”

The Spartan's voice was a whisper, but everyone heard the hint of arrogance in his weakened tone. Zeus's hand began to tremble slightly and Athena hurried to speak again, as if Kratos had never spoken, lest he immediately pierce his assassin in rage.

“Kratos was not you. You were and are the soul of our world, Father. You're better than this, you're better than him!”

Zeus raised the blade he held pointed at the Spartan in Athena's direction. He exuded such an aura of power that the goddess recoiled.

“Enough, my daughter! Don't insinuate that I doubt for a second my difference of value with this being I was foolish enough to elevate to the rank of Olympian. Kratos will soon no longer exist for me. He will be but a distant memory as I return to being what I should never have ceased to be: your king!”

Mnemosyne chuckled.

“What a lack of ambition, my dear! A distant memory? But I can do much better than that.”

Zeus turned to her, again disconcerted. A murmur went up from the assembly of Olympians, also expressing incomprehension at the goddess's words, and one of them stepped out of line to stand next to the King of the Gods, face to face with Mnemosyne. It was Hera.

“My dear husband, can you tell me what she's doing here? I ordered you to forbid her any access to Olympus. It goes without saying that she has no right to enter your temple either!”

“Oh, he obeyed you, my queen,” Mnemosyne replied with an elegant curtsy. “I was never able to set foot in the palace of the gods again after your little fit of jealousy. That said, I understand your fears. We could have been very happy if he had chosen me as queen, and I'm sure he knows it.”

Hera opened her mouth furiously to retort, but it was Kratos who spoke first.

“That is enough, all of you!” the Spartan growled, making an effort to gather what was left of his vital energy after the attacks he had suffered. “My son is dying. Do what you have to do, Zeus.”

“No!” Athena shouted.

“Someone has to die for Atreus to live, Athena. And it is right that it should be me. Zeus has the blade and I cannot defend myself."

“No,” the Goddess of Wisdom repeated more softly, her teeth clenched. She turned to Zeus: “I won't allow it. Killing your enemy cannot appease your anger, Father.”

She gestured towards Mnemosyne.

"But she can. She can soothe all the pain, all the resentment, the burn of humiliation we've suffered. Let her erase our memories, Father. Let our Pantheon put the past behind us and truly be reborn as new gods, not as wounded beings still haunted by memories too painful. Mnemosyne is the Goddess of Memory, she can take us where the ghost of Greece will not follow."

Zeus gazed at her, stunned, as if seeing her for the first time. He wasn't the only one to be struck by his daughter's words: this time, it wasn't a murmur but exclamations that rose up among the Olympians.

“Have you lost your mind, Athena?” Poseidon indignantly exclaimed.

“That's an extreme solution, my dear,” Hestia added in a gentle voice.

“Forget who we are? Forget Greece? She must be mad!” Hermes ironized.

“There's no question of that,” Helios agreed.

“This isn't her first treachery,” Hera remarked acidly.

The goddess shook her head, ignoring the outraged voices of her Pantheon. A few of the gods, however, stared at her wordlessly, waiting for her to continue speaking, to explain why she had this whim to make their memories disappear, and their silence gave her courage and strength. She struggled to raise her voice to make herself heard.

“Listen to me, all of you! I know it sounds like madness, but if we don't act, this will never end! If Kratos dies, Atreus will rise up against us. Our Pantheon will not be born in crime, not this time. We must break the cycle, definitively!"

But it was no use. Most Olympians continued to express their indignation at the idea of losing their memories, and Athena looked one by one at those who remained strangely silent, seeking support.

"You're all alone, my daughter. We can't say your proposal has unanimous support. There is no one here wants to lose the memory of this life of ours,” Zeus said sarcastically, his deep tone dominating the noise of the voices.

“Yes, there is.”

The temple fell silent. Everyone, including Kratos, turned to the one who had spoken. It was Hephaestus. The blacksmith god, the marginal, isolated god shunned by all because of his ugliness, who stood a little to the right of the others, stared at Athena with his asymmetrical gaze. His eyes expressed nothing but great weariness, and nothing in him seemed to rejoice at the idea of this unexpected rebirth.

“There is someone. I... I want to forget.”

He looked at Kratos, and for the first time, the Ghost of Sparta felt unable to hold an Olympian's gaze. He lowered his eyes, but he'd had time to read in Hephaestus' eyes the same regret that embraced his own heart. Pandora. Pandora that he had let die because of his selfishness and cruelty.

“And so do I.”

If Hephaestus' intervention had taken the Olympians by surprise and silenced them a little, this time the stupefaction left them completely speechless. For a full minute, no one said a word, their eyes riveted on the one who had spoken.

It was Ares. Their God of War.

“We have new names,” he finally added, seeing that no one had decided to speak. “A new land. As much as it pains me to admit it, Athena is right, we can start again.”

Aphrodite stepped out of line to join Ares. She took his hand and they exchanged an intense gaze that left no doubt as to the love that had once been theirs. Kratos looked down at their clasped hands and felt that he understood what was going on in Aphrodite's heart. The love she had shared with Ares was real, but had no chance of being reborn if the memory of Kratos followed them to Rome. Not when the Goddess of Beauty had lost herself in the arms of her lover's murderer, blinded by the lust that had escaped from the Box and plunged her into an unscrupulous quest for pleasure. She nodded, shaking her endless brown hair.

“I agree,” she said simply. “If you become Mars, I'm willing to sacrifice my memory to become Venus.”

And Kratos felt almost happy for them. Almost.

“Then so am I,” Apollo agreed after a few seconds. “You're right. Let's get rid of the past. A Roman destiny awaits us!”

“Maybe... Maybe it's for the best, indeed.”

“We'll forget. We'll start again. Stronger, better.”

“I'm not against forgetting death.”

“We'll still be the same, but we'll never have been defeated. The truth doesn't matter, only what we believe.”

Even those who had been most indignant at Athena's suggestion were beginning to have doubts. They had reacted predictably to what felt like a second death rather than a rebirth; but in the end, the idea of being rid of traumatic memories was too sweet to put off. No one understood this better than Kratos.

With her heart pounding, Athena listened to them and watched as one by one they filed off to her side. But she didn't need to turn her eyes to Zeus to feel her father's anger grow a little more with every Olympian who decided that losing their memory to be reborn in this new divine identity that was being offered to them wasn't such a bad idea after all.

He turned to his troops, furious.

“Come to your senses! You are Olympians, Roman or Greek, you can't just forget the past!"

“Yes, Zeus, they can. And they will. Give it up. Let me use my power.”

Imperious, Mnemosyne took a step towards the King of Olympus, and even Hera seemed unable to contradict the one who had once been her rival. Poseidon placed a hesitant hand on his brother's shoulder.

“Zeus, brother, perhaps Athena is right. Maybe we'd do better to leave Greece and our old identity behind us, once and for all.”

But the Sky Father pulled away with a furious gesture.

“No! Have your memories erased if you like, but Kratos must die. I can't let him live. Never!”

“Father!” Athena shouted, trying her luck again. “Don't you understand? Not killing Kratos would be the most powerful gesture that could establish your second reign!"

But it was useless. Zeus wasn't listening to any of the voices of those closest to him.

“Never!”

The King of Olympus brandished his sword and hurled himself at Kratos. The Spartan closed his eyes, waiting for the pain, ready to receive for the second time in his life a mortal blow from his own father. But the blow never came. The pain was not felt. The only one of his senses that was called upon was his hearing; angry exclamations came to him in a confused way, anguished or indignant voices that he couldn't even identify anymore because they were so intermingled, betraying all the urgency and seriousness of the situation. And when he opened his eyes again, he understood why: Athena and Ares, the Olympians who had decided his fate one after the other and one against the other, had thrown themselves in a single movement between him and their father. They held the poisoned blade of Zeus, the blade that demanded blood to save Atreus, and together deployed all the strength they could muster to prevent it from striking Kratos.

It was a sight the Ghost of Sparta never imagined he'd see. He almost felt like laughing. This strange, unusual joy gave him a renewed zest he never thought he'd feel again.

The urge to live took hold of him again, unstoppable.

Was this really the moment of death? His death?

Why shouldn't he see his son grow up?

Wasn't there another way? For Atreus and for Rome?

There was something comical about the situation. But he was the only one enjoying it. Hampered by his children, his rebellious Gods of War, prevented from striking and giving free rein to the vengeful madness burning inside him, Zeus was literally consumed with rage. Lightning seemed to emanate from his mighty figure, haloed in light; but Athena and Ares did not give in, redoubling their efforts to restrain their father.

“Do it, Mnemosyne!” Athena shouted. “Use your power! Make us forget!”

The Goddess of Memory glanced at the Olympians, who were watching their king struggle at the hands of two of them, worried whether they would stop her. But none moved. None stepped in to prevent her from erasing their memories. Then Mnemosyne rose to her full height and raised her arms, her eyes wide, as if invoking the greatest and most ancient of powers.

“No!” Zeus roared, struggling violently, desperation shining through in his fury-laden voice.

“Mankind will remember, but not you, Zeus!” Mnemosyne proclaimed. “The reign of Jupiter can begin!”

A wave of energy flooded the temple, perhaps even more powerful than that of Hope spreading from the perforated body of the Ghost of Sparta to humanity, drowning the gods in a light both blinding and profoundly alive. Kratos tried to rush forward to protect Atreus from the shock, but in vain; even if he had been at the peak of his physical abilities, the force of Mnemosyne's power would have prevented him from reaching the altar. Beside him, Zeus, Ares and Athena fell to the ground, swept away by the power of Memory. All four clung together, physically united in the last moments when their consciousness still allowed them to recognize each other, strangely close at the moment when they would become forever strangers to each other. The world flashed before their eyes, but these were not images or sounds. They were memories, the very memory of the Greek Pantheon. Birth, creation, life, death; emotions, fragments of existence, centuries, ages, upheavals, the hearts of men, the hearts of gods, to the unspeakable, to the limits of vision and speech, to the very limits of thought.

In this whirlwind of bodies and souls, Kratos gathered enough strength to find Athena's hand. She looked up at him as she felt his fingers grasp hers.

“What have you done?” he murmured.

The goddess smiled. A real smile, this time, even if every muscle in her warrior body was contracted to resist the shock.

“Looks like I'm finally going to be able to erase some memories. Only not yours.”

“Athena...”

“It's all right, Kratos. It's for the best.”

She managed to defy the wave of energy that kept them pinned to the ground to bring her face closer to his. Kratos closed his eyes. Gently, she brushed her lips against his. Not even a farewell kiss. The ghost of a kiss.

A second. The eternity of an instant.

The Spartan reopened his eyes and met his father's white gaze. The King of Olympus said nothing. Defeated, almost soothed by the prospect of oblivion, he contented himself, like Athena, with a last effort in Kratos' direction. He held out the blade, the poisoned blade that alone had the power to bring his grandson back to life.

But he was unable to extend his arm. It was Ares who acted as intermediary, seizing the weapon and passing it to the man who had once entrusted him with his destiny and whom he had so cruelly betrayed.

“Save your child, Kratos.”

These were the last words he spoke to him. Kratos nodded, his throat tight, and turned his head back to Athena. He plunged his amber eyes into hers, so pure a blue that he'd always felt she could fathom his soul by the sheer force of her gaze. She smiled back at him. He held on to her hand and gaze for the last few moments, as Mnemosyne's all-powerful magic spread around and within them.

Then, all of a sudden, the world seemed to stop, Athena's fingers slipped from his and Kratos found himself plunged into total darkness, thick and suffocating. Struggling was useless: the Spartan tried to scream, but no sound came from his crushed lungs. He was only certain that he was not dead, for he knew that death was not so dark; and, strangely comforted by this thought, he finally decided to let go, abruptly losing all his senses and blindly surrendering himself to the fate that awaited him.

************************

“Kratos? Kratos!”

“Brother!”

Slowly, the endless blackness of the world unraveled. Slowly, the Spartan regained his senses, one by one; he heard concerned voices calling his name, felt the warmth of the Roman night, then finally opened his eyes, blinking under the blessed return of light, to discover the worried gaze of Janus and Mnemosyne, leaning over him.

“Kratos. Are you all right?”

Kratos immediately turned to the altar where Atreus lay. It seemed nothing had ever happened. His son was still there, asleep.

“Hgn. I... I think so. Mimir?”

“I'm fine, brother.”

The God of War was suddenly overwhelmed by the memory of what had just happened. He took hold of Janus' arm.

“The Olympians. Are they...”

Janus gently freed himself from his hold and turned to Mnemosyne.

“They haven't woken up yet,” the Goddess of Memory said softly. “When they regain their senses, they'll have forgotten all about their Greek existence. But... I think it's best for you to be far away when that happens.”

"They will not remember me?”

"You will never have existed for them. It's over, Kratos. You're free. Ironically, Zeus never wanted me to erase the memories that haunted you, despite Athena's promise. I'm glad I could do this for you today.”

Kratos nodded and looked around. The gods of Olympus were all on the ground, plunged into the deepest of slumbers: that of oblivion.

He rose to his feet, relieved to find that he had regained his strength.

“Janus.”

“Yes, Kratos?”

“You knew I was not going to die.”

“Indeed, but as I've already told you, my knowledge is just that: knowledge. I don't interfere.”

“Then why was I unable to defend myself against Zeus? Did you not intervene, then?"

Janus smiled and shook his head.

“No. It was your own doing. You refused to fight Zeus and agreed to die for Atreus and for Rome.”

“I do not care about Rome.”

“Keep telling yourself that,” Janus said with a shrug. “You've become a good god, Kratos, a protector. That's what guides your actions now, and you'll have to accept it.”

The Spartan was silent for a few moments. He hesitated before uttering his next words, aware of their implications.

“Atreus is still dying."

“He is.”

“And Zeus did not lie.”

“No,” Janus said sadly. “Someone has to die, if you want to save your child.”

Kratos reached for the blade Mars had given him in his last moments as Ares. He picked it up, thoughtful. He didn't want to kill. But he wouldn't let Atreus die.

“What should I do?” he murmured, half to himself.

“You can kill a god in this temple,” Janus replied calmly. "Any god. It could even be me. Or you can walk out of this temple and pierce the heart of the first mortal you meet. It's up to you, Kratos.”

“Kill an innocent, someone who owes me nothing?”

“It's your choice, Spartan.”

Just then, a noise was heard. Two silhouettes stirred slightly among the sleeping gods. Two silhouettes of two gods who hadn't lost their memories and were waking up with their minds intact, just like Kratos. And for good reason: they weren't Greek gods.

Bellona straightened up, her gaze lost, her long black hair hanging in disarray over her shoulders and down her back. On the other side of the temple, her adoptive father, Quirinus, was slowly coming back to his senses. He looked at Kratos, and at the blade in his hand, and immediately understood what was about to happen. The old Roman god paled.

“No. Please don't. Please don't, Spartan.”

But it was useless. Kratos paid him no attention. He just looked at Bellona, the beautiful and cruel Bellona whose presence in the temple he had forgotten, the violent goddess who fed on suffering and had offered Atreus to his father's enemies; and he began to approach her, with even steps, mechanically, without passion, without anger. Simply because he had to.

“Kratos, no... Bellona, do not let him!”

Bellona ignored her father's desperate voice and stood up. Fear showed in her eyes, but her body didn't tremble. She didn't move, content to watch the man who was about to give her death advance towards her, and didn't make a move to defend herself. She was a goddess; she carried in her flesh and soul the memory of godhood, and this memory had taught her that it was useless to resist when the Ghost of Sparta was determined to kill you.

Nor did she cry out as the blade sank into her chest. She simply closed her eyes and gave herself unresistingly to death. When she collapsed lifeless, a heart-rending wail rose from Quirinus, pierced by pain; but Kratos tried to ignore it. On the altar of Jupiter, Atreus had moved weakly. The Spartan rushed to his son and hugged him gently.

Janus had approached Quirinus, sobbing in despair on the floor, and laid a compassionate hand on his shoulder. He looked up at Kratos, his breathing a little short.

“Go now. You've taken and given Rome what was necessary. Do not come back."

“I will not.”

And without a glance at Janus, Quirinus or the Olympians, Kratos finally fled the temple with his fainting child in his arms.

Janus sighed and looked at the Goddess of Memory.

“You did erase their memories, didn't you? Except for one of them.”

“I did,” Mnemosyne replied.

“The one who didn't change his name?”

“Himself. Apollo. He will be the guardian of Greek memory in the Roman Pantheon.”

“An honor he could have done without. He'll have to live alone with the memory of Kratos and the destruction of Olympus. Even if he wanted to open up to the other gods, they wouldn't believe him.”

Quirinus' weeping did not abate, filling the temple with his pain. Mnemosyne shrugged.

“Maybe it's unfair. But I didn't choose him. Rome did.”

Janus nodded.

“Nothing can stop Jupiter now,” he murmured. "He will rule for centuries. Until... you know... Him.”

“Yes. Him. But there is still time."

"There is."

They fell silent.

And later, at the port of Ostia, as the sun rose over the Eternal City to illuminate a new day, a man tattooed in red and his teenage son boarded a boat heading for Greece, leaving Italy forever. The man didn't look back. He was determined never to return and to put behind him the past that bound him to this city and to its gods; the past, but also the haunting cries of another father, bent over the still-warm body of his murdered daughter.

Chapter Text

The ship cut through the sea, steadfast, heading for Greece. Kratos sat on the deck, his back against the wood of the cabin, one leg bent, the other extended, and his son clinging to his side. With his eyes closed, Atreus had rested his head against the shoulder of the God of War. The death of Bellona had been a sufficient price for his recovery, but he was still very weak from the poison that had infected his body and mind.

Kratos put his arm around the teenager's shoulder, briefly hugging him. They hadn't said a word to each other since leaving Italy. The ship's captain was very different from the one with whom they had made the journey from Midgard; taciturn and sullen, he had agreed without question to take them on board in exchange for a hand in loading his cargo and had not spoken to them since. But that suited Kratos perfectly. Atreus was his only concern. When night fell, the teenager had not moved, still huddled up against his father. A young sailor passed by and threw them a blanket with a compassionate smile, which the Greek god did not refuse: in the Mediterranean Sea, the nights were extremely cool, despite the scorching temperatures that could be reached during the day. He himself did not mind the cold, but he wrapped Atreus in the piece of cloth, and had to restrain himself several times during the night from using the Blades of Chaos to warm his sleeping child.

When day broke, Atreus finally opened his eyes, his face illuminated by the soft glow of the morning sun. He shook his head as if to clear himself of the vapors of that uncomfortable sleep into which he had been plunged for hours and raised his head towards his father. The God of War was relieved to see his son awake, but he realized that the feeling of discomfort that had gripped his heart since he had fled the temple of Zeus did not fade when he saw Atreus open his eyes.

“How do you feel?” Kratos asked gently.

“I'm fine,” the teenager replied in a weak but firm voice. ”Are we... Are we in Greece?”

“Almost. We are approaching Athens.”

“Oh. Cool. I can't wait to get there.”

His voice was faint.

“I... I, too.”

Atreus nodded. His blue gaze was veiled by physical weakness, but also by something else. His father waited for him to continue speaking, but he remained silent and simply let his head fall back against his shoulder.

Kratos then realized the nature of the feeling of discomfort that would not let go: it was fear. Fear of the imminent conversation they would have once Atreus had regained his energy, and one he could not avoid. And this time, he would not be able to choose what he wanted to tell his son or not. Atreus knew. Atreus had seen.

And maybe Atreus was already starting to love him less. In his mind, Kratos heard his child's deceptive voice shouting the words imagined by the Norns to put him to the test.

He's a monster! He killed his family! I'm not safe with him!

His worst nightmare. He would have done anything to prevent it from becoming reality, but now he could do nothing but admit what he had done. What he had been.

“There's Greece!”

Kratos looked up. In front of them, the young sailor with the friendly face was pointing at the outline of the land that had just appeared. Father and son struggled to stand up, their limbs aching from having spent too much time sitting on the ship's wood, and looked into the distance. The God of War felt his heart begin to beat a little faster.

“Wow,” Atreus said, squinting to make out the horizon better in the morning light. "It really is...”

“Yes," Kratos cut in, and his voice betrayed a hint of emotion, which said a lot for him. ”It is Greece. My homeland.”

With a lump in their throats, they watched the land of their ancestors approach without a word. Kratos couldn't take his eyes off it. It was real. Greece had rebuilt itself, it had regained its strength and pride, its colors of the past. It stood before him, his executioner, his torturer, and he realized that the relief that flooded his heart at the thought that it had recovered from what he had inflicted on it left little room for doubt: he had missed his land. Whatever he might say.

The ship continued to move forward, and soon they could make out the buildings of Piraeus, the Athenian port.

“I can't believe I'm going to see Athens,” Atreus murmured. ”Have you been there often, Father?”

“A few times.”

He would no doubt have the opportunity to say more very soon. However, he forced himself to add, eager to continue talking to his child as if nothing had changed between them: “Athens was Sparta's main rival at the time. I had the opportunity to fight the Athenians many times when I was in the army. But I always had a lot of respect for this enemy. Athens is a very great city.

Atreus nodded without taking his eyes off the port. He said nothing more, and neither did Kratos.

Once the boat was moored, they disembarked quickly and set off in search of a place to rest. The Greek god asked the young sailor who had brought them the blanket and had been the only one to speak to them on the ship, and the sailor gave him the address of an inn that rented rooms at a low price.

“I have no money."

“Then offer your services,” the young sailor replied with a smile. ”You look strong, you shouldn't have too much trouble finding work here!”

He waved cheerfully at them and walked away. Atreus looked up at his father, waiting for him to make a decision.

“Come. We need to find a place to stay. Can you walk?”

The young Jotnar nodded. There was still a great deal of fatigue in his eyes, but he seemed to be able to stand without too much trouble.

They walked to the center of Athens and went to the address given by the sailor. The place was warm and welcoming. The owner, although friendly, explained that he would not rent him a room in exchange for his services.

“But I know people who might be able to help you,” the innkeeper added. ”An elderly Athenian couple who own a forest in eastern Athens. They supply the city's shipyards with wood, so they don't really lack money, but rather staff. They are used to accommodating the foreigners who work for them. I'm sure they would find a place for you and your son to sleep if you agreed to work for them as lumberjacks.”

Kratos nodded. It wasn't as if he really had a choice, anyway.

“Where do they live?”

“They have a huge house in the east, not far from the forest they exploit. I can take you there if you like.”

Kratos accepted gratefully.

“Thank you, innkeeper.”

The man put them in a cart and drove them to the east of the city. Even in his weakened state, Atreus could not help but watch the city pass by, fascinated. Athens was a very different place from Rome, but just as beautiful and just as lively. Next to him, Kratos did his best to hide his emotions. He had lived through so much here...

“Where are you from, if you don't mind me asking?“ the innkeeper asked after a while.

“From the North.”

“Ah, I could have guessed. Because of your skin color. You and the little one don't see the sun much.”

Kratos didn't see fit to answer.

“You speak Greek perfectly, though. If I heard you without seeing you, I'd think you were from Sparta. You have the same way of pronouncing the consonants.”

“Sparta isn't far from Athens, is it?"Atreus asked, saving his father from having to answer.

“Oh, it's not that close! And that's good. They're not the kind of people you want as neighbors, if you know what I mean.”

“I'm not sure,” Atreus said, frowning.

“They're not very peaceful. Sparta has a long tradition of warfare. Legends say it was worse before the catastrophe, they were thirsty for blood and power.”

“The catastrophe?”

“Our land was destroyed a very long time ago,” the man replied simply. ”There were very few survivors, but enough to revive the spirit of our cities. Athens became the city of arts and philosophy once again. And Sparta, the city of war.”

“What happened?” Kratos asked, curious to see how the Athenian would tell his own story.

“We don't know exactly. Our gods went to war and that led to the destruction of our land.”

“To war?”

The man hesitated. He lowered his voice to answer.

“As I said, we can't be sure of anything. But it is said that they were challenged by an all-powerful being, an unstoppable being. We don't know if he's a god, a mortal, or even a beast. We don't even know his name. All we know is that he is nicknamed the Ghost of Sparta. Of Sparta! You see, when I say that you have to be wary of this city...”

“We do not know anything else about this... Ghost of Sparta? What happened to him?”

The man shook his head.

“Some say he's still alive,” he explained. ”He even has his worshippers, especially among the Spartans. People who worship his strength... But most people think he's been dead for a long time. And if you ask me, that's for the best.”

Kratos felt Atreus draw closer to him.

“And your gods?”

“What do you mean?”

“Are they dead?”

The man waved his hand vaguely.

“Some are said to have survived. But most are dead.”

“You no longer have faith in them."

“Well, you can't say they had much consideration for mortals when they let the Ghost of Sparta destroy Greece, can you? Some people still go to their temples. Maybe one day we'll honor them all again. Who knows.”

“Yes. Who knows.”

For the rest of the journey, nothing was heard but the sound of the wheels on the road and the regular whinnying of the mule that was pulling their cart.

The innkeeper hadn't lied. The elderly Athenian couple welcomed them warmly, eagerly accepted Kratos's offer to work for them and explained that at the far end of their huge property were the outbuildings where the domestic slaves and some of the estate's employees lived. They could move in there, there was room. The husband, whose name was Arkadios, undertook to take them there.

“Come with me,” he said affably. ”I'll show you the place.”

They crossed a magnificent property, which bore witness to the couple's wealth and good taste. Everything was imbued with a delicate and cultivated luxury. The different parts of the house, built in beautifully finished white stone, were symmetrically arranged around a large pool decorated with columns. Around the buildings were flowerbeds and tall pines that colored, perfumed and shaded the place. Further on, to the east, were olive groves climbing the hills to the sea; to the west, the forest the couple owned and where Kratos would work.

“Wow,” Atreus exclaimed, having never seen anything like it. ”Your house is so beautiful.”

“Thank you, young man. What can I call you?”

“I am Loki.”

Kratos had told him to introduce himself by his Nordic name, so as not to give away their Greek origins, and he obeyed. His father hadn't even given himself a name.

“I am delighted to meet you, Loki,” Arkadios replied. "I have a son about your age. He is at school right now, but he will also be happy to meet you when he gets home, I'm sure. His name is Artemios.”

They reached the end of the property, near buildings much more modest than those that made up the couple's house. Arkadios nodded towards a small house that stood furthest away. He turned to Kratos.

“You can stay here as long as you like, as long as you work. We'll be expecting you and the other lumberjacks first thing tomorrow. And,” he added, taking a plate out of his bag, ”here's something to eat. We have kitchens and we take care of feeding our staff, you don't have to worry about food.”

They thanked and said goodbye to Arkadios. Kratos, plate in hand, watched the Athenian leave, thinking with amusement of the time when this man would have fled at the mere sight of him, like all the inhabitants of his city. Or would have prostrated himself before him, the new God of War, slayer of Ares. But things had changed. He looked down, removed the cloth covering the dish and examined it. It was a meal well known to the Greeks, a mixture of wheat, spelt, spinach and lentils, with goat's cheese and olive oil. Kratos smiled imperceptibly as he inhaled the familiar aroma of the mixture.

Some things had changed, there was no denying it. But some things hadn't.

****************************

They stayed with Arkadios and his wife for several weeks. Atreus quickly regained his energy under the revitalizing Greek sun. The young giant seemed to enjoy his life in Athens. He had become friends with Artemios, the owners' son, and the two boys were inseparable. Atreus had even followed him to school a few times, and with his usual intelligence and innate gift for languages, he had learned to read Greek in a few days and immersed himself in the study of the great poets. When he wasn't busy reading, learning to play the lyre or chatting with Mimir in the house, he would take walks in the olive fields with Artemios. The young Athenian's curiosity was matched by his own, and he wanted to know everything about his life in the North; Atreus tried to answer his questions as honestly as possible without revealing his nature as a god. When by chance he happened to start talking about Angrboda, his heart sank. He loved his life in Greece, but he missed her terribly. Kratos and Mimir had agreed to stay in Athens for a while, until Atreus had fully recovered and they had earned enough money for the return journey, and even though part of the teenager did not want to leave Greece so quickly, another part could not wait to see her again. And it seemed that he was not the only one to miss someone. Shortly after their arrival in Athens, his father had written to Freya to assure her that they were well, to tell her where they were staying, and to inform her that they were going to stay for a few weeks to regain their strength after the events in Rome. The Vanir goddess received the message and read between the lines the words that Kratos had not managed to write explicitly: please, join me.

Life in the estate was particularly routinized. Almost every morning, Kratos would get up and go to the forest, where he would do lumberjacking work with the couple's other employees. He didn't talk much, contenting himself with working in silence without particularly forming bonds with the others, and making efforts to hide his supernatural strength from his companions. But despite all his efforts to restrain himself, he worked more efficiently than all the others, and soon found himself relieving them of part of their work, which earned him the esteem and gratitude of the group. Respecting his silence, no one tried to become his friend, but no one tried to cause him trouble, and everyone treated him with respect and kindness despite his rough and taciturn behavior.

But one day, all of Kratos's efforts to pass himself off as a mere mortal were dashed to pieces. As he and the other woodcutters had gone deeper into the forest, a terrible scream was suddenly heard. They all turned in a panic. It was a young slave who had been accompanying them to carry their lunch, and he had just found himself trapped in the iron grip of a monster that Kratos knew well, having faced a number of them: a cyclops.

The monster swallowed the slave in a nightmare scene, tearing off the upper half of his body. The men all began to scream in unison as the cyclops roared with anger, throwing what was left of the slave in their direction, rushing towards them, its club raised, ready for the slaughter. All of them, except Kratos. The Greek god showed no particular emotion and seized his axe with as much phlegm as if he were about to cut down another tree. Petrified with terror, the others watched him throw himself at the cyclops, nimbly avoid its club as it came crashing down to the ground with a sinister crack, and strike the monster with an axe blow powerful enough to shake the whole country. The cyclops howled in pain and anger and raised its club again. This time, the blow landed a few centimeters from Kratos, who rolled to the side to dodge it. The God of War got up as quickly as possible and, taking advantage of his opponent's slowness, went around it to climb on its back. He could barely hear the surprised and admiring cries of the lumberjacks, who watched him wrap his legs around the monster's neck and stab its skull mercilessly with his axe. He had forgotten their presence, absorbed entirely in the fight. The cyclops struggled, roaring with rage, but Kratos held firm and climbed onto its head, reaching its single eye, and violently tearing it out; the beast howled, its cry mingling with those of the woodcutters, before collapsing, making the ground tremble. The God of War leapt nimbly to the ground, throwing the bloodied eye far away, and turned away from the dying monster. With his axe in hand, he took a second to savor the feeling of adrenaline that was about to fade, which had been his reason for living when he was younger, before turning back to his companions, who were looking at him, shocked, their eyes wide.

There was silence, broken only by the cyclops' death rattle. The lumberjacks seemed transfixed, staring at Kratos as if they were seeing him for the first time. One of them finally took a step towards him, looking a little intimidated.

“Well, that was... You really...”

“How did you do it?” another asked, his gaze almost accusatory. ‘It's a cyclops, and you killed it like it was nothing!’

A few murmurs of agreement were heard. The oldest of the lumberjacks gestured soothingly towards his companions.

“Calm down, my friends,” he said in his calm voice. Then he turned to the Greek god and added, ”Thank you, stranger. You have done us a great service. That monster would have killed us all if you hadn't been there.”

Kratos did not reply and merely nodded briefly. He looked down and waved his axe slightly to make the blood on it drip.

“Let's go home,” the old man resumed. ”I'll go and explain to Arkadios what happened today. You have earned an afternoon of rest. And this slave, let him be given the necessary honors. Any one of us could have been in his place.”

He looked sadly at what was left of the young slave cut in half and ordered that his remains be buried.

From that moment on, the behavior of his companions towards Kratos changed. He continued to work in silence, but the others no longer treated him in the same way. Some showed admiration, looking at him from a distance with a fascinated expression on their faces; others seemed to feel fear and kept their distance as much as possible. He heard them whispering as he passed by, and even Arkadios, whom he very rarely came across, ended up coming to talk to him one evening. He came knocking on their door, while Kratos was cleaning the dishes they had eaten their meal in and Atreus was reading in his room.

“Good evening, stranger,” he said in his usual friendly tone after the Greek god had opened the door. ”May I come in for a few moments?”

Kratos grunted in agreement. Arkadios entered the modest dwelling and turned to his employee, his face peaceful.

“You made a big impression on the men the other day with the cyclops. That's all anyone can talk about.”

“I only did what was necessary.”

“You did what a mere mortal cannot do, stranger,” Arkadios corrected. ”Meeting a cyclops means death for us.”

“I proved otherwise.”

Arkadios smiled.

“Or maybe you proved something else.”

Kratos tensed imperceptibly.

“Speak plainly, Arkadios.”

“A man who refuses to give his name, but who possesses unnatural strength, who can kill with such ease, and who speaks with a strong Spartan accent… Some might wonder.”

“I do not follow you."

“I am only making assumptions.”

There was a silence. Kratos looked carefully at his interlocutor, on the defensive.

“You're a good worker, stranger, and your son is a good kid. I don't know who you are. I don't know who you claim to be. But I don't want any trouble.”

“And I am not here to cause any. I was just protecting the others.”

“Good.”

Arkadios' gaze shifted for a second to something behind Kratos and his eyes narrowed. The Greek god felt his heart quicken at the thought of the Blades of Chaos, hanging clearly visible on the wall opposite. He never took them out of the house, but he had not thought it useful to hide them more carefully. Were the weapons given by Ares, which had been his most obvious symbol, still associated with the legend of the Ghost of Sparta? Could someone like Arkadios, educated, much more erudite than the humble innkeeper who had brought him here, identify him through them?

Whatever. His conversation with Arkadios took a turn that didn't really give him a choice.

“I will not be staying in your home much longer.”

The old Athenian nodded, and for half a second the Greek god thought he saw relief in his gaze.

“Oh, I forgot!” Arkadios added after a silence. ‘I have a message for you, which arrived this morning, from a woman named Freya. She is in Piraeus, at the harbor inn, and... She is waiting for you there.”

Kratos’ heart quickened again, but this time with joy.

The face of his host had become smooth and gentle again, indecipherable. He simply added in his kind voice, “Good night, stranger. Thank you for your time.”

“Good night, Arkadios.”

The Athenian had barely closed the door behind him when Mimir's voice was heard. His friend's head was hidden behind the cupboard.

“The queen is in Athens! Magnificent, brother. You must be happy.”

“I am.”

“And Arkadios is an intelligent man, I can give him that.”

“He is. I think he understood who I was.”

“At least he suspects something. Freya is arriving in time, we can't stay here.”

Kratos returned to his work, applying himself to washing the dish with slow, thoughtful movements.

“In any case, we have no reason to stay. Atreus is almost completely recovered even if he still has a few moments of weakness and I have earned enough money for the rest of our journey."

“You're still planning to go to Sparta, aren't you?”

“Yes. I promised Atreus, and I promised myself.”

“This would be a good opportunity to have that conversation with the lad you've been putting off for weeks.”

“I am... waiting for Atreus to come and talk to me.”

“I think he's thinking the same thing, brother.”

“Hgn.”

The next morning, before leaving for his last day of work, Kratos explained to Atreus that they were going to join Freya at the port of Piraeus and resume their journey towards Sparta. Although the young Jotnar was thrilled at the idea of seeing the goddess again and finally reaching his father's birthplace, he still spent the day wandering around the estate, saying goodbye to each servant he had met, soaking up the spirit of the place, and waiting with a somewhat sad impatience for Artemios to return from school. When Kratos had finished his day and gathered up their few belongings, they joined their hosts for a final farewell. Artemios and Atreus hugged each other and promised to meet again. Philea, Artemios's mother, gave them the same dish they had received on arrival as well as a purse of money “for the road”. Arkadios hugged the young giant, wishing him the best for the rest of his journey, and gave his father a friendly nod, which he returned. Until the last moment, it seemed to Kratos that the old Athenian was hesitating to ask the question that was burning his lips: Are you the Ghost of Sparta? But he said nothing, and the Greek god thanked him inwardly.

He left them after thanking them one last time for what they had done for them. The Father and Son, accompanied by Mimir hidden under Kratos's clothing to avoid questions, climbed into a chariot driven by a servant, who was ready to drive them to the port.

The God of War sighed, looking forward, while Atreus, half-turned, was still waving to his friend.

It was time to join Freya. Freya, and Sparta.

Chapter Text

Kratos walked through the streets of Sparta as if he were walking in a dream.

He could feel the ground beneath his feet, breathe in the warm air laden with Mediterranean scents, see with his own eyes the buildings shining in the light of the rising sun as if they had been painted with blinding whiteness, but it was still hard for him to realize that Sparta was really there, all around him. The city had not changed. It had been reborn identically, as if it had never been destroyed by Zeus, as if it had never been swallowed up by the seas at the death of Poseidon, and Kratos could have walked through it with his eyes closed. It was as if his city had been waiting for him all this time, as if it had been patiently rebuilt stone by stone to welcome him again, his beloved child, his soldier, his ghost. It lay before him like a lover, as beautiful and proud as he remembered, and he proclaimed it anew, this city that had seen him born and of which he had become the god. He walked without hesitation, street after street, determined to see everything again, shirtless and Blades on his back, caring little about being recognized. Why should he? He was home.

He had given his life to Sparta. And in return, it had made him larger than life itself.

Sparta had shown him what true power meant. It had given him a taste for victory, taught him to feel no more pain, stripped him of all sense of fear and all feeling of weakness. It had made him revere determination, to the point of erasing the boundaries between good and evil. Because in the world in which he had grown up, there was no morality. There was only strength.

And he had embodied that strength. Oh, he had. He had embodied the spirit of Sparta in the most terrible and most cruel of ways, pity and compassion burned out of him.

War was his life. And his life was a weapon. Killing was his calling. And whatever he might say, whatever he might tell himself, that had always been the case and always would be.

As he walked, Kratos could feel the fire of Sparta making his heart beat from within. But that was not all. He could feel the prayers of the Spartans reaching out to him. He who had refused with all his might to be the center of a cult, hiding his divine nature like a shameful disease, claiming that he was nobody's god, here, in Sparta, he could not pretend not to hear them. He vaguely felt those words of trust, of devotion, of faith. The mortals of his city addressed their thoughts to him, centuries after their annihilation and his own disappearance. They gave glory to the power of their patron god and prayed for his return.

Sparta had never forgotten him, Sparta had never rejected him. He was still its god. He was still War. And it waited, patiently, naively, for him to return to it. Now he was there. But for the moment, he was too caught up in his emotions to think about how he should respond to this call.

For he could read his story on every street corner. Beneath every tree. In front of every one of its buildings. Every square inch of the city carried a memory and made him relive his past.

There, in front of the temple of Artemis, the echoes of the diamastigosis ordeal that all eight-year-old Spartan boys had to undergo, which consisted of an abominable flogging before the eyes of their families and instructors, during which they had to swallow their suffering and not show the slightest sign of weakness. Screaming only served to excite the rage of those whipping them, to the point that it was not uncommon for those who let go to end up dying under the blows. He, of course, had not screamed, despite the bloody tears that accumulated on his back. The pain was nothing compared to the humiliation of being seen as weak.

There, the place where he had made his first victim, at the age of twelve. A boy his age, who had made the mistake of tripping during training and causing Kratos to fall. Their instructor at the time was a particularly sadistic man: he had given them a withering look of disgust and ordered them to fight with their bare hands until one of them was unable to continue. And they had obeyed. Kratos had long remembered the desperate look on his opponent's face when the boy realized that he would not win, that he was going to die under his comrade's blows. Then he had finally forgotten it. He had read that despair so many times in his life, in so many looks... He couldn't remember them all...

Further on, the pleasure house where many young Spartans had their first time. During adolescence, girls were not accessible, and for those who did not want to wait to be able to date women, prostitutes were often the first contact they had with the opposite sex. This was also the case for him when he had just turned sixteen. He had forgotten the gaze of his first victim, but he still remembered the gray eyes of the young woman who had taken his virginity. A gaze that was a little tender, a little bored, the gaze of a woman who introduces a teenager to sex knowing full well that she will not get much out of it for herself apart from her wages. His first experience. Not his last.

Under that lime tree, he saw again the angry expression on the face of Atreus, his brother in arms, his best friend, his son's namesake. It wasn't often that Kratos saw him show that emotion, but that evening, Atreus was furious. The two of them had spent the evening in a tavern, eating, drinking and joking, as they rarely allowed themselves to do. A young helot had made the mistake of spilling wine on a table occupied by other Spartans, and the soldiers had begun to brutalize him, drawing blood from his face. When the slave had begged for mercy, one of them, a particularly brutal soldier, held a knife up to the assembly and asked who wanted to show how the Spartans practiced mercy. Atreus had risen indignantly, but Kratos had placed his hand on his shoulder and held him firmly back, aware of the trouble his friend could get into by defending a slave in this way. Then he seized the knife held out by the soldier and slit the boy's throat, at least giving him a quick death, before dragging Atreus, who was fulminating, behind him. Under the lime tree, Kratos could still hear the indignation in his voice, all trace of his usual smile having disappeared, as he shouted to him that the slaves did not deserve this violence. The future God of War did not reply. There was no room for weakness in the life they led, and to be born a slave was to be born weak.

There, on that tree trunk by the river, he found the place where he had prayed to Ares with all his might on the eve of his first departure for war. He was twenty years old and had been waiting for this moment all his life. He had not confided his apprehension to the God of War, only his haste, his joy at the idea of finally experiencing the fury of the battlefield for which, he knew, he was born. Ares had not answered his prayer, the gods never made themselves heard by mere mortals, but the young Kratos was convinced that it had reached him. Convinced, too, that one day Ares would answer him, when he had proved his worth in battle and become worthy of attention in the eyes of the God of War.

And here... Kratos stopped, recognizing the place where he had kissed Lysandra for the first time. After weeks of waiting for her, exchanging glances with her, talking to her in the secrecy of the woods surrounding the city, she was finally with him, her arms around his neck, her lips against his. She was so young, so beautiful, a little shy against him, but always proud and resolute. He was so happy. He had no doubt that she would be happy with him too; he was everything a Spartan woman could dream of, wasn't he? A few months later he had proposed, and she had said yes. He had then had everything he had dreamed of: power, the respect of his peers, a brilliant career ahead of him, the admiration of his entire city, and Lysandra's love.

Even now, he wondered how things could have turned out so badly.

Kratos tore himself away from contemplating his memories and set off again. He crossed the river and headed for Mount Taygetus. He climbed the hill that overlooked Sparta, gaining a few hundred meters in height before turning to contemplate his city.

He had not chosen this spot by chance. He stood exactly where, in the hallucination of his despair-clouded mind, he had seen Sparta burn, after the last Spartan had told him that Zeus had destroyed their beloved city. He remembered the fire ravaging the buildings, the terrified screams of its inhabitants, and above all the hatred that reduced his heart to ashes even more effectively than the flames of his Blades. Hatred of himself, he who had been unable to prevent the destruction of his city, who had not heard the desperate prayers of those who called out to him for help, he who ironically continued to lose everything he loved as he became stronger, Lysandra and Calliope, Deimos, Atreus, his mother... And now his city. Hatred of himself. But above all, hatred for Zeus, for this murderous god, this treacherous god who had stabbed him in the back, this mad god who had thought himself powerful enough to kill him. Many lifetimes later, from the top of his hill overlooking the valley where Sparta lay, Kratos could still feel the ghost of that hatred coursing through his veins... The ghost of that fury of fire and anger that had risen up in him, that had given him the strength to destroy an entire world, the strength to slaughter one of the most powerful pantheons that had ever existed.

He remembered how this burning fury had swallowed him whole, threatening to break him, before spitting him out more determined and more unleashed than ever. The desire for vengeance, the desire to see the executioner of Sparta die under his blows had proved almost stronger than all the emotions he had felt in his life.

And part of him almost missed it. Even if he would not admit it under the most terrible torture, he knew that a part of his soul had remained here, in Greece, steeped in this gigantic murderous madness; no hope, no love, no rest, no regard for right and wrong, just the overwhelming need for revenge, the dark satisfaction of inspiring fear, and above all, that exhilarating feeling of control that his killing power had given him. He was the one who decided who lived and who died, and there was no greater force in his mind, clouded as it was by pain. Yes, deep down, in the depths of his psyche, in the secret of his heart, there lived regret for that time when he was larger than life and held the destiny of the world in his clenched fist. A hurricane of rage that nothing and no one could stop.

That was what he had been. He owed it to Sparta.

And he would own up to it in front of his son.

Suddenly, a noise drew him away from his reflections. He turned around to see, to his surprise, a little girl behind him. She was young, barely over ten, and her brown curls surrounded her youthful face, dotted with freckles and devoured by two large brown eyes. Kratos took a slight step back. For a second, he thought he saw Calliope.

That was what Greece was too. Unlimited power, but also the feeling that madness was never far away and that the threat of slipping into a state close to emotional delirium at any moment was much too close.

The little girl smiled at him and Kratos frowned. What was she doing here? There was no village on this side of the hill, at least not close enough for a child to get there alone. She could only have come from Sparta. He opened his mouth, unsure of what to say to her, but she was the one who spoke first.

“Hello,” she said in a cheerful voice, completely unintimidated - although he didn't look very reassuring. ”Follow me, God of War.”

He didn't reply, taken aback. The little girl smiled and beckoned him to follow her. Stunned, Kratos obeyed without thinking, following her, before coming to his senses.

“Wait,” he said. 'Who are you? Where are you taking me?”

“My name is Helena," the girl said without turning around. “I'm taking you to see my father, Andronikos. He knows you're here, he sent me.”

“I do not know you. And I do not know your father.”

“No. But he knows you.

She said no more and Kratos decided not to ask any more questions. He followed her without a word.

Helena led him on the way back to Sparta. They crossed the river and entered the city again, heading for the rather luxurious villas that were located to the north of the city, and finally stopped in front of the gate of one of them. Immediately, a slave came to open it for them, his head humbly bowed. Héléna signaled to him again to follow her, and they went through the gate.

The villa was not as big as Arkadios's, far from it, but it was surely as beautiful, and Kratos frowned as he looked around. The Spartans did not put all their pride in their architecture, unlike the Athenians. Most of them did not care about the useless extravagance of everyday dwellings, because the care of aesthetics was time that was not devoted to the care of war, and only important buildings showed signs of elegance. Andronikos' house was one of them.

The courtyard surrounding the property was magnificent, fit for a king by Spartan standards. To the left of the house was a garden where dozens of different varieties of flowers bloomed around marble fountains that gleamed in the morning sunlight; to the right, a lush orchard where fig, lemon, pomegranate and many other trees intertwined. Kratos could only take a quick glance before following Helena inside the house.

The hallway was large and cold, dark, opening onto a long corridor lined with columns and red drapes. Light only entered through elegantly iron-framed openings. They advanced along the corridor, their steps muffled by a thick, dark red carpet, before emerging into a large, brighter room decorated with all the simplicity and harshness of a Spartan aesthetic. In the center of the room was a man who could only be Andronikos, the master of the house. He was young, younger than Kratos would have supposed given Helena's age, despite the beard that covered half his face and the distinguished purple tunic that encircled his muscular torso. He was clearly agitated, pacing nervously around the large room, and when he turned to face his daughter and his visitor, his features were particularly tense. But when he saw Kratos, he stopped dead in his tracks. His face expressed surprise and relief, then took on an expression of respectful admiration, and he literally fell to his knees in front of the former God of War.

“My Lord...”

This was not the first time that Kratos had been the object of displays of veneration. During his time as a god of Olympus, he had often had the opportunity to see mortals kneel before him, show him their love and piety. Or their fear. It was not an unfamiliar sight to him, and there was even a time when he had loved it.

But today it no longer made sense to him.

“Get up,“ he said, frowning. "I am no lord."

Andronikos merely raised his head, remaining on the ground.

“Of course you are, Lord Kratos. Sparta will never cease to consider you its god.”

“Who are you? How did you know I was here?”

The man smiled, his eyes fixed on him, his gaze filled with pure veneration.

"Ghost of Sparta…”

“Answer me.”

“I am Andronikos, prince of Sparta, son of King Lysias.”

A prince. Kratos had suspected as much, given his house was a royal one for a city like theirs.

“Your return was announced a very long time ago by the oracle of our beloved city. Even during the most terrible times, generations of kings have passed on this knowledge and I have the honor of being the one who is alive at the moment when you are back with us.”

“An oracle?”

“Yes, my Lord. We knew you would be there this morning, on the outskirts of Mount Taygetus, facing the city. At least we hoped so. I sent my daughter to fetch you, praying to all the benevolent spirits of Sparta that it would come true. And here you are. Here you are.”

The prince's eyes were glistening with tears. Kratos stared at him, speechless, unable to find the words. Andronikos got up to approach his god, his nervous gestures betraying his agitation.

“Sparta has been waiting for this day ever since Zeus came to destroy it,” he said, his eyes aglow and his voice vibrant. ”Our city is waiting for your return to be reborn, to live again.”

“It has already happened. Sparta is standing tall, and it did not need me to help it rise again.”

“No,” Andronikos replied, shaking his head. ”No. What you see outside these walls is not Sparta. It is only a poor imitation. Its buildings have been rebuilt, it is true, but its spirit has never regained its former strength. Our city may appear to be alive, but it is still dead. Its glory is gone.”

“The Athenians say that Sparta has once again become the city of war after the destruction that struck Greece.”

“Ah!” the prince exclaimed with contempt. ”Those fools don't know anything. Of course we are still warriors; of course our reputation continues to exist; but we no longer make the other cities tremble as before. Our name is no longer enough to inspire fear among the Greeks and the men of the outside world.”

He looked at Kratos, his eyes sparkling.

“But with you, my Lord... With you... The Spartans can once again consider becoming the masters of the world. It was your dream one day, wasn't it? It is also mine. Become our god, our king, our general once again. And this dream can come true, I know it.”

The God of War shook his head.

“No,“ he said in a harsh voice. “No. My time has passed. Greece has forgotten even my name. I mean nothing to the Greeks, and little to Sparta.”

“Do you really think so, my Lord?” Andronikos asked with a smile, before adding, “Come with me.”

The prince turned and headed for a small door that Kratos had not noticed. He followed him, glanced behind him to see that Helena had disappeared, and went through the door into an obviously underground passageway with a gently sloping stone path. Andronikos motioned for him to follow, grabbing a torch hanging on the wall. They walked in silence for a long time, the prince guiding the god into the depths of their city, and when they emerged into a gigantic underground chamber, supported by huge columns and lit by a multitude of torches that did not prevent the darkness from dominating, Kratos already knew what he was going to find there.

He entered the sanctuary, his own sanctuary, and turned to Andronikos, his face bathed in the unreal glow of the torches.

“This,” the prince said, ”is one of the many places in Sparta where the Ghost of Sparta is worshipped. There are countless of them.”

Kratos did not reply and approached the center of the room. As in any temple, the altar was in the center, and behind it were paintings that Kratos had never seen, and which had been made after he fled Greece, because they told his story. He was the one depicted in each of them. Wielding his Blades, shouting at the sky. Knocking down a Titan. Holding the head of Helios. Molesting Poseidon. Cutting off Hermes' limbs. Stabbing Zeus with the Blade of Olympus in the heart of Gaia. And so many others. His crimes had been painted, depicted, with care, with talent, judged worthy of becoming works of art. Behind him, Andronikos' voice was heard once more.

“Sparta honors you and loves you more than you could ever know, Slayer of Gods.”

Kratos turned to him.

“Sparta honors murder.”

“Sparta honors strength,” Andronikos corrected. "Victory. Of course victory makes blood flow. And no one embodies it better than you.”

“What do you want me to do?”

“Come out of the shadows,” the prince replied ardently. ”Come back into the light. You have defeated Zeus, you are the King of the Gods. Take your rightful place, my Lord, and restore our city to greatness. Inspire it with the courage to fight the enemies that threaten it. Against the Barbarians. Against Rome, that arrogant city that has its eyes fixed on Greece and would like to impose on us once again the worship of our ancient gods who once fell before you. Once your reign is restored, the ancient traditions will be restored. The old way was the only way for the Spartans.”

Kratos knew what Andronikos was talking about. The agôgè. The education system he had been part of, which he had found so natural when he was a Spartan warrior, but which had seemed barbaric and infinitely cruel to him when he saw his own son growing up. The idea of submitting Atreus to hunger and pain to teach him to resist it, ordering him regularly to kill innocent helots to desensitize him to taking life, subjecting him to cruel rules that he would have to learn to break because they were too harsh for him to survive, making him live a brutal daily life until the day he would be considered old enough to go and die in battle... It literally made Kratos sick.

Andronikos was right, though: that was how Spartans were made. That was how he had been made.

But he doubted that there was any need for others like him in the world.

He turned to the prince.

“I am sorry, Andronikos. You are right: it was my dream, once. I would have given everything for Sparta, and I would have led it to the top of the world. But that was a long time ago. It is in the past. I am the past. Do not dwell on what has been. You are a prince of Sparta. Look ahead and build the future of our city without letting yourself be troubled by the shadow of what has been."

Even in the gloom of the cave, he could see Andronikos' pallor, his bright eyes.

“I will never stop looking in your direction, my Lord,” he replied, his voice trembling with emotion. ”And no matter what you can say today, I know one day you will return. And the glory of Sparta will be known throughout the world. I know it.”

Kratos then understood, as he looked into his adoring gaze, that Andronikos' veneration for him was bordering on madness. There was probably nothing he could say to this young Spartan prince to make him understand that the Ghost of Sparta had died with Zeus on top of Mount Olympus centuries before, and that the glory of Sparta would never again be a cause for concern for him.

At least he thought so. Because there were many things in his life that he had thought were absolutely impossible, and yet they had happened. So...

Kratos took his leave of Andronikos, leaving the house and feeling the prince's gaze like a burning sensation on his back. He knowingly ignored the prayers that always reached him and which he could now hear more clearly, and went to the small stone house that he had rented the day before upon arriving in Sparta with the money that Philea and Arkadios had given him. He had left early that morning, letting Freya and Atreus sleep, and events had kept him busy until mid-morning.

He pushed open the front door of the house and saw Freya in the main room, busy tidying up the leftovers of the meal she had obviously shared with Atreus, with Mimir on the table next to her.

Kratos approached her and kissed her, holding her close. He had spent part of the night telling her what had happened in Rome, and the other part making love to her, but it was still not enough after having been separated from her for so long.

“Where did you go?” the Vanir goddess asked.

“I needed to... take a walk, alone.”

Freya nodded.

“I understand.”

“Where is Atreus?”

“In his room. He was waiting for you to come home before going out. He really can wait to see Sparta.”

It was Kratos' turn to nod, his lips quivering into a smile under his beard.

“Have you seen everything you wanted to see?” Freya resumed, lovingly placing her hand on his arm.

“Almost.”

He stared into nothingness for a moment, but he did not hesitate. He knew he had to.

“There is another place I have to go. Alone. But first... I need to talk to Atreus. It is time.”

Chapter Text

Kratos and Atreus stood side by side in front of what remained of the former home of the God of War. The place where he had lived with Lysandra and Calliope so long ago.

The Spartan had not returned here since the day he set fire to the little house before walking away from it forever, having freed himself once and for all from his ties to Ares. He remembered the pain that reduced his heart to ashes as the walls that had sheltered his family happiness caught fire behind him, but he had not looked back. He had let the past burn behind him, the memory of the life he had thought he had earned, and in which he would have been nothing more than a great man. He had taken another path, a painful one, covered in ash and blood, but one that had led him beyond greatness.

All that it had cost him was everything.

Kratos had shown his child everything about Sparta. The house where he was born and where he had grown up with Deimos; the agora; the training camp where he had followed his agôgè; all the buildings that had punctuated his youth. And he had finally led Atreus to this place full of the sweetest and most bitter memories of his life in Sparta. The God of War did not know what to expect and when he realized that the house had never been rebuilt, that there was only a small meadow of grass where the walls of his home had once stood, he felt nothing.

As he had told Andronikos, the past was the past.

It was in this place that he told his story to his son.

He hid nothing from him. What would have been the point? Phobos had shown more than he could ever tell. He told him about the man he was, the young captain of Sparta who thought only of victory and neglected his wife and daughter, whom he yet loved so much. He told her about the battle that had changed his destiny, and the feeling of absolute power he had felt when Ares appeared to give him the Blades of Chaos. He explained what his service to the terrible God of War had consisted of, and then the betrayal. The hatred, the despair, the desire for revenge. He told of his years as champion of the gods, until he became one of them, then the rage again when he learned what had happened to Deimos and his mother. The betrayal again. And the destruction. All the sacrifices, all the murders, Death blazing a path to Olympus with fiery Blades. And he told him about Pandora. Pandora who had tried, but had not been enough to quench his thirst for blood.

Atreus listened to his father without a word, then, when Kratos had finished, he remained silent for a long moment. Then, finally, he looked up at him with his blue eyes. And he asked him a question, just one.

“Do you regret it?”

And to this question, Kratos had only one answer.

“I cannot regret the choices that led me to have you as my son.”

Atreus smiled, and his smile lifted an immeasurable weight from his father's heart.

“You're cheating, Father.”

“That is the only answer I can give you.”

“You know what I mean.”

Kratos looked at his son thoughtfully.

“I regret many things. I wish someone or something had stopped me, brought me back to my senses and prevented me from causing so many unnecessary deaths. But honestly... I do not believe anyone could have done that. I chose the path of rage, and that is the way it is.”

Atreus nodded and remained silent again for a few moments.

“You know,” he continued, ”I think there's someone else who feels regret. Ares. When I was in that cellar with him, I found him really scary... But also sad. As if he had remorse.”

“Perhaps. I think Ares is just like me. He regrets many things, but he knows he could never have acted otherwise and that if he could turn back the clock, he would undoubtedly make exactly the same choices again.”

Atreus turned his attention back to the remains of the house.

“I wish I could have known them,” he said softly.

“I would have liked that too.”

“I'm sure they would be proud of you if they could see you today.”

“Hmm. Maybe. Maybe not.”

“I am, anyway.”

“You do not have to say that to make me feel better, son.”

He was well aware of Atreus' empathetic nature. But the teenager looked at his father with conviction.

“No, I mean it. I'm proud to be your son. Because you're stronger than everyone else. And because you've changed, even if it wasn't easy.”

Kratos almost smiled.

“However proud you are to be my son, it will never be as strong as the pride I feel in being your father. You are so much better than me, Atreus.”

Atreus beamed, his heart swelling with joy.

“Well, you made me promise to be when I was eleven.”

“That is true.”

There was another silence, which Kratos finally broke.

“I understand that the actions that Phobos made you see, and that I told you about, change the way you see me.”

“Well, there were some really terrible things. You were really cruel, Father.”

“I was.”

“I wish you hadn't done all those things you did. That you hadn't made so many people suffer. But as long as it's in the past, it doesn't change anything for me. You're still my father, and who you are today is more important than the person you were before.”

“That is... Good to know.”

“I mean it. Really.”

The God of War put his arm around his son's shoulder and held him close. He looked again at the site of the house, the shadow of his happiness and his misery, and he had the impression that for the first time in his life, he could think of Lysandra and Calliope without feeling pain.

And if he had asked Atreus, his child would have told him that the thorn in his heart that scratched him every time he thought of his father's past crimes had also disappeared for good.

************************************

Kratos pulled on the reins of his horse, forcing his mount to slow down. The village was in sight.

It was well into the day. He had accompanied Atreus home after their long discussion in front of his old house, but it was not yet time for him to return. As he had told Freya, there was one more place he had to see, a place that was not exactly in Sparta, but a few dozen kilometers away, in the silent and timeless mountains of the Peloponnese.

It was the village where his life had changed. The village where he had killed his wife and daughter.

Kratos could clearly make out the houses now, and slowed his horse to a walk. He didn't know exactly why he wanted to go back there; he was simply obeying his instinct, which was telling him to. As if something was waiting for him there. Or someone.

As he entered the village, he was almost overcome with a chill. As in Sparta, nothing had changed. The village had been rebuilt identically, and the temple of Athena, that fateful temple where he had committed the most tragic of his mistakes, still stood at its center.

As he rode his horse down the central avenue leading to the temple, reliving in his mind the last time he had been here, Kratos could almost hear the screams of the victims, the crackling of the flames and the bloody sound of blades tormenting the innocent flesh of the villagers. He remembered the feeling of power that came with every atrocity committed by him and his personal army. For him, it was just another slaughter, another feat of arms to add to his bloody reputation; for his victims, it was the end of everything.

At the time, he believed himself invincible, taking pride in destroying a village by sending all its inhabitants to Hades. How naive he had been then. He had no idea what true invincibility was.

“Look out!”

Kratos forced himself to pull himself out of his own thoughts. His horse had almost knocked over a woman carrying a bundle of laundry. She gave him an angry look and he nodded apologetically. He watched her walk away, grumbling about riders who didn't pay attention to the trajectory of their mounts, thinking about the time when she would no doubt have screamed in terror at the sight of him.

He reached the temple and when he was close enough, he saw that it was no longer a temple. It was just a tall building in the center of the village that could have served any purpose; there was no evidence of the sacred nature of the place. Not a single statue to honor any deity, and certainly not Athena. Eager to learn more, Kratos hailed a passerby, who turned to him.

“Villager, what is this building used for? Is it a temple?”

The man gave him a surprised look.

“A temple? No, certainly not. That building is no longer used for anything. I'm not even sure it ever was. It's just there, that's all, and nobody uses it.”

“Why was it built, then?” Kratos asked, frowning.

The building did indeed look completely abandoned.

“I don't know, and neither does anyone else. They say that something terrible happened in the village centuries ago, and that this place is a reminder of it. But it's just a legend, there's no proof that it's true. I can't tell you any more, sorry.”

The man shrugged and walked away, not keen to continue the conversation.

Kratos looked at the temple for a few seconds, then, obeying that same instinct that told him to move forward, pushed open the doors and entered.

He had done the same thing, lifetimes before. And he had emerged as the Ghost of Sparta.

There was someone in the temple. The sun was setting outside, and the building was plunged into darkness, but Kratos clearly made out the silhouette of a small woman whom he recognized immediately. When she turned towards him, his heart stopped beating in his chest as he looked at her face and confirmed his suspicions.

It was the oracle. The one who had cursed him by forcing him to carry the ashes of his wife and daughter on his skin.

“You...”

The old woman smiled, her wrinkled features distorting her brown skin.

“Oh, no. No, Ghost of Sparta, I am not her. We oracles have many powers that are beyond the understanding of mere men, but immortality is not a gift that has been bestowed upon us.”

Kratos looked at her, astonished.

“You are...”

“The descendant of the one who cursed you, yes. She was my ancestor.”

She approached him slowly with her limping gait.

“I was waiting for you, Spartan.”

“You knew I was coming.”

“Of course. I would be a very bad oracle if I didn't.”

Clearly, the whole of the Peloponnese had heard about his arrival. She gave him a piercing but not malicious look.

“Why are you here, Kratos?”

“I was going to ask you the same question.”

The oracle chuckled.

“I didn't force you to come.”

“No. But I have no reason to be here, and yet here I am.”

There was a silence.

“My grandmother warned you, Kratos,” the little woman resumed. ”She tried to stop you from committing this terrible crime.”

“But I did not listen to her.”

“No. And you paid the price.”

“I did.”

The oracle had a little coughing fit, with her eyes closed, and Kratos took the opportunity to stare at her. She looked exactly like her grandmother, and he briefly wondered if she wasn't lying about immortality.

“Who are you now?” she asked, after calming her cough.

“What do you mean?”

“Are you still the Ghost of Sparta?”

“I hope not.”

The oracle smiled.

“Me neither. He wasn't a very nice person.”

“I suppose not.”

“He would surely have killed me by now.”

Kratos stared at her, a little annoyed, wondering what she was getting at.

“Do you want to kill me, Spartan?” she asked seriously.

“Why would I want to? You have not harmed me or my loved ones.”

“There was a time when you weren't so careful.”

“I was a very different man.”

She looked at him with an inquisitive gaze, and he suddenly had the impression that she was trying to read his mind to verify that he was telling the truth.

“You are,” she finally said after a long moment. ”You are. I can feel it.”

Kratos was beginning to get impatient.

“Have I passed the test?”

The old woman broke into a wide smile.

“You did.”

And she took a small, empty terracotta amphora from the pocket of her shapeless dress and handed it to him.

“Take this, Kratos.”

“What is it?”

“A way to remove the ashes of your family from your skin.”

Words died in Kratos's mouth. He looked at the amphora, his heart pounding, then at the oracle's face, in turn searching for clues of lies and truth on her wrinkled features.

“I…”

“I will not do it for you, Spartan,” the oracle cut in sharply. "I am simply giving you the opportunity to do it. The choice is yours.”

“How?”

“You only have to ask," the old woman replied simply. ”And the ashes will leave. They will join the amphora.”

She said nothing more and hobbled towards the exit of the temple, leaning weakly on her stick. As she was about to push open the door, she turned back to Kratos, who was still standing, still staring at the amphora he was holding in his hand.

“Don't make me regret my decision, Spartan,” she growled. ”Breaking a curse is hard work. Even after it's been broken.”

Kratos looked at her and nodded, unable to articulate another word. She returned his nod, left the temple and let the heavy wooden doors close behind her with a crashing noise that the Greek god could barely hear. He remained for a few minutes in the silence of the temple, alone. Alone with his memories. Alone with the amphora that could undo what had been done. Take away what had made him, visually, spiritually, a fearsome creature.

Slowly, as if gradually coming out of a state of unconsciousness, he set off and forced himself to head for the temple doors. He left without looking back inside, walked to his horse, staring fixedly into the distance, looking at the man he had been centuries earlier. A warrior kneeling in the dust. The end of an illusion. The beginning of a legend.

Kratos would have liked to place his hand on the shoulder of this younger version of himself and to whisper to him that it would be all right.

It would just take time. And a number of deaths greater than grains of sand on a beach.

The Spartan mounted his steed and gave him a little tug on the reins to make him move forward. The horse whinnied softly, annoyed at being disturbed from grazing on the soft grass around the temple, and reluctantly set off, taking his rider along the main path, past the last houses. Kratos stopped him again and turned back to the temple one last time.

The choice is yours.

He would never play the role that Andronikos wanted him to take on. He would never again be the one who brought war. But maybe, just maybe, there was a place for him in Greece again, in one way or another. Perhaps he could also give his native country what he gave to the Realms of Yggdrasil. As Kratos of Sparta, God of War.

Perhaps Athena was right, and that the rest of his destiny would also be written on this land he had once destroyed.

Perhaps.

And without thinking any further, he turned away from the village and set his horse galloping towards Sparta, the last rays of the sun skimming the tops of the Greek mountains gently warming his white skin.

***********************************

Apollo seriously wondered if he wasn't going mad. He paced back and forth in his room, going over and over in his head the conversation he had had with Zeus.

Or Jupiter, since that was what he should be called now.

He had tried to convince his father that he was telling the truth. They hadn't always been Roman gods. They were born in Greece, had been challenged by an invincible demigod who killed them one after the other, and had been reincarnated to become the Pantheon of Rome.

Zeus had laughed in his face.

Not that he wasn't used to it, by the way. His whole family had kindly made fun of him when he tried to tell them their own story.

He was seriously beginning to wonder. What if he was the one living with false memories?

Could he have invented the Greek version of Olympus? Could he have invented the names of Zeus, Athena, Poseidon and all the others? Could he have invented Kratos?

Apollo threw himself on his bed and buried his face in the sheets. He no longer knew who he was. He no longer knew what he knew.

He wanted to stop thinking. To stop existing.

But no. He was sure of himself. He remembered Mnemosyne, the memory of the Olympians sacrificed for Rome. And for Kratos.

He raised his head, his gaze hard. He had to prove to himself that he was not mad.

Determined, Apollo got up and left his room. He walked through the corridors of Olympus, as beautiful and majestic as ever, as if the palace of the gods had never known ruin and destruction.

He followed the same path he had followed with Kratos, so long ago, towards the heart of Olympus.

He knew where to go. Once in the bowels of the palace, he found the elevator, descended the cavernous tunnel with its damp walls, and emerged into the gigantic hall that once housed the labyrinth.

It was still there. The immense creation of Daedalus, the architect who thought he could see his son again by building something that would allow the King of the Gods to imprison Pandora, was still there. The gigantic cubes were suspended in the air: they had returned to their original position, and in their center, a chained skeleton above the void seemed to be watching over them. Daedalus, who had become a prisoner of his own creation, which he had never been able to leave.

So it hadn't been a dream. The labyrinth was truly real.

But had Kratos really used it to access the Flame?

“Impressive, isn't it?”

Apollo jumped. He turned around, on the defensive, and his surprise doubled when he recognized the person who had spoken and who was behind him. A teenager with reddish-blonde hair and pale eyes, her face covered in freckles. It was Pandora.

She must have arrived just after him. Lost in contemplation of the labyrinth, he hadn't heard her coming.

But what was she doing here? And why was she alive, for a start?

“Pandora! What are you...”

She didn't give him time to ask his question.

“I thought I'd come back here. To remember.” She grimaced, before adding, ”Not my best memory. I felt so alone, locked up in that thing.”

Apollon opened his mouth to reply, but no scathing retort came to mind. He had been taught to despise Pandora, to hate her, to consider her inferior, monstrous; but today, looking at her, he realized that all his aversion for the young girl had disappeared. Or maybe it had never really existed.

“Yes,” he finally replied. ”That's understandable.”

She approached him happily, glad that he hadn't rejected her.

“And what are you doing here?”

He saw no point in lying.

“I needed to make sure it was real.”

“Oh, it is. Believe me.”

Relief bubbled in his veins.

“So... Kratos really existed? He brought me here to bring you back to life?”

“Yes.”

“And you... You stopped him from...”

“I did.”

Apollo looked at the girl, shaking his head with golden hair. Pandora looked so nice. He wondered how he could ever have considered her a danger.

“Thank you. I was wondering if I wasn't going crazy... No other god remembers him. Or anything else, for that matter.”

“Yes, it's strange,” Pandora replied thoughtfully. ”I really don't know what happened. I woke up as if nothing had ever happened. As if I had never been... dead. And the gods of Olympus too... But nobody remembers me. Not even my father.”

“I remember you. But I'm the only one. The others have forgotten even their former names.”

He added, after a few seconds of silence: “I suppose this is an opportunity for a new beginning for Olympus. But I don't understand why I have kept my memories intact... Me, and not the others...”

Pandora approached him, and to his great astonishment, placed her hand on his arm in a gesture of comfort.

“Come,” she said. ”Let's leave this place.”

They left, leaving the labyrinth and the corpse of Daedalus behind. Apollo made his way back to his room, and Pandora followed him without a word. He let her. Once they arrived at his apartments, he went inside and sensed Pandora hesitate; he turned to her and, with a look, allowed her to come with him. But he did not stop in his room, taking the passage that led outside, to the wide grassy platform where his horses lived, the same platform from which he had thought he could fly away from the dying Olympus, the same platform where Kratos had come to get him to save Pandora, slaughtering his servant Deleas in the process.

He breathed in the humid night air, closing his eyes. How he envied the other Olympians, freed from their trauma. He would have to learn to live with the memory of Kratos threatening to emerge in every corner of Olympus, day after day, for the infinite years of his immortal life.

But that was how it was. For a reason he would never understand, he had been chosen to remember, and he would have to accept it.

He looked at Pandora, who was staring at him with a trusting gaze. At least he was not alone.

“What are you going to do now? You're alive, and you're still immortal, I guess.”

The teenage girl hesitated. Her gentle eyes filled with sadness.

“I don't know what to do,” she said, and her voice carried the same trace of sorrow that he could see in her eyes. ”I know I can't grow old, but... I don't want to be a deity. I just want to be... Ordinary, you know? Nothing more.”

The God of Arts nodded, his heart filled with pity, pierced by the painful thought that Pandora had never had a choice. She had been created, kept, used and killed for a specific purpose, to serve the interests of gods more powerful than her, and had never been able to do anything against her fate, a victim of a deadly game of which she had had the misfortune to be a part.

She sighed and turned to him again.

“Maybe you need an extra servant? I can help.”

Apollo frowned despite himself. Her, a servant?

“No,” he replied after a few moments of thinking. ”I don't need another servant. However, I could use someone to help me compose verses. I have an idea.”

Pandora's face lit up.

“Poetry! About what?”

“About Kratos.”

She looked at him, taken aback. He smiled and lay down on the grass, gazing up at the intensely midnight blue sky, still dimly lit by the rays of the sun, which were already beginning to kiss the other side of the world. The stars were already beginning to appear.

Pandora lay down next to him and turned her face towards his.

“Do you want to tell his story?”

“Yes. Since I am the God of Arts and the guardian of the memory of Olympus, it seems like a good idea to me. And besides, the story of Kratos would make a good epic.”

“More like a tragedy.”

“That too. But we'll see about the theater later; I'd rather start with the poem.”

He cleared his throat with deliberate emphasis, making fun of himself, as if he were about to recite a masterpiece.

“Sing, O Muse, the rage of Kratos, son of Zeus, that brought countless ills upon the Achaeans...”

Pandora burst out laughing, and her laughter made Apollo smile. Perhaps it was the first time he had smiled sincerely since his rebirth.

“I think that opening is already used,“ the teenager remarked cheerfully.

“Hmm, you're right. I would not want to offend Homer.”

“We'll figure something else out.”

“We will. How about this?”

As they continued to talk, night fell for good, plunging them into the intimate light of the moonlight, but they did not move. They were in no hurry. They had all the time in the world ahead of them to compose this poem. Despite all the weight of the past, the pain of their existence and the unalterable memory, the cruelty of the world and of its endless war, the inevitable death of all things, for the moment, and for as long as they could, they were still immortal.

And they fully intended to continue living as such.

As bright and eternal as the stars.