Chapter Text
It has been three winters since Kratos was in this situation. His son in his arms, ailed with an unknown illness, as he rushes to Freya’s home as fast as possible. Kratos isn’t even sure if she’ll be there. She has to be there. For Atreus’ sake, he hopes she’s there.
As the familiar garden comes into view, Kratos immediately gets the familiar feeling of being watched. His grip on Atreus strengthens, holding the sickly boy closer to his chest. Looking around, Kratos cannot seem to spot Freya, even as he hastily approaches the door to her home.
When he reaches it, he is met with a sword to his neck and eyes burning with rage staring into his own. Freya.
“You must be ignorant of simply idiotic to turn up to my home and expect to leave alive.” She threatens, her eyes wild and aggressive. Kratos isn’t even sure she’s noticed Atreus until she glances at the boy and her eyes widen and soften, before she narrows them and stares at the boy’s father. “Why do you come here? Bringing him?”
“He is ill.” Kratos informs her simply. “Worse than any other illness he has been ailed with, and I have yet to encounter it.” Kratos tries to hide the worry in his voice, he’s not sure if he succeeds or fails. Either way, Freya seems to make a face of contemplation before removing the sword from Kratos’ neck.
“In.” She waves, moving aside to let the pair in.
The home has not changed much since he was in this situation last, shelves filled with herbs and potions, the hearth lit and illuminating the cabin with an orange glow. Kratos places Atreus in the same place he did three winters ago, he’s much bigger now despite how small he looks at the moment. He still fits on the bed either way.
Freya places the back of her hand onto Atreus’ forehead, grimacing at the heat radiating from the boy. “His fever is boiling… how long has he been like this?” She questions, clearly concerned about the boy no matter if she tried to deny it.
“Since last night. He woke in the night like this, and only got worse as the night progressed.” Kratos explains, never leading Atreus’ side as he holds his wrist and arm, feeling the rapid pulse through the skin, with one arm and holds his son’s face in the other, feeling the raging heat through his fingers.
Freya comes over, her hands full of that same blue spell she used to dispel Atreus’ fever in the past. “Last night? No ordinary illness progresses that quickly not in any mortal, and certainly no gods even become ill.” Kratos moves his hand out of her way as she places hers upon Atreus’ forehead, calming the fever that burns within him.
Atreus looks so much smaller, almost like the small boy who was in this position last. Between two adults that, despite their issues with each other, care for him and will try relentlessly to save his life. “Do you know what it is?” Kratos questions, hoping for some sort of answer, hoping for any indication of what is ailing his son.
“If I did I would’ve told you. Whatever it is, fights strongly within him just as strongly as he is fighting against it.” She informs him, irritated but not yet outraged. “This is no normal illness. I will have to do some research into what could be causing these symptoms but for now…” Freya pauses in her magic, which seemed to have been working as Atreus groaned the moment her hands were moved away, only for Kratos to place a hand on Atreus’ shoulder. Freya scribbles down a list of herbs, unceremoniously shoving the list towards the large man as he takes it. “…fetch them. Bring me those and while I may not be able to cure him yet, not without further research, your son may survive. Go.” Freya orders him harshly, returning to Atreus’ fever.
Kratos takes the list without complaint, standing up to leave. He pauses near the door, turning his head towards Freya. “Freya I…”
“Save it. I may want you dead but Atreus does not deserve this nor my wrath. I said I would protect him, now go.” Freya fires back, presumably not even looking at him.
Kratos leaves without another word.
*
Atreus feels… weird.
Like he’s falling, but he’s not. He stuck to the ground but he isn’t. He’s hot and he’s cold. He’s breathing but he’s suffocating. He’s panicking but he’s at peace.
What the Hel is going on?
Not far down the sun kissed dirt path is mother, staring at him with that pitying smile only a mother can pull off. The smile that makes you want to shy away from them and accept all their love at the same time.
Atreus follows her down the path, listening to what she has to say about the forest like a distant memory he’d long forgotten. Perhaps he was young last they came this way and he only had a fleeting memory of it. Perhaps this never happened at all.
The path continued and the longer it went, the surer Atreus was that this couldn’t have happened. He knows this path like the back of his hand, but never in this scenario, never with the plants so green and the sun so bright it was no longer casting a yellow shine but instead a white one.
Midgard looked so alive though…
Their walk led to a river, one Atreus was sure he couldn’t cross. There was no log or stones to get him across and he couldn’t make that jump, though as he rounded the corner his mother was already across, not looking a single bit soaked in the slightest.
“Uhm…Mother? I- I can’t cross this…” Atreus calls out to her, only to watch her smile as she turns away from him and walks off. Seeing this, panic fills his veins. Mother is just going to leave him here? By himself? By a river? He has to get across, but how? The river is rushing, crashing over hidden rocks and stones and carrying a strong current.
As Atreus takes a step and tries to brave that current, he’s swept away by its grip.
*
Atreus wakes with a start, gasping and sitting up hastily as he greedily takes in air to replace the feeling of water filling his lungs, it’s not even ten seconds before he’s rolled to the side, throwing up whatever stew or soup was left inside his stomach.
Someone was rubbing his back, holding him upright with the other hand. For a moment Atreus doesn’t notice, until he tries to regain his breath and notices the comforting feeling close to…
“Mother…?” Atreus mumbles, trying to look up at the figure before him. The woman moves her hand from his back to brush his hair off of his sweaty forehead and use an old rag to wipe his face. This woman doesn’t have his mother’s strawberry blonde hair, no, this woman has long hair as well but this woman’s hair is brown.
Freya.
As his eyes focus on her, he only sees softness and pity in those eyes where he’s seen so much hatred and anger over the past winters. The type of concern only a mother can hold.
“No, Atreus. It’s me, Freya.” She gently corrects him, laying him back down and leaving momentarily, returning with something glowing from her hands, it cools him though, so he doesn’t complain. “Your father has gone out to grab a few things for me.”
So she hadn’t killed his father. Yet. “You two getting along?” he tries to joke, it not landing with the grogginess of his voice and the pounding headache. Freya rolls her eyes either way.
“No. I am still very much inclined to kill him, but I’m not heartless enough to watch you suffer.” Great, no vendetta against Atreus. “How do you feel?” Freya questions, soothing Atreus’ burning fever.
“Horrible…” he mumbles, basking in the momentary reprieve from his raging fever. “My skin is burning and my body’s heavy…”
“Any headache?” she prods. “Nausea is evident.”
Atreus only nods, his head aching more at the movement as he groans. “I’d been coughing and sneezing for days before this…” He informs her, just wanting to talk for a moment instead of sitting in silence and misery.
Freya hums at this information, probably mentally noting it for later. “Strange, gods don’t usually have the ability to become sick.”
“I know…Father said it’s because I was born small.” Atreus mutters, his eyelids fluttering as the headache spreads from his brain to his eyes.
Freya takes a breath, as if intending to continue, deciding to just sigh when she presumably notices Atreus’ tiredness and decides to let him sleep, which brings some comfort in the form that if she deems it safe enough for him to fall asleep, he’s not actively dying.
He’s out like a light in a few moments.