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“Father,” said Atreus, bent over the side of the boat and trailing his fingers in the water. Kratos was well aware he was bored and had been for some time. They had spent the last several days in Svartalfheim, gathering resources. Preparing. Training. That, at least, was what Kratos told himself they were doing. He was in no rush to see if what remained of Faye’s mural would prove to be true. If Ragnarök were to be his end, he wanted to cherish what time he had left with his son. He tore his eyes from the riverbank and pulled the oar from the water. Atreus, knowing he had his Father’s attention, hurried to say the rest before he lost it. “Could we build a lyre together?”
The question was certainly not one he had been expecting. As of late, their conversations tended to gravitate towards either his mother or war, never pursuits of leisure. He could not prevent the tint of confusion in his voice. “The instrument? Why?” They had stumbled upon one in Midgard, sticking out of the ice. How it had gotten there, Kratos did not want to know. He had sold it to the dwarves immediately after, uninterested in carrying more of Greece on his back than he was forced to.
“We hunt, we train.” Atreus turned back to the water. Keeping an eye out for treasures down there , he’d said, hours ago, but was yet to spot anything of value. Kratos knew he only wished to watch the fish and said nothing of it. “Those are the only two things you do to distract yourself.”
“They are not distractions,” he said, the words coming with a defensive edge that he had not meant. Training and hunting were necessary for their survival. They were neither an indulgence nor a pastime. He thought he had taught his son that.
“Oh,” said Mimir, loudly and entirely to himself, “of course not.” His lips curled into a knowing smile behind his beard. Had he not been on the opposite end of the boat, Kratos would have swatted him. Instead, he simply ignored it and began to row again. Both to avoid his gaze and to bring them closer to the boat dock they had drifted in view of.
“I just… thought it’d be nice to learn some music. You could teach me, and…” His son explained himself almost as if he were trying to avoid a scolding. All he wanted was to spend time doing something recreational with his father. It had been an innocent request. It did not escape him that the fault was his for Atreus’s urge to justify it to him. Kratos did not know how to tell him they would not have time, either before or after Ragnarök. He said nothing. Atreus’s shoulders slumped. As he often did, Kratos had disappointed him. “No. It’s stupid. Nevermind.” He leaned over to frown at the water that passed them by, his brows knit tight. When Kratos looked, Mimir's smile was gone.
It was not stupid. Sparta had instilled the value of art in him as much as that of war. As a boy, during his first years of the agōgē, they had been taught song and dance. How to play music. How to appreciate it. They had studied countless poems, had memorized them, recited them. Even after all this time, he could remember phrases from the ones that had been his favorites and how to play a few simple Spartan songs. The thought crossed his mind that he should say so, but his son was dragging his fingers through the water again, distracted. Regardless, he could not find the words. The dock was mere minutes away.
~
The days he spent home came few and far between. He soon would leave again for war, and it spurred him to make the most of what time they had. He had spent hours sitting beneath the wide spread of an olive tree, knife in hand, whittling a flute. It was a small, delicate thing, and he had not moved since morning, determined to finish it before dark. Calliope had watched for a while, her cheek against his shoulder, warm from the sun. She had left him after growing bored, darting off and into the house to help her mother with the daily chores. She had returned to him a few times, curious and full of questions, each he had given his careful consideration and thoughtful answers.
By late afternoon, he had finally scraped the center of it hollow. It had been a tedious and meticulous process. One of which was not yet over. He lifted it to his lips and blew. He had not played in years, but he could still remember the notes. He played them one by one, listening as the pitch descended. The sound was breathy. Not quite right. He took his blade to it once more.
Movement caught his eye, a familiar little figure erupting from the house. Calliope came running, barefoot across the dirt, the loose linens she wore fluttering like the wings of an insect. “Father!” she said, shouting as she came close. “I heard you playing! Is it done?”
Kratos chuckled. “Not yet.”
“But I heard you! It must be!” She was out of breath, animated in her excitement, her cheeks flushed. He reached to brush back a curl of hair that had escaped her headband.
“It is not, but it will be soon. Sit.” She did, coming to settle beside him, her back to the thick trunk of the olive. He placed his knife down on the opposite side of him and played it again, slowly, listening to each note. A few of the pitches were still not right.
“Is it done now?” she asked and extended a hand to take it. Kratos held it from her reach.
“Does it sound done?”
“It sounds fine. Let me try, Father, please.” Her eyes were wide and pleading. He could not say no. He passed it to her, and she took a deep breath and brought it to her lips. The first note she played was sharp, sour. She cringed and then laughed, delighted, as he took it from her hands. “Maybe not.”
“Maybe not,” he said by way of agreeance and inserted the tip of his knife into the hollow of the flute’s foot. He twisted slowly, mindful of how much wood he was shaving.
“What are you doing?”
“Fixing it,” he said, distracted, and then he withdrew to give her the focus she deserved. “Remember you can always take more, but never put back. If I carve too wide, I will have to start over.” It was a labor of love, and each smile he earned reminded him that it was worth every minute of his time. He would carry the image of her rapt attention, her bright grin with him to war. It would keep him focused and alive, bring him home to her.
“If you have to start over, will you have time to make me another before you leave?”
“Of course,” he said. Lysandra would forgive him for squandering their limited time together, he knew. “But I am almost done.” Calliope clapped her hands together and brought them to her mouth, barely able to contain herself. She had learned to play, as all Spartan children did, but this would be the first instrument of her own. He finished and brought it to his mouth again, playing a pleasing scale, which—once he knew for sure the pitches were accurate—he turned into a jaunty Spartan song. One he had been taught as a child. It was a piece for beginners with a straightforward, simple tune. The sound was strong and full. He only remembered the first half and stumbled through the rest. It came to an awkward, stuttering end. Calliope squealed and clapped for him all the same. He extended it toward her. She did not take it, throwing herself at him instead. Her arms wound tight around his neck. He squeezed her and was sure not to be the first to let go.
“Thank you, Father,” she said, so genuine that it made his heart swell. He held it out, and this time she took it.
“I want to hear you play it. I am much better with a lyre.”
She brought it to her lips, closed her eyes, and began to play. It was a melody he did not recognize, something all her own. She swayed with it. He leaned back against the olive to listen, not knowing it become a sound that would haunt him for the rest of his days.
~
Mimir’s voice roused him from his memories. “Oh, lad,” he said, and though his son looked no less dejected, he straightened, giving Kratos room to line up the boat and maneuver them closer to the dock. “There’s nothing stupid about it. Music’s as much a discipline as combat, or anything else for that matter! There’re people out there that devote their whole lives to mastering it.”
“I guess.” Atreus wiped his hand dry on his trousers. “Before you, um—before Father chopped off your head, could you play the lyre?”
“Well, no.” The head pursed his lips. “Wasn’t exactly native to my homeland. We had something similar, but I never played it when I wasn’t drunk, I’m afraid.”
“It’s okay. It’d probably be a waste of time anyway. We’ve got more important stuff to do.”
His mother had loved music. Kratos could not recall a day with her that she had not spent singing. She would have wanted him to teach their son. She would have wanted him to show the same devotion he had shown his daughter. He was trying, and he was getting better. He was just running out of time. He sighed and secured them to the dock. “Atreus.” His son made to stand, and he slipped from his seat to kneel in the center of the boat. The sudden shift of weight upset it, and it pitched and rocked, the water lapping noisily at the sides until it calmed. He placed a hand on his son’s shoulder. Three years, and he still felt so small. If Faye had been wrong and he was to survive, or Gróa right and Asgard to fall, then they would have more than enough. "We will build it,” he said, knowing empty promises were ones he should not make. “After."
“Really?” Atreus’s smile was meek, but it was an improvement.
“Yes.” He took Mimir from where he sat at his son’s side and hooked him onto his belt, a motion so practiced, he no longer needed to look. He rose and stepped up onto the dock. Atreus steadied himself as the boat bobbed. He extended a hand to help him onto shore. “Now come.”