Chapter Text
Overgrown trails and paths transitioned into well-worn roads as the realms had seemingly sprung to life these past years after Ragnarok. Fimbulwinter had all but nearly faded, its hold on all seasons now gone and only the frigid winters would still feel its influence. Kratos and Freya had traded the sled and wolves for horses, the wolves happily at home with Birgir, the horses giving them the ability to cover more ground comfortably, able to travel to more remote villages who needed their help most.
He had found his horse first while they were in Midgard; a massive and sturdy mare who never begrudged Kratos for his bulk and loved him and hung on his every command from the start. It had taken some work to find a suitable way to mount Mimir comfortably to the horse, finally settling on securing him atop a saddle-bag, giving the head a welcomed, forward-facing view for the very first time.
In a manner befitting her, Freya’s horse had been a less straightforward endeavor, a wild mare they had found in Vanaheim who nearly bested Freya and who may have even killed the goddess if she hadn’t had wings. Thrown from the horse repeatedly, she would use her wings to keep from breaking her neck on the ground and Kratos had at first been frustrated at her insistence on breaking this hopeless horse, but as the days went on he was instead only impressed at her dedication to something only she knew would work. After nearly a month of effort, he had come to the clearing one morning to find Freya seated atop the horse, the two relaxed and watching a deer drink from the river opposite them while Freya braided the mare’s mane.
The two had been inseparable since then and Freya had been nearly giddy at having a horse again, something she had not had since before the Aesir war and something that was yet another piece of her that she had reclaimed.
Even Kratos would admit to a keen fondness for not just his horse, but the way in which it changed their travels through the realms. It was a slower, more relaxing method of travel, allowing for conversation not just between the three, but with those they passed along the way. They would gather intel this way on threats still lingering or struggling villages that needed their assistance. Kratos never had to do much talking during those interactions, Freya graciously taking the conversational reins, but she had lectured him on at least being polite and thanking people for their help- preferably doing it without a scowl on his face.
He had found her suggestion helpful, able to put people at ease without having to say much as long as he was sincere in expressing gratitude.
There had been many lessons he had learned from her on how to be a leader without the context of war or battle, and while he knew he would never come close to matching her natural ease with people, he was growing better.
As he rode his horse down a wide road, he occupied his mind by identifying the plants he passed, able to name most of them after having listened to Freya talk about them for years, though she never knew he had actually been listening. Some were already retreating as the warm summer was transitioning into Fall, trees dropping leaves and flowers falling to the ground and littering the dirt road around him. He could almost hear Freya’s voice; hear her speak of her excitement for Spring and her good-natured grumbling about the impending Winter- her least favorite season.
She had grown to be his favorite and most beloved companion and he knew even Mimir wouldn’t be offended by that. They worked well together, fought better together, enjoyed each other's company and he had barely thought of their years together traveling the realms as work. If pressed for honesty he might even say he had been happy.
There was only one problem with their partnership; that being he hadn’t seen her for over a year.
He knew he had been a miserable friend to Mimir these past few seasons, trudging sullenly through every realm except Vanaheim for fear of running into her there. Mimir had retaliated by expanding Kratos' vocabulary greatly, and he learned the meaning of words like curmudgeon, sourpuss, malcontent, cantankerous, bilious… crotchety. There were too many for Kratos to remember, but he couldn't argue that he hadn't been all of them and more since she had left.
Mimir had finally begged him to seek her out after Kratos had spent the better part of a week trying to brute force his way into a blocked path in Alfheim. He needed sigil magic to get through. He needed her. And Mimir was at his wits end. It seemed a fair compromise and so he had finally relented, swallowing his pride and pointing his horse in the direction of the realm gate. Ippos hadn't seemed to tire of him like Mimir had, but the feathers he still wove into her mane were a bitter reminder of Freya, of what he had allowed to slip from his life.
There hadn't been any fight, any falling out. She had simply left him one day and didn't return.
He hadn't known he should be heartbroken at the time, the reality of her leaving not fully sinking in until three seasons had passed. Only then did he begin to understand she was truly gone. He would never be the same.
He walked Ippos into the center of the Vanaheim camp that had steadily been built up into a bustling village and he realized he had expected to immediately lay eyes on Freya. Instead, Sif and Hildisvini approached him, welcoming smiles on their faces that turned quickly to worrying confusion when Kratos asked for Freya.
"Freya? She's not with you?" Hildisvini asked, even looking behind Kratos to confirm this wasn’t some uncharacteristic prank.
“She left me- our mission almost a year ago shortly after we killed Gna.”
That was met with blank stares from both Hildisvini and Sif as they began to try to process what was happening.
"Where did you part ways?" Hildisvini finally asked.
"Midgard. She stated she was going home. I took that to mean Vanaheim."
"She gave me her Vanaheim home after Ragnarok. She hasn't returned since you both were here last summer." Sif was trying and failing to keep the edge from her voice.
Not returned? Kratos heard the words, but he didn’t understand them. It had never crossed his mind that she wasn’t here.
"She does have another home on Vanaheim soil. Her family's island, Noatun. If she is there we would have no way of contacting her," Hildisvini informed.
"Not even by messenger?”
"Before her wedding she hid the realm gate. I have not seen it reopened."
“So she could be there. In seclusion.” Kratos was attempting to remain optimistic, but a tightening pressure had taken hold of his chest and he knew he would be carrying it until he laid eyes on her again.
“It seems unlikely that she would choose that, having had seclusion forced on her,” Sif supplied and they all, except the severed head, nodded in agreement.
“Aye. Could she be holed up somewhere here? She and Freyr had secret places all over Vanaheim.”
“Why would she be here but not make contact with anyone? That doesn't seem like her either.” Sif was no longer trying to hide the worry in her voice, having grown to hold Freya dear.
“Did you part on good terms?” Hildisvini asked, turning to look at Kratos, the question delivered with a non-judgemental warmth that was missing from Sif’s questions.
Kratos looked to the ground before answering, “We…parted when our mission was over. The exact nature of our parting is between Freya and me.”
“Brother, I think we're coming to the point in this discussion where we entertain the idea that maybe she came to harm.” Mimir finally voiced what the group had all come to think.
“There are not many that could harm her. She was- is a worthy battle partner.”
“And yet it took you a year to even care to check after her,” Sif snapped at him, her irritation fueled by concern for her friend.
“I did not say that I was a worthy partner.”
They had agreed to begin a discreet search for her in Vanaheim while Kratos would check for her at her old Midgard home where he had first met her. He handed Mimir over to Hildisvini, knowing his friend was through with traveling with him for the time being. If he had been a miserable companion this last year, he would certainly be more of one now that he would worry for Freya in addition to missing her.
He set off, trying but failing to suppress the unnatural jealousy that sprung up in him when he thought of her there with Birgir. If she was there he would surely only be relieved that she was well, but telling himself that did nothing to make himself feel that way.
When he arrived at her old home she was nowhere to be found and Birgir was just as bewildered as he was as to her location, though she had come here after she had left him.
“She came to check on Chaurli and the wolves. She said she was checking in on me as well, but I know I stand in lower regard than her beloved creatures. You though, you may be the only person she holds more dear than her animals. Well, you and your son,” Birgir teased him with a friendly smile, appearing relaxed and content in his home he had grown to love.
“Me?”
“You didn't know this?” The smile slowly faded from Birgir's face. Up until this moment he had imagined the two had been together, in all senses of the word.
“I know she respects my skill as a warrior”
“She respects many warriors. None are spoken of as you are.”
“I have not seen her since before she visited you. Do you know where she was heading next?”
Birgir blinked at him a few times, trying to process that. How had this man managed to lose track of Freya?
“To you, she was heading back to you,” he finally answered, an edge creeping into his voice as worry began to set in.
Kratos shook his head, “No, that is not right. She left me, she said she was going home.”
“You don't have to believe me, I'm telling you what happened,” Birgir answered sharply, annoyed that this man didn’t see what was obvious more than he was irritated at being doubted.
“I apologize, I did not mean to question your word and have only known you to be truthful. I do not doubt you, I am only now more worried for her. All this time I thought…I thought she was living happily in Vanaheim.”
“Without you,” Birgir said incredulously, the man more daft than he thought. At least when it came to Freya.
“Yes.”
“The only other thing she spoke of besides you was Hófa and how she needed her saddle fixed. I told her of Kaupang, the town a few hours west of here that has a skilled saddle-maker. I am sure that was her next stop if she didn't go back to you. That saddle was causing both of them discomfort.”
“I remember that. She spoke in great detail of the exact discomfort it was causing her, even more so when she saw it made me uncomfortable.” Birgir chuckled at that, needing little imagination to conjure up an image of that interaction.
“Something her brother did as well. Their blunt speech is certainly unique to the Vanir. While I am an adopted son of Vanaheim, I spent hundreds of years with them and learned quickly to not react because it only encourages them. However…I also learned it was something they only do with people they care about. A love language of sorts.”
“Mmmm,” Kratos grunted and Birgir rolled his eyes, feeling it wasn’t his place to knock Kratos over the head with what had been obvious to him during his short interaction with Freya. She cared greatly for this man and he was oblivious.
“When you find her will you send me word? I didn't know I should be worried about her, but now that I am…”
“I will. Thank you, Birgir.”
--
Heading next to Kaupang, he was surprised to find what was surely the largest town in all of Midgard, touting a bustling market and more people he had seen in one place since he left Greece. He couldn’t recall ever visiting here before, but he was certainly well known, no shortage of friendly and interested townsfolk inquiring about his reason for visiting. Guarded in his response and not wanting to bring attention to the fact Freya’s whereabouts were unknown, he politely brushed their questions aside, focusing instead on looking for signs of her.
He was directed to the saddle-maker, but as he made his way towards the shop he was passed by a group of young girls, all with feathers adorning their hair. Stopping in his tracks, the girls stopped as well to pet his horse, giving him the opportunity to question them without scaring them off.
“Why do you wear feathers in your hair?” He asked as gently as possible.
“For the goddess, Freya. She wears them in her hair,” one of the girls replied while idly braiding a section of Ippos’ mane, the other girls lavishing the horse with attention she was happy to receive.
“She is here?” Even he heard the uncharacteristically desperate hope in his question.
“No, not since she saved our girls from the dragon that lives in the mountain,” a greasy-haired man wearing a ridiculously garish robe trimmed with gold interrupted the girl before she could respond.
“How long ago was that?” Kratos asked, directing the question at the girl and ignoring the fancy man.
“Last fall,” the man interrupted again.
“She bargained with the dragon- traded herself for the six of us, but she said not to worry about her- that she could handle him.”
“The dragon held you captive?”
“It was a dwarf that could turn into a dragon,” one of the other girls answered.
“I know of this dwarf. What did he want with you or with Freya?”
“He called us his treasures. I don't think he knew what to do with us past owning us. He quite literally salivated after her though- like she was the greatest prize.”
“Why did you not seek help from the Council?” This time he directed his question at the man who seemed to think of himself as an authority figure, but who cowered when asked a pointed question.
“She- she told the girls she would handle the dragon. We would never, ever doubt the word of a god, Sir.”
“Mmmm,” Kratos growled, “It is foolish to put blind faith in gods- even one as benevolent as Freya. You should have alerted the Council.”
He had tired quickly of this small man who continued to interrupt with useless words he thought true simply because he was saying them. The man scampered off, wise only in his understanding he had worn out his welcome with the giant man. Kratos heard the giggles from the girls behind him and turned back to them to finish the conversation he felt was leading towards his first real breakthrough.
“Please, say what you could not say in front of him.”
“Kaupang worships her as they did her brother, but no one wants to be honest about the fact that our prayers have gone unanswered since she traded herself for us. The elders want only to celebrate our return and that the dragon hasn't been seen since…but we fear she never left.”
“She never came back for her horse- we've cared for her since.”
"Hófa is here?" He felt the blood drain from his face, a persistent ringing in his ears he couldn’t shake, the girl’s next words a muffled, distant-sounding voice.
"Yes, this way."
He followed her numbly around the back of the cottage to the small but well-kept stable, the other girls leading Ippos behind him.
"Why is her horse named 'hooves?' We've always thought it silly. Not what you'd expect the horse of a goddess to be named," another of the group asked.
"It was a silly joke that stuck. I named my horse, 'horse' in my native tongue and so she named hers 'Hófa' in response.”
They led him into the stable and he was greeted with an enthusiastic whinnying from Hófa as he approached her. This was the first real sign of her, but his worry, the tightening in his chest, was only more profound. She wouldn’t have left her beloved horse behind.
“You have taken great care of her,” he said as Hófa pushed her head against his and nuzzled him. Her coat was a silky, shiny black, her mane and tail intricately braided with gold threads and feathers, just as she had when Freya cared for her.
“We’re honored to care for her, but she’s a constant reminder of Freya’s sacrifice,” the girl who had braided Ippos’ mane said while picking up a brush and beginning to brush Hofa.
Sacrifice, the word bounced around in his head, the girl’s voices still sounding muffled and far off.
“You truly believe she is still in the dragon’s fortress?” He asked while staring at the brush as it moved across the silky black fur.
“Yes. She loved- loves this horse. We don’t know her as well as you do but she doesn’t seem the type to abandon someone she loves.”
“No, she is not,” he agreed, running his hand up and down Hofa’s nose.
“We spent only one night up there together, but she spoke of her plan to return to her partner. If that’s you and you haven’t seen her, then…”
“She is still there”
“Thank you, for listening to us. They don’t listen.”
“Age does not always bring wisdom. Your reasoning is sound and I will search for her there. It is my hope to return Hófa to her owner. Until then-”
“-We’ll continue caring for her”
“Thank you”
--
Reaching the top of the mountain, he tied Ippos to a tree in a small clearing he thought to be safe and well-hidden, making his way up to the fortress on foot. It was nearly a ruin, making finding the entrance difficult as broken, falling arches blocked every path he thought to be the way inside until he finally found an opening overgrown with thorned, dying vines. He burned through them with his blades, turning sideways to enter the narrow opening and emerging into a darkened, cavernous room. His stomach churned as a foul, rotting odor greeted him, heightened by the dankness of the seeping stone walls.
The room was dark, only shafts of light illuminated the space through broken windows and crumbled stone walls, but a lone figure in the massive empty space caught Kratos’ eye.
"Fafnir. I thought I killed you once already," Kratos greeted the figure seated upon what he supposed was a throne at the top of a stepped platform. A throne for a man without revelers, without worshippers, without loyal subjects was simply an ornate chair.
“You. I know you. You ashen brute.” The dwarf spoke with a thick, gurgling wetness to his voice, either not caring to clear his throat or unable to. His hair was long and thinned to the point of showing far more scalp than hair, curtaining his face in long, greasy streaks.
Kratos walked closer and a sword laying against the bottom of stone steps caught his eye; a sword he knew well. Thrungva.
“WHERE IS FREYA?” Kratos’ voice thundered and echoed through the resonant hall.
“Dead. Dead and useless,” Fafnir answered in a lilting, sing-songy voice that grated immediately on Kratos.
“If she were dead she would have her sword in her hand. She is here. Tell me where she is!”
“Odin couldn’t tame her… I did… wild ferocious bitch.” His head lolled back and forth, seemingly unable to hold it up.
“If you will not reveal her location I will find her myself. You are of no use to me.”
“My fucking bitch wife and her bitch cat. I can't even have her…can't have what I deserve.” His words slurred, brown saliva pouring from his mouth as his head drooped forward, his chin resting on his chest.
Picking up Thrungva, Kratos continued walking towards Fafnir until he was right in front of him, the dwarf’s head hanging against his chest in sheer exhaustion. His arms and neck were a map of small scratches, oozing a dark green instead of bleeding red. It meant nothing to Kratos in that moment; he wanted only to remove Fafnir’s head from his body.
“She is not your wife. Tell me where she is.” Kratos practically snarled at the dwarf who appeared to be nearing death, but Kratos would still feel compelled to hurry that inevitability along.
“Buried in her tomb… my precious bitch wife… my useless treasure.”
The back of his neck lay bare and Kratos could feel the pull from Thrungva to avenge her master and he would not deny her.
“Coward," he ground out, raising Thrungva above his head and bringing it down onto the dwarf's exposed neck. His head rolled to Kratos’ feet and was kicked across the room where it disappeared from sight, tumbling down a flight of stairs, the heavy thuds echoing through the room before fading.
Kratos began his search of the fortress, discovering what had once been Fafnir's chambers, seemingly unoccupied for some time while the dwarf had rotted away on his throne. A dozen other rooms produced the same unkempt quality, though the doors to all of them had been locked, providing Kratos with the satisfaction of tearing them all down. Upon obliterating the last door into splinters, he realized he had actually expected her to be behind one of them, her smiling face greeting him, grateful he had come for her. Every room was empty and so he began his descent down the stairs he had kicked Fafnir's head down.
There was a maze of corridors greeting him at the bottom of the stairs, far below the main level of the fortress.
He discovered corridors housing barred cells, all empty, but he would still feel compelled to rip the prison doors from their rusty hinges. While he left a path of destruction, he still found himself getting lost and so he began to draw a map of the dungeon maze, camping each night outside the fortress in the clearing with Ippos, spending his days searching each corridor, each cell.
The image of Thrungva sitting next to Fafnir's throne haunted him, compelled him to return over and over to the fortress, searching for her. She could not have simply disappeared. She was too big to have just faded from existence without anyone noticing. And yet he had let her fade from his life before only seeking her out because he needed something from her. If he was being even more honest with himself he would admit his reason for needing her was objectively contrived and not the reason he had needed her at all.
After nearly two weeks of fruitless searching and producing a map that appeared to leave no unexplored corridors, he began to wonder if Fafnir had spoken truthfully when he spoke of Freya’s death. He had discovered no evidence to doubt that claim, his strongest objection being only that he wished for that to not be true. Deciding on giving himself one more day to search the dungeon, he again came up with nothing and resigned himself to heading back to Vanaheim to see if his allies had found any sign of her.
He returned to Vanaheim with Thrungva to the somber faces of those who saw the sword riding on his back, Hildisvini being the only one brave enough to approach the sulking Spartan.
“You found Thrungva?”
“Yes, and Hofa. Freya was being held captive by a dwarf, Fafnir, in Midgard. I have searched the fortress with no other sign of her. I assume you have not found any sign of her here?” Hildisvini answered with a shake of his head, his eyes fixed on Thrungva's ornate, distinct pommel over Kratos’ shoulder.
“Hugrun may have a trick or two up her sleeve now that you’ve found this piece of Freya. She lives by the Crater. Her magic is powerful, second only to Freya and she cares greatly for her. She’ll help you… but she will not be kind- of that I’m certain.”
“I do not require kindness. If you believe she can be of help I will go to her.”
Hugrun had indeed not been kind, irritable and snappy with him and it was clear she placed the blame for Freya’s disappearance solely on his shoulders. They were aligned in that.
“Do you believe her to be alive?” she asked gruffly, not pausing her work at her table or even looking up at him as he sat across from her..
“Yes”
“Because it would ease your guilt or because you truly have hope she is still living?”
“Can it not be both?”
“It can.” She looked up at him finally, continuing to weave the small leather strips expertly as she fixed him with a critical glare. “I knew her before her wedding, and I know her after because I know her heart. You two are not so dissimilar. Forced to bend to the will of manipulative gods, treated as play things to carry out atrocities.”
“You do not know me,” he grumbled at her, his patience already worn thin.
“Yes I do, Ghost of Sparta. I know you. And so does she. I too believe that she is still among the living and I trust that you will find her. Thrungva is part of her, it yearns for her just as we do.” She ran her hands along the sword that lay on the table between them, then took the sword from the sheath, “Bind yourself to this sword and you will know when she is near as Thrungva will shine in her presence.”
Unwrapping the leather around the hilt of the sword, she revealed the bare metal smeared with still-wet blood.
“Your hand,” she demanded and he placed his hand palm-up on the table and she deftly sliced his open palm, pressing it to the blood on the hilt. Thrungva glowed blindingly bright for a moment before fading, Hugrun working to rewrap the hilt with the leather strapping. He blinked and the tip of Thrungva’s blade was pressed to his neck, “Do not ever return to me unless you have found her or I will dispatch you from this life you value so little, Ghost,” she snarled at him.
“Mmmm,” he growled despite being at her mercy, the blade breaking his skin, blood dripping down his neck and dotting his chest.
“You do not like the name and yet you choose to still wear them on you.” She moved the blade from his neck to trail down the center of his chest, the blade now positioned above his heart.
“I do not choose to, it is a curse.”
“And yet they fade. And they lift from you with ease when you do not cling to them in self pity." She waved her hand across his chest, whispering words in the old tongue and a darker swath of skin appeared where her hand had traveled. Removing Thrungva from his heart, she sheathed the sword and slid it to Kratos.
“Find her. Find what you allowed to be lost and choose to live worthy of the redemption your wife believed you deserved. Or don't bother living at all.” She dismissed him with a flip of her hand and he wisely rose and exited the house before she could follow through with her threat.
Despite knowing the woman merely tolerated him, less so now that she needn’t for Freya’s sake, he went next to Sif’s home. She seemed to expect him and had two journals ready to hand over to him; one was Freyr’s and the other Freya’s. They were all she had to offer him to aid in his search, Freyr’s journal containing maps of the hidden places he and Freya had throughout Vanaheim. Hildisvini had been able to search a few with no luck, but his Council duties had prevented him from searching all of them.
“I had no right to this so I suppose I either have no right to give it to you or no reason to not,” Sif said as she handed over the second journal, Freya’s.
“I never saw her keep a journal. She rarely wrote down anything other than brief notes.”
“This was kept for a very specific purpose. Once she was out from under Odin she wouldn't have needed to keep this kind of journal.”
“You have read it?”
“Not in a very long time, but it still haunts me. I kept a similar one after reading it. Wrote down everything Odin said to have written proof he was lying about every single thing. Manipulative snake.”
“Whether these aid me in finding her or not, their contents will be safe with me.” He spoke with such ardent sincerity that she couldn’t help but let some of her irritation with him fade.
“I know. I don't know why but she trusts you. Your parting is your own business but I assume it involved feelings outside of being battle partners.”
He hung his head and dropped his shoulders in response, suddenly managing to look small despite his massive size.
“I…I crossed a line I should not have and told her I cared for her, tried to comfort her after we killed Gna. She left the next day.”
She felt compelled to comfort this sad giant man who played a part in the death of her stepsons. As a confidant of Freya's Sif knew for certain Freya would not have left because Kratos crossed a line, rather she had not anticipated Kratos feeling the same way she did. Sif recalled the conversation where Freya had confided her feelings towards him and the complicated accompanying feelings that came with that.
Both women had suffered from the guilt of surviving Ragnarok when their loved one’s had not and Freya had felt her happiness now was a betrayal to those she had lost, even those that hadn’t been at Kratos’ hand.
Sif’s own husband had committed egregious acts in the pursuit of gaining his father's favor and her stepsons had followed in his footsteps. Odin had put their sons in Kratos' path and just as Freya didn't hold her mother's death against Sif, she couldn't hold her stepson's deaths against Kratos. Like Freya she wished to also move forward, but they had still bonded over their struggle to do so.
“I would not betray Freya’s confidence, but I want to at least reassure you she wouldn’t have left because of that. Not in the way you believe.”
“Birgir told me she was coming back to me… I do not understand why she left or why she would come back…”
“You’ll find her and you’ll have your answers when she can tell you herself,” she said as she handed the journals to Kratos and a light shone from behind him.
“Hugrun bound you to her sword?” She asked, both eyebrows raised in surprise.
“Yes, to aid me in finding her. Though she seems to be everywhere in Vanaheim.”
“Did she also tell you that's how the Vanir seal their marriages?” She asked with a smirk.
“No. She did not.”
He traveled to all locations marked on the map, growing weary of seeing Thrungva glow and then fade just as quickly, pieces of Freya living all throughout Vanaheim. When it came to the last marker on the map, it took him two days to find the entrance only to be faced with a small keyhole when he brushed aside overgrown vines. He pulled out Freyr's journal, flipping past pages of drawings depicting what he supposed were pleasure devices until he came to a page containing a piece of silk cloth with a small key tied to the end. The page it marked contained a drawing of Freya, devoid of any clothing but wearing a smile Kratos had only seen twice.
Once when he had surprised her with a rare flower from Vanaheim and the other when he had surprised them both by interrupting her bathing while they were traveling in Alfheim. The latter was a memory he hadn't allowed himself to think about since it happened, but now faced with a drawing nearly identical to what he had seen with his own eyes, he wasn't sure he'd be able to ever bury the image away again.
He unlocked the door and pushed it open, tearing overgrown vines that indicated it hadn't been opened in decades. She would not be here. The weight of his continued failure felt crushing.
Of all the places he had found, this one felt the most like Freya. Walled on all sides by rocky cliffs, it was completely enclosed and protected, save for the open sky above the tall, sheer walls. A massive tree sat in the middle of the open area and it would take him a few moments of walking around to see that there was a cottage built into the trunk of the tree. It was a ridiculous structure in its whimsy and he felt the pang of missing Freya as he took it in.
Stairs led up to the front door and he followed them up and opened the door, again foolishly hoping against all reason that he would discover her on the other side. It was empty. Dust coated every flat surface and plants had grown inside through opened stained glass windows. Despite that, he still felt comfortable here, as he always had in the spaces Freya had made herself at-home. He was beginning to understand though it was not the physical spaces, but rather her that had made him feel that way.
Deciding to give himself a rare night of sleep, he laid on the wooden planks of the floor and allowed his mind to continue to think only of her. When he had been with her he hadn’t allowed himself to; believing it to be an indulgence, a distraction, a hope for something that would never come to be. But now, dwelling on her felt like punishment and he was comfortable with that.
-