#godofwar

You remembered everything, the sting of the blade as it pierced your chest, the sound of Draupnir as it sank into that bastard’s skull, and Kratos… the raw agony in his voice as he ran for you, shouting your name.

Then the pain. Gods, the pain.

It rushed in all at once, burning through your chest, spreading deeper and hotter with every heartbeat. It only grew worse when Kratos caught you, gathering you into his arms, carrying you away with a desperation you had never heard from him.

“You will not die this day,” he whispered, pulling you closer, pressing a trembling kiss to the crown of your head.

Then everything faded into darkness. A distorted, painless void that lasted mere seconds before white-hot pain erupted again as Freya attempted to remove the blade from your wound.

A bloodcurdling scream tore from your throat as your body arched off the table. You thrashed blindly, instinctively trying to escape the hands that brought you agony.

“Kratos, you have to hold her down!” Freya shouted. “I cannot remove this if she struggles—the blade is lodged too close to her lung!”

Kratos was at your head instantly. His massive hands pressed gently but firmly over your arms, trying to pin them without hurting you. Still you fought, writhing uncontrollably as Freya’s magic boiled through your veins, sending fire racing along every nerve.

Another scream ripped free, raw and broken, tears slipping down into your hairline.

“Is there no way to ease her?” Kratos growled, voice sharp with desperation. “Is there no magic to spare her pain?”

“No, Kratos!” Freya snapped, hands trembling as she hovered them above your chest. “The blade was poisoned. I can draw it out, but she must stay awake. She has lost too much blood—if she falls unconscious again…” She swallowed, meeting his eyes. “I fear I may not be able to bring her back. You must keep her still.”

Freya’s words echoed inside your skull. You tasted iron from biting your tongue too hard. Your heart thundered painfully, each beat making the waves of agony crash harder. You sobbed uncontrollably, body shuddering as you slipped further into panic.

Kratos’s hands vanished for a moment, replaced by a blast of cold air across your skin.

“No—” you whimpered, but the word dissolved into another scream as fire scorched through your chest.

Then his hands cupped your face, warm, steady, and grounding.

“Prosōidía,” he murmured, kneeling at the head of the table. “Breathe.”

Breathe.

“Breathe,” he repeated, voice deep and low.

Breathe.

So you tried. Matching your breath to his, slow, controlled, and steady, while his thumb stroked gently behind your right ear. A deep rumble vibrated through his chest, soothing you as best he could. When your eyes finally opened again, Freya resumed her work, warning you each time before sending another pulse of magic through your bloodstream.

The pain never lessened. Each wave burned you from the inside out until finally the fire dulled to a relentless thrum.

Kratos never looked away from you. You squeezed your eyes shut and bit into the inside of your cheek, clinging to anything—anything—that wasn’t the magic tearing through your veins.

And so your mind reached for him. For the name he called you.

Prosōidía. His song sung to music. His poem carved from gentle hands. His dawnbloom. His treasure. His undoing.

To escape the pain, you thought of the first time he ever spoke that name.

----------

It had been early in your companionship. The day you’d begged him to travel to Alfheim with you. Not for the Light, but to study the flora. He grunted and protested, of course. But in the end he relented, arguing that it was not safe for you to travel alone while elves battled for control of their realm.

The two of you had drifted into a forest of vivid pinks, blues, and greens. The treetops cast soft shadows across the sand as Kratos docked the boat on a glowing shoreline. You had leapt out before he could steady it, excitement pulsing through every step as you twirled beneath the dappled light.

“Woman.”

His grumbling always made you laugh, especially when he used it during your lighter moments. He kept his distance as you examined the flowers, eventually plucking a dawnbloom, its orange petals glowing like embers in the escaping rays. You hadn’t realized you were humming until Kratos spoke.

“What is that tune?”

“Hmm?” You turned toward him, leaning against a tree as he watched you with crossed arms.

“You’re humming,” he repeated. “I enjoy it.”

Your fingers fidgeted with the dawnbloom, twisting the stem nervously. “I think it’s something my mother used to sing.”

“You think?” He pushed off the tree and walked toward you.

“I don’t remember her very well.”

He stopped a few feet away, and your fidgeting halted under the weight of his gaze. You lifted the flower toward him.

“Here. It’s my favorite in all the realms.” When he only raised a brow, you gestured impatiently. “Smell it, you crank.”

He narrowed his eyes but took the flower, lifting it slowly to his nose while watching you.

“It smells sweet.”

“Like honeydew. I haven’t seen it grow in Midgard for years. It’s the only plant that reminds me of home.”

“Your home smells of honeydew?” he asked, studying the flower.

“Well—yes. You do know what a honeydew is, right?”

“You think me foolish?” He lifted his chin, brow arching even higher.

“Kratos.” You crossed your arms as he stepped closer, his enormous shadow draping over you. Then, in an unexpected gesture, he tucked the flower behind your right ear, securing the stem through your hair so the petals framed your face.

“Someone from my home would give you the name Prosōidía,” he said softly. “Not compare you to an irritable creature and call you foolish.”

Heat rushed to your cheeks, and he grunted in satisfaction.

“It suits you.”

“The flower? Or the name?” you asked, tilting your head as you looked upward through your lashes.

Another low “Hm” rumbled from his throat as he turned back toward the canoe.

“Kratos!” you called, stepping through the sand after him.

“The name means ‘song sung to music,’” he said, tossing the dock rope into the boat. “Poetry.”

“Poetry?” you echoed.

“Yes. You create.” He pointed to the seat. “Sit.”

Since that day, he had only indulged your creativity, bringing you berries from other realms, offering scrolls and writings he found, and asking Mimir to retell entire sagas just so you could hear them in full.

Since that day… He called you Prosōidía.

----------

A fresh wave of agony ripped you back to reality, shattering the tender memory and slamming you onto the rough wooden table once more.

“I have to get this blade out, or she’ll keep losing blood,” Freya said, breath tight with urgency.

“Do what you must,” Kratos answered. “I will keep her still.”

He held your face gently but firmly, leaning down until his forehead pressed against yours… your skin slick with sweat beneath him.

“Steady your breath. Brace.” His voice pulled you back from panic, soothing you into a fragile calm. You tried to sink into it—into him—blocking out the burn spreading beneath your ribs as you braced for the blade to slide free.

Your arms lifted on instinct, hands trembling as they found his cheeks. You clung to him. Anchored yourself to his breath. Let it sync with yours.

Another memory washed over you, this one not born of peace but of fire.

----------

It had been just a year ago, the two of you caught in a sharp quarrel. You had been confined to the Wildwoods for months as Kratos completed task after task in the realms. You were restless, wilting beneath the sameness of it all.

“You cannot keep me here like some pampered house cat!” you snapped. “I am not Mimir! And even then he is attached to your rear and gets more of your company than I do!”

“Hey—” Mimir tried to interject from his usual place on the table.

“Quiet,” both you and Kratos snapped in unison.

Kratos fixed you with the stern, heavy stare he used when Atreus acted out, like he saw you as small, overreaching, and foolish.

“There is no reason to endanger your life simply because you wish to frolic in fields,” he said flatly, turning his back to end the conversation.

“Pardon?” you scoffed. “Is it because you see me as weak, Kratos? Do enlighten me.”

His back muscles tensed as he straightened, glancing over his shoulder.

“You are not weak.”

His gaze drifted, fixed on nothing and everything, as though looking deep into a wound only he could see.

“You are mortal.”

The word hit harder than any blow. Mortal. He spoke it as though it were a curse.

“And you are immortal,” you whispered through the tightness swelling in your throat.

“Yes.”

“That’s it?” “Yes?” Your fists curled at your sides, and his eyes cut to the movement as he turned fully back toward you.

“You are immortal,” you continued, voice trembling. “You have no understanding of the limitation of mortality—which causes you to cage me in hopes my life will last longer. I want to live, Kratos. Because there is no escaping death for me, and it will find me faster if I rot here waiting.”

“You do not understa—”

“No, you do not—”

“Let me speak!” His voice boomed before he stepped toward you, causing you to flinch. He froze, immediately lowering his hands to stare at them, studying the lines of palm and skin as if surprised they still shook.

“I have done many wrong deeds across my lifetimes,” he murmured. “And suffered each consequence.” His gaze lifted to you—heavy, earnest. “I do understand mortality. Protecting you from the paths that taught me that understanding… will never be one of my regrets.”

The tears you’d been holding back finally broke.

“Let me live my life to the fullest, Kratos—before it’s too late. Otherwise, that will be your greatest regret when I am gone.”

He stepped forward, cupping your face with a gentleness few ever saw from him. His thumb brushed the tear from your cheek.

“I cannot fathom the regrets I will have once you are gone.”

Your hands rose to his cheeks, mirroring him as you guided his forehead down to yours.

“Then live with me,” you whispered. “And enjoy the time we are granted.”

When he pulled back, something changed in his eyes, something molten and hungry. His gaze dropped to your lips. He closed the distance in a sudden, consuming kiss, heat rolling off him in waves.

Kratos had never embraced you like this—never touched you with such raw need—and the shock of it had your knees trembling. His hands were firm at your neck, holding you steady as your arms wound around him, fingers locking behind his head. He bent to your height, lifting you easily from beneath your legs, guiding them around his waist.

You clung to him as he carried you toward the bed, lips moving with desperate intensity, until he laid you back into the bear fur blankets.

“What are you doing?” you breathed, flushed and breathless.

“Enjoying the time we are granted.”

He pulled you to the edge of the bed, settling between your legs—

“Oh, for the love of all the gods, lad, please put me outside,” Mimir groaned from the kitchen table, still turned toward the wall.

-

A piercing scream ripped you out of the memory as steel slid from your ribs. Freya tossed the bloodied blade aside, and its clatter against the stone floor echoed through your skull. She immediately began sealing the torn flesh with magic as Kratos held your head down, keeping you from arching off the table.

-

The rest of the night blurred into silence. Freya and Kratos left you to rest after preparing herbs to dull the pain and coax you toward sleep. Still, the dull thrum in your chest flared often, waking you with whimpers and shallow breaths. The pain lingered, alive beneath your skin.

Hours passed before whispered voices drifted through the cottage. Muffled, but clear enough.

“She needs rest, Kratos. You cannot move her in this state,” Freya argued—exasperated, as though she’d repeated herself endlessly.

“I am taking her home,” Kratos replied in that immovable tone, stern, controlled, and absolute.

Home.

The word struck deeper than any wound. He’d never called the cabin that. Not once. It was always the cabin. Go back to the cabin. Stay at the cabin.

But now? Home.

Not a place. A promise.

The thought soothed something in you that had nothing to do with your injuries. He had tried so hard to keep danger from you. And the one thing he feared most had come to pass. You could only imagine the agony he hid behind that stern façade.

Home.

He was your home. And after that night, he never left you behind again. No arguments. No refusals. No frustrated grunts.

Just the two of you, wandering the Nine Realms and living the life you’d pleaded for.