God of War: Ashes of the Aesir

It was cold when she woke, as it always was in Midgard. The others had said the weather would improve with time. That the mild warmth of spring and summer would soon bathe the plains, hills, and valleys, melting the snow and ice created by Fimbulwinter, bringing back the colors she had once appreciated so much.

But she did not want to reclaim the color the world had lost. She did not want to experience once more the peaceful, warm, fragrant, and colorful normality of a world long lost. Not without her son.

How could she appreciate the beauty of the world when she had lost what was most beautiful and precious to her? How could she enjoy normality, move forward, when she had lost the one who was her safe harbor?

Frida lowered her eyelids. After a long moment, she opened her eyes again and stared at the old wooden ceiling for a while longer. She did not want to get out of bed. Her mind had no strength for it. Her body did not either.

Even so, coughing dryly and trembling from the cold, Frida planted her hands on the straw mattress and, clenching her jaw, slowly lifted herself. Every second, every movement, was an instant in which her bones creaked, her muscles burned, and her stomach twisted with the familiar urge to vomit. It was a sacrifice to make any physical effort, even the smallest one.

When she finally managed to straighten herself and sit on the bed, she stopped and took a deep breath, drawing, from where there was not much, a little more strength. Then she dragged herself out of bed and, with great caution and groans of pain, sat down in her wheelchair.

A rather ingenious dwarf named Lúnda had created that seat for her shortly after her inexplicable and violent worsening a few weeks ago. The small woman had been quite kind to her, as had many others there, although Frida felt she did not deserve half the attention she received.

After all, from what the goddess had explained to her, everything she was suffering and had suffered since her son’s birth... had been her fault. The fault of the lies she had told him so many times. A reason quite different from that of the other refugees...

Panting from that simple effort, Frida pulled the thick blanket from her bed and used it to ease some of the cold she felt. Then she glanced around and looked at the other people lying in the cabin, illuminated by the braziers that warmed and lit the room.

She saw a man who had had his leg crushed in the wreckage of New Midgard and had needed the limb amputated. She saw a boy whose mind had never seemed the same after the toxins he had inhaled during his escape from Asgard. She saw a woman who had lost her sight when a burning piece of debris struck her house. The same accident had taken her husband and one of her children.

None of them — nor the other eleven there — could hope to regain what they had lost; their losses had already been confirmed. But Frida could. And that made her feel even guiltier for sharing that space with them.

The cabin door opened, letting out a sharp creak that echoed through the shadowy hospital ward. A dark-skinned, wrinkled man entered, accompanied by a dark elf. He carried a large steaming pot in his hands, while she brought a few bowls and spoons — lunch for the patients, which drew a few glances and hungry groans.

Frida wasted no time and, forcing her aching arms, wheeled herself toward the newcomers. The sound of the wheels on the floorboards and another coughing fit drew their attention, and they widened their eyes at her.

“What are you doing, Lady Frida?” Hildisvíni asked politely.

Frida still did not trust him completely, nor several of his allies, but she valued and was grateful for the polite and attentive way they treated her. Even so, it was hard to trust people connected to the gods after everything she had been through. Not that she had a choice, of course. She could barely move on her own.

“You can’t get out of bed without our help,” Freya’s adviser concluded.

He and the elf went to the table in the corner, where they placed the pot and the utensils.

“I’m not useless to the point... that I can’t sit by myself,” she retorted, panting, struggling to reach him. Her voice was dry as dust.

“It’s not because you can that you should,” Beyla, the dark elf, said, frowning at Frida. “You know how weak you are. What if you’d fallen— By the Gods, woman, stop!”

Hildisvíni hurried over to her, finally making her cease her effort. “What’s going through your head? Have you already forgotten what Lady Freya told you?”

She shook her head, sweaty from the fever and the effort. “I know I shouldn’t... move without help... But I...”

Her gaze fell heavily. Frida had gotten out of bed on her own because she did not want to give more work to those who already had so many people to help. But that was not her main reason...

The adviser sighed. “Look, I know you’re desperate for news. But nothing good will come from—”

“It’s today, isn’t it?” she interrupted him, the flame that never stopped burning in her chest becoming even hotter. “Goddess Freya’s return?”

Hildisvíni sighed and nodded. “As long as they haven’t encountered any obstacles on the way, yes, she, Kratos, and the others should return today. But before we go see her, you need to eat a little...”

Frida was no longer listening, as animated as she was by what the adviser had confirmed. As much as she distrusted the gods, Freya was the only one among them who seemed even minimally worthy of trust and kindness. For she, despite her divinity, knew what it was to be a mother in suffering.

When Frida had been brought to the place where the refugee camp now stood, her illness had worsened shortly afterward, to the point that Hildisvíni’s healing magic lost what little effect it still had. Therefore, the adviser had decided to call his goddess.

Freya, using her vast magical knowledge, had restricted Frida’s symptoms as much as possible, in time to greatly limit the damage the illness would cause. Frida suspected that, if not for the goddess, she would not have escaped with only a persistent fever, cough, useless legs, and the need to sleep most of the day. She would have died.

After the treatment, Frida spent two whole days unconscious, and when she woke, she met the goddess and finally learned from her what illness afflicted her. She tormented herself greatly for being the main culprit behind her own suffering. If only I’d been honest with him from the beginning... she thought, even though she knew that all the lies she had told were for her son's sake.

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Fortunately, Freya assured her that, as long as Trygve learned the truth from Frida, there would still be a chance for her to recover her health completely, including the movement of her legs. But that needed to happen soon. If she had another crisis, Freya would no longer be able to help, since the only thing that could further contain her symptoms — the heart of a specific monster from Helheim — no longer existed, having already been used on a patient the goddess herself had treated in the past.

She had nearly broken down after hearing that. She did not want to die. She could not bear the thought of never seeing Trygve again...

“Can you tell me what happened to your son?” the goddess had suddenly asked.

Frida had not wanted to tell her at first; she did not want the goddess's pity. But after a few days of loneliness, she gave in. Freya then returned her gesture by telling her how she had lost her own son, Baldur, to encourage her to keep her hope alive. Because, unlike her, Frida could still reunite with her boy.

“Thank you...” she said to Freya at the time, genuinely pleased by the goddess’s words.

Many people had survived the end of Asgard. Several of them arrived every few days at the settlements built in Midgard and Vanaheim, rescued by Freya and her companions during their journeys across the realms.

The goddess was supposed to return today with a new group of people. And she knew about Trygve. Frida needed to get out of there and see if... As soon as she turned the wheelchair toward the exit, Hildisvíni placed himself in her path and crossed his arms.

“Did you even hear what I said?”

She frowned. “Excuse me, Lord Adviser.”

He stared at her intensely for a moment. Then he sighed. “There’s no helping you, Lady Frida. Now I know where your son got his lack of judgment fro—”

“Don’t speak of my son as if he were dead!” she shouted, her tone harsher than she had initially intended. “He’s not dead!”

Hildisvíni froze, stunned by her reaction. Then he closed his eyes and bowed his head slightly. “Forgive me. I know your son isn’t dead. I... I was insensitive in my choice of words.”

Frida remained with her brows twisted for another instant. An instant later, her shoulders fell. “Forgive me too. I shouldn’t have raised my voice at you, not here... not after everything you’ve done for me...”

The adviser touched her shoulder gently. “And now I know where his kindness comes from.”

Frida lifted her gaze and found his dark, experienced eyes and a friendly smile. “Eat first. After that, I promise I’ll take you for a walk. We can wait for Lady Freya together.”

She shook her head lightly. “There’s no need. You must be very busy.”

“Fortunately, I’ll have some time to rest right after this. I’ll be able to accompany you for a few minutes before resting.”

Frida smiled weakly and nodded. She still did not trust Hildisvíni, true. But it was those moments, those small mistakes followed by gentle apologies, that made her believe in people like him more and more.

***

Upon leaving the heated hospital ward where she stayed, Frida was struck in the face by the brightness and cold of the Midgardian day. Adjusting the blanket over her shoulders, she closed her eyes and sneezed. When she finally managed to lift her eyelids again, her discomfort was soon replaced by unequaled anxiety at the sight of the camp’s boundless agitation.

Many people were leaving their cabins and makeshift tents, some even with bandaged limbs and bloody dressings, ignoring their pain and running toward the center of the settlement.

It was what always happened when a new group of refugees arrived. People became quite anxious to know whether their relatives and loved ones had finally been found. And Frida was no different.

As soon as she saw the familiar commotion, her heart raced. Fortunately, she did not even need to ask the adviser, who guided her chair, to quicken his pace; Hildisvíni did it on his own, guiding her through the muddy streets with haste, but also with care, avoiding places that could trap the thin wheels of her chair.

As they moved along the street, the village where the settlement had been built, at the foot of Týr’s Temple, passed before her eyes. Weathered wooden cabins, most of which had been emptied and were now being used as hospital wards to care for the hundreds of wounded. Tents raised on the grass, serving as improvised homes for the people who had already been healed and for those helping them.

Some torches and lamps lit the place during the nights, but now they were out. The only flames that could be seen were those of campfires and braziers burning here and there to warm the ever-growing population and prepare their meals.

A few minutes later, she reached the place where a crowd had formed around the realm portal.

“Excuse us.” With Hildisvíni’s help, Frida managed to slip through the people and find an opening through which she could observe the portal’s open door.

Through it, an apparently endless line of people arrived. Some were well and healthy, only dirty and tired. Others were wounded and sick, needing the attention of Freya’s healers. These entered Midgard accompanied by the gods’ allies — Vanir and Aesir servants and soldiers, even a few Valkyries — who escorted them quickly to one of the hospital wards, either supporting them on their shoulders, carrying them on cloth stretchers, or in their arms.

Frida spent some time watching the refugees who arrived, moving her head from side to side, searching the gaps amid the crowd. Every now and then, one member of the camp or another would shout, smile, and run to embrace a newcomer, happy to finally reunite with the person they had perhaps once thought lost.

That made her even more hopeful. More anxious. He was alive. She would not be sick if he were not. And he was coming back to her. He had promised, after all. He had promised...

A massive man with white skin and strange red tattoos came out of the portal, cold and intimidating as always, carrying an axe and two threatening blades on his back. If she was not mistaken, his name was Kratos. In any case, he was not either of the two people Frida was anxiously waiting for, nor was the talking head of Mimir hanging from his waist — which always made her shudder a little.

But the beautiful and strong woman who came right behind him was. Freya stepped out of the portal. She was dirty, but did not seem tired, despite the three days she had spent exploring Alfheim, searching for survivors of Ragnarök and taking care of the remaining enemies. Those two always fought side by side wherever they went, with Mimir hanging from Kratos’s waist.

Frida widened her eyes when she saw the door of the realm portal closing. No... Please, not again...

“Lady Frida—”

“Goddess Freya!” she shouted, interrupting Hildisvíni, and began guiding her chair through the crowd that was now dispersing, pushing someone aside here and there. “Excuse me. Excuse me, please.”

Eventually, she managed to break free of the group, followed by the adviser, and almost bumped into the Vanir goddess.

“Frida,” Freya exclaimed upon seeing her.

“Goddess... Freya...” she managed to say amid her deep gasps for air. After another coughing fit, feeling herself and her lungs burn like boiling water, she lifted her gaze and continued, “Did you... find him...?”

Freya’s gaze fell. Frida immediately fell silent. The goddess shook her head silently, and that simple gesture alone... was enough for Frida to feel as if her weak heart had been pierced by a dull blade. As if her world were on the verge of collapse.

Her shoulders grew heavy. Her eyes too. She gripped the hem of her dress tightly and allowed a single tear to slide down the protruding cheekbones of her face. Then more followed, dripping and staining her clothes.

Many would think it would be less painful to be separated from the one they loved most, as long as they at least knew that person was alive. But, for Frida, knowing that her son was alive and not knowing where or how he was... was as painful as being certain of his death.

Where are you, Trygve?

A hand touched her shoulder gently. “Be strong,” Freya said, her voice calm. “I still haven’t given up on finding him. Don’t give up either.”

After the goddess moved away to attend to the wounded, Frida spent a long while with her head lowered, tearful rivulets running down her face. After a few minutes, however, the crying began to stop. She dried her tears with her blanket and, taking a deep breath, slowly recovered her composure.

She was grateful for Freya’s encouragement, but it was unnecessary. As long as she was alive and suffering, her hope would not die.

“You may leave me, Lord Adviser,” she said to the man, now at her side. “You need rest.”

“Will you be all right?” he asked.

Frida smiled awkwardly. Then she turned her chair toward the closed door of the realm portal and nodded.

“I’ll endure... For him, I’ll survive and wait as long as necessary.” Her smile widened. “After all, we promised each other we would meet again. I know my son will do his part. And I’ll do mine.”