God of War: Ashes of the Aesir

It did not take long for her pupil to deal with the five Gulons, nor with the six Nightmares summoned by the labyrinth. He cut, pierced, and crushed with a mastery that, she had to admit, was surprising for a young man who had spent only a few months training under her guidance.

Trygve already moved through the labyrinth’s chambers with a grace and precision even experienced warriors would envy. In truth, he did not even seem to walk. To her, it was as if he flew and danced across the battlefields, like a terrifying shadow that knew exactly what it was doing.

Still, he had a long way to go if he wanted to overcome his challenges, which seemed to have no end and would, without a doubt, become more and more difficult with each passing day. Actually, they already were.

“Do not focus on his armor,” Sinmara said, watching him circle and analyze the last enemy in the chamber — a dead Traveler reanimated by the labyrinth, wielding a sword as large as his own body and wearing armor that was certainly more resistant than the stony skin of ogres.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“And do not speak when it is not necessary. Control your breathing. How many times...?”

He nodded, making a small smile appear on her vulpine face. Trygve stopped short, then advanced. The Traveler swung his sword with brutality, roaring. Trygve twisted his body, having already predicted the attack with those treacherous eyes of his.

Then, he delivered a precise cut into the opening at his enemy’s armored shoulder and, in the next instant, pulled away to plan another attack. The Traveler groaned in pain and staggered for a moment, but soon straightened, ready.

Good, Sinmara thought, nodding.

Yes, as impressive as Trygve’s progress was, he still had much to learn and develop. And she was not only talking about his lack of experience in battles against smarter enemies; or about his physical capabilities limited by the lies that still existed between him and his mother; or about anything else related to the way he fought, for that matter.

Sinmara was also thinking of the excessive kindness he showed certain enemies, especially when they proved to be alive or sentient. Of his lack of pride in what he was. Of the way he lowered himself before others, even when he had more honor and goodness than them.

She also saw his foolish refusal to suspect others; the way he wanted people to be kind and generous so badly that he accepted that possibility before suspicion, instead of assuming that the world — all the worlds, in fact — was filled with vile men who only thought of themselves.

Sinmara liked that about Trygve: the fact that, despite the need to progress as quickly as possible, he had chosen not to demand everything she could offer in order to preserve her health; the fact that he did not want to sacrifice her life in exchange for another, even if that other life was his mother’s.

It was the reason she had trusted him so quickly, the reason she had decided to become his teacher and benefactor. And she was not thinking of destroying his main and most dignified traits. Far from it. She only needed to temper them.

Sinmara needed to make him a clever person, someone who would not be easily deceived by his own altruism. A man who would trust people, yes — who would still believe in second chances — but who would be careful in choosing those who deserved his trust. A man firm enough to make difficult, painful decisions, and strong enough not to torment himself over their consequences, as he had for days after that Valkyrie left...

For one day, he would need to make them, without a doubt. Whether he wanted it or not, now that Trygve had admitted and accepted that he was a god, new responsibilities would naturally fall upon his shoulders. There was no choice.

And Sinmara... Well, she did not want him to hurt himself when those moments came. The realms knew how much she had tormented herself over the choices she had made. She did not want her pupil to go through the same.

Trygve ran and slid beneath the Traveler’s legs, dodging his strike. At the same time, he slid his white blade through the opening at the knee of the enemy’s heavy armor. The Traveler grunted again and fell to his knees, bending his head forward.

Without wasting time, Trygve spun on his own axis and, taking advantage of the gap that opened around the neck of the Traveler’s helmet, broke his spine with a clean cut. The robust man was thus silenced and fell face-first to the ground, inert, like a puppet whose strings had been cut.

Sinmara suppressed a smile and began approaching him, feeling proud of how well Trygve was already applying her fighting style. Very soon, she would have nothing new left to teach him. At least, not regarding the swordsmanship she had created. But there were other things she could pass on... Things Surtr passed down to her millennia ago...

Sinmara shook her head, pushing away the old memories that came to her.

“Very well—” she began, but froze as she approached Trygve. She sniffed several times, and a grimace of disgust crossed her vulpine face. “By the giants, you stink worse than a bucket of piss.”

He raised an eyebrow at her, then brought a forearm to his nose and sniffed. His filthy face also twisted with disgust.

“Wow, you’re right. I didn’t think gods got smelly, so I never bothered washing myself. Well, not here in the labyrinth.”

“Where did you get that idea?” she asked, covering her snout with a paw. “Not from me, certainly.”

“From sweat. My sweat never stank.”

“Our sweat truly has no smell, but those disgusting fluids covering you certainly do. Have you never been covered in goat poop?”

Trygve narrowed his eyes at her. “Yeah, I have. All right, I'll wash myself.”

“Thank you.”

It was the first time Trygve had become so dirty. In the early days inside the labyrinth, rolling through the snow and the common use of flasks of Idunn Fruit juice — which, besides healing, expelled possibly harmful fluids from the body — had prevented him from reaching such a deplorable state. But with the development of his capabilities, those events had become increasingly rare.

“After that...” He paused and stared at the Traveler dead at his feet. Then, he looked at his own armor, battered by the months of battles it had endured. “I think I’m going to change my armor too. This one has already given all it had to give.”

Sinmara nodded. “I agree. Truth be told, it is a miracle it lasted this long. But wash that thing as well. Having to look at your face every single day is already enough. I do not want to have to keep smelling that stench of yours too.”

Trygve narrowed his eyes again. “You say that, ma’am, but have you ever paid attention to your breath? It’s not pleasant to smell that either.”

She frowned. “You brat...”

He gave her a mischievous smile and moved away to cut some roots sprouting from the snowy ground and gray walls of the labyrinth. He would need to make a fire to heat the snow and obtain water to wash himself.

Sinmara turned toward the twilight sun on the horizon, watching it burn with red tones that painted the fluffy clouds above. She took a deep breath, memories of happy times filling her mind once more. Then, she turned to the strong, tall, and gentle young man cutting and gathering roots, and smiled.

Indeed, happy and hopeful times had left a mark on Sinmara’s heart that would never heal. A scar of expectations of a world she had always dreamed of having after the end, beside her beloved, but never would.

But now, at least, she had someone new by her side. A boy who was slowly gifting her new times that would forever remain trapped within her. New and eternal scars she would remember for the rest of her life.

Sinmara stood there for a moment, watching him. A moment or two later, she breathed onto one of her paws and sniffed. There was nothing strange about her breath; it smelled like nothing.

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Little joker... she thought, smiling, and moved closer to his side.

***

After Trygve lit the fire, he went to the Gulons’ bodies and cut some pieces of meat from them. Then he stuck them on skewers and left them by the edge of the flames, so they could cook while he did the last set of exercises of the day.

Before that, however, Trygve removed the Traveler’s armor and washed it with snow, but not all of it. His fighting style and his gifts valued speed and agility over strength and resistance, after all. Although he possessed some of the strength of a god, carrying too much weight would still hinder him.

Therefore, he decided to clean only parts of it — gauntlets, boots, shoulder guards, and others — as well as the lighter clothes that went beneath the metal plates, and left them beside the fire too, on top of some stones.

With that done, he tightened the piece of fabric he used to tie his black hair back into a short ponytail — it grew long after so much time without a proper haircut — and finally began his training.

First, he unfastened his swords and, still dressed in his filthy armor, began doing his sets of squats, sit-ups, push-ups, and other exercises. Gods were born with strength far above the average mortal’s, true, but that did not mean they could not become even stronger.

Although the physical exercises Sinmara had given Trygve would not awaken his true strength, they would still make him stronger. Perhaps they would even make it possible for him to pierce more resistant surfaces that, at the moment, he could not, such as the stony skin of ogres or, perhaps, even the armor of Travelers. And his body was already showing visible results.

“498... 499... 500.”

At the end of the last set of push-ups, Trygve was sweaty and panting. He took off some of his clothes and paused to drink some water and rest a little.

Sinmara noticed how much his body had changed with the training, and the only thing she could imagine, with an irritation she refused to name, was the line of nosy, self-serving suitors that would one day form behind her troublesome pupil. I am going to have to teach him how to deal with that, too, I suppose.I cannot let some scheming woman become his wife...

The queen blinked to herself, stunned. What the Hel am I thinking?! she thought, feeling her face grow a little warm. That is his mother’s job, not mine. Besides, what could an old woman who has spent centuries alone possibly know about relationships?

Pushing aside her ridiculous thoughts, she turned her attention back to Trygve. Fortunately, he hadn’t noticed her and was simply using his break to move the meat away from the fire so it would not burn.

Later, after filling his canteen with snow and leaving it near the flames as well, Trygve recovered one of his swords and began practicing the techniques of Sinmara’s fighting style. He started with the most basic movements of the swordsmanship, like the first one she had taught him, then moved on to the more complicated and precise ones.

She very much wanted to help him with that part of the training; it was fun to participate in a fight against him, as uneven as it was. But her pupil had been exceedingly insistent regarding the use of her magic.

Of course, she did not need to obey his requests, just as she did not need to obey anyone’s. But she had promised him she would restrict her effort and did not want to break her promise.

“Again, the elbows—” she fell silent. While she was speaking, Trygve corrected his mistake on his own.

The more time passed, the less he needed her assistance. On one hand, that made Sinmara happy. On the other, it also made her feel slightly helpless. She knew that, one day, Trygve would no longer need her lessons, and seeing that with her own eyes... saddened her a little.

She sighed and looked at the intense moon in Niflheim’s sky, her gaze distant. Well, that is the goal, is it not? she thought. To make him master of himself. She only hoped it would not drive him away in the future... the fact that she was no longer useful to him.

Sinmara shook her head. She was exaggerating. Trygve was not the kind of young man who would abandon a person simply because they no longer offered him any advantage.

“Teacher?” he suddenly asked. She did not remember when she had started accepting that he called her that. Not that she did not like it...

“Yes?”

“Um... Are you all right?”

Sinmara nodded. “I am excellent, as I always am every time you insist on asking me that question.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Are you sure? Normally, by this point, you’d have scolded my mistakes at least a hundred times.” Another mischievous little smile. “You’re not sick, are you?”

She narrowed her eyes. “Stop chattering and continue your damned training.”

“Continue? I already finished,” he retorted, sheathing his sword and leaving it on the ground. He chuckled and concluded, “And I’m the distracted one here...”

Sinmara huffed and followed him to the fire so they could have dinner. He is getting far too comfortable around me. Perhaps I should teach him a lesson...

She waited with her back turned until he had finished washing himself with the water from his canteen. After that, his smell was much more tolerable, and they were able to enjoy dinner more.

While the two ate roasted, juicy pieces of Gulon meat — and while she thought of treacherous ways to make her pupil fall face-first onto the ground the next time he dared make some joke — Trygve dropped his food and looked at the moon above, his gaze distant.

Sinmara stopped eating and stared at him, curious and worried. It had been months since they had entered the labyrinth, living with one another. That was the first time she had seen such a somber expression on his face since they had learned, through the ravens, of his mother’s worsening condition.

“Is everything all right?” she asked, before even realizing it.

Trygve said nothing and only watched the bright stars sprinkling the night sky. After a while, he sighed and finally answered with a sad smile on his face:

“I’ve already told you that I lived in a small village in Midgard, milking the goats of a grumpy old man and taking care of my sick mother. But I never told you how much I liked that life. Everything was simpler. I had few friends, but good friends. I had heavy responsibilities, but they were joyful responsibilities, as well. Not that I was happy my mother lived sick. It’s just that... it was nice to see how the little I could do made such a huge difference in her day.

“Living beside them — reading, playing, singing, or just talking, really — was much more fun than fighting these monsters. Much more pleasant than being... a god. I’m sorry if I seem ungrateful again. That’s not my intention. I’m very grateful to have met you, ma’am, I truly am.”

Trygve smiled at her, and Sinmara smiled at him. He sighed and turned his gaze upward again. “I just found myself thinking about the old times. Then I suddenly realized that... Well, if I’m not mistaken... today’s my birthday.”

Her eyebrows rose a little. So this was his birthday. And he had been counting the days. Of course he had... Unlike him, one year more or less made little difference to Sinmara.

His smile disappeared. Trygve joined his hands over his lap and stared at them.

“And it’s the first birthday I spend away from her. The day I turn eighteen and become a man.” A tear appeared and slipped from his purple eye, which glowed in the dark, even amid the warm lights of the fire. “For as long as I can remember, I never imagined I’d spend a day like this away from her. Without the cheerful good-mornings and happy birthdays I received as soon as I woke up. Without the used boots and coats I received as gifts, bought with the few coins she managed to save from what I brought home. Without the cakes she spent the whole day baking while I was away, because she didn’t have the strength to do it faster.”

He wiped his tears and sniffled. “But wherever she is, today isn’t my birthday.” A small laugh without any humor. “She doesn’t even know that today, in here, I’m turning eighteen. She has no idea... And the cruelest part of all is that I have no idea if I’ll ever be able to celebrate another birthday with her. If I’ll ever get to tell her that I became a man.

“Who can guarantee I’ll find a way to return to her at the end of this damned place? Who can guarantee this has an end? I’ve been walking back and forth for months and nothing has changed in this place. Nothing...”

Although her company probably helped, the labyrinth was taking its toll. Trygve had been so strong until now. But it was obvious that eight months of training, fighting, and being wounded again and again would affect anyone’s mind.

Sinmara herself had gone mad during her solitary training millennia ago. The only reason she had managed to regain her sanity again and again had been the memories of the family she had lost. Her vengeance. And, later, when she had practiced for a few more centuries to take revenge on Odin, the reason had been Surtr — her only love.

Sinmara lowered her gaze, not knowing what to say, only watching Trygve clutch his own knees. She understood his helplessness. Understood each of the drops running down his face. After all, she knew, more than anyone, one of the cruelest facts of life...

That good moments and good company could only be truly valued when torn away by the inevitability of time.

Silently, Sinmara rose and walked to the fire. From the flames, she took a small burning twig and carried it with her mouth, without burning herself due to her own nature. Then, in front of Trygve, she gathered a mound of snow and planted the twig on top.

He raised his gaze and stared at the improvised cake she had made, raising his eyebrows slightly. Sinmara felt like an idiot for doing that. Why was she doing that? What would her old enemies and companions think if they saw the grand Queen of Niflheim making a gesture so worthy of laughter?

She sighed and looked at Trygve. And there, on his face, the queen found an unexpected answer to her questions. In the small but sincere smile he gave while staring at the improvised candle she had brought, while his crying finally dwindled.

What others would think of her was not important. Why would the mockery of others matter when none of them could understand how rewarding that beautiful moment was, and how she would remember it forever?

She smiled back at Trygve, then walked and, still in her small fox form, leapt onto his lap, drawing his tearful gaze. “Give me your hand.”

He did not question or react, only obeyed, still smiling at her. Sinmara touched his palm with her paw. In the next instant, bluish marks blazed and climbed up his forearm, painting it with an intricate tattoo of symbols, engravings, and drawings as ancient as herself.

Trygve wiped his face again and stared at the new tattoos on his arm, his mouth half-open. He looked at her, stunned and worried. Certainly, he was once again wondering if that would have any consequence for her, as always.

He was right to worry. Right to doubt her lying claims. But physical pain was no longer important to her, not then and there. He was more important. For some time now, he was.

The queen’s smile widened to the point of forcing her eyes to close. Then, she spoke, making her own embarrassed heart skip a beat:

“Happy birthday, Trygve.”