God of War: Ashes of the Aesir

With his brow furrowed and his sword raised, Tryg stared at the flask in Rist's hand. How was that possible? She'd drunk the two he had given her earlier. His own eyes had seen the empty vessels lying in the snow. So how...?

Tryg's eyes widened, the mist covering part of his final moment with Rist fading away, revealing the memory of one of the last things he had done in secret before each of them went their separate ways.

"I found this in my bag long after we parted," she declared, staring at the flask turning between her fingers with a distant look. "I didn't want to use it, no matter how hurt I was. But today..."

She fell silent, pressing her lips together.

It was true. When he had approached Rist that day to tell her the truth, Tryg had not only handed a few flasks to her. Knowing the Valkyrie could easily refuse his help after hearing what he had to say, he had also hidden another one in her bag during a moment of distraction, hoping that, with time, her hatred would fade enough for her to set her anger aside for the sake of her own health and goals.

But, apparently, Tryg had been wrong. Rist had never stopped hating him for the truths he had told her. At least, not until that day. But what had changed? Why had she chosen to accept his help now?

Rist raised her gaze to Tryg and frowned, exasperated.

"What do you think I should do with this, 'Aesir god'? Do you think I should heal myself and end the lives of two enemies of my people?... Or do you think I should help the man who blasphemed against the gods I serve and the woman who spent her entire life plotting against those I love?"

Tryg tightened his grip around the hilt of his sword, whitening his knuckles. As he listened to the slow, harsh breathing of the fox in his arm, his heart began to race faster and faster, to the point that he thought it might burst.

Tryg didn't want to think in that moment. His mind only wanted to chew over the savage urge to leap at Rist and take that flask from her hand. But that would be idiocy; even his mind, driven half-mad by the months inside the labyrinth, knew that. The chances of the vessel breaking amid the confusion that would unfold were considerable, not to mention the possibility of the Valkyrie crushing it herself.

Besides, Rist might feel compelled to attack him and his teacher. And that was not a fight Tryg wanted to have. Turning the Maiden into an enemy was not desirable. Assuming she isn't already, he thought.

So, in the end, all Tryg could do was beg. He took a deep breath and lowered the point of his sword, neither too much nor too little.

"Lady Rist..." he said, his voice calm, contained. "I know you want to get out of here. You also have a family you want to return to. I'm sure you want to see your sisters again as much as I want to see my mother. But my teacher... she may not survive without the juice in that flask. Please..."

It was cruel to ask Rist to give up the flask. That healing could be the difference between surviving the labyrinth and returning to her people, or utter failure. He did not want to force her to make that exchange.

The same was true for Tryg. That could also be the difference between failure and success for him. But, in that moment, nothing mattered more than Sinmara's life. In that instant, nothing else seemed to matter, not even his own life. After all, what would be the point of completing his goals if he then had to live with the knowledge that he had sacrificed one of the people he loved most in all the worlds?

Upon hearing his request, the Valkyrie's face twisted into an expression Tryg could not decipher. Grief? Doubt? Rage?

Rist screamed. A sharp, fierce cry that pierced Tryg's ears and made him flinch. Then, suddenly, she clenched her jaw, squeezed her eyes shut, and brought her hands to her hair, gripping it as if she wanted to tear out every blond strand.

By instinct, Tryg bent his knees, preparing himself for anything. But it was only an involuntary reflex. There was no real reason for it. His shadow vision had already shown him that, for now, Rist would do nothing dangerous. She merely began pacing from one side to the other, grinding her teeth so loudly that Tryg was certain some of them would crack.

His anxiety did not leave him. Even though he could see the next few seconds, he did not like what was happening. Or rather, he hated not knowing what in Hel was happening with Rist.

Tryg bit his lips before saying, "Lady Rist, the flask. Please, I'm begging you—"

"Shut up!" she snapped loudly, pacing erratically. "I'm thinking, all right?!"

Rist stopped, pulling at her short hair and growling. Then she screamed again... and threw the flask toward Tryg.

Quickly, he dropped his sword and caught the vessel in the air. Once he confirmed he would not be attacked immediately afterward, he let out a relieved sigh.

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"Thank you... truly..."

Without delay, Tryg sat down and settled his teacher in his lap. Then he carefully opened her vulpine mouth and tilted the flask, pouring its yellow, viscous contents without wasting a single drop. When he finished, he dropped the empty vessel, recovered his sword, and held the fox against his arm again, resting her head against his chest. With that done, all that remained was to wait for the healing effects... and ensure her safety.

Tryg stood and studied the Valkyrie. Rist had not left the edge of his vision for a single instant — and neither had her future shadow. She stood a few steps away from him, with her back turned, staring at the snowy ground with her arms crossed, her daggers kept in the sheaths at her waist.

Although she had helped him, and although he wished otherwise, Tryg still did not trust her. He could not. First, because of the obvious hatred she still held for him. And second...

Because Rist did not seem well at all. And, when he thought that, he was not talking about her physical condition.

When they first met, Tryg's first impression of the Valkyrie — and the one that remained until recently — was that she was a woman of exemplary posture, who acted with decorum even with her enemies, and who did not usually lose control. But Rist no longer seemed to be that same woman.

Yes, Tryg was no longer the same man in her eyes either, without a doubt. He had become more powerful and, consequently, more dangerous. Besides, and even more importantly, he remained the same "despicable traitor and liar." Perhaps his presence could justify certain excesses. But still...

Rist seemed too harsh. Too unrestrained. Tryg was certain that, when they had first met, she would never have lost control the way she just had. It could be a hasty judgment on his part, but that did not seem to be the case. And if he had to make a guess...

He would say the labyrinth had taken a heavy toll on Rist's mind, an even heavier one than it had taken on his own. After all, unlike Tryg, she had endured fifteen months of endless fighting without any healing method as efficient and convenient as the Idunn Fruit juice, all while processing and bearing the colossal weight of the devastating news she had received — the end of the world she loved and defended... and all of it completely alone.

Tryg needed to be careful with how he acted and spoke to Rist. If he did or said even the slightest wrong thing, the warrior could rapidly become aggressive and try to take advantage of the fact that the queen of Niflheim was unconscious.

Tryg drummed his fingers against the hilt of his sword, thinking. Then he stood and, with cautious steps, walked to the nearest gray wall, where he left his teacher lying on a soft mound of snow.

The next moment, he noticed with joy that her breathing seemed to be becoming faster and steadier, and the warm glow of her heart brighter. Now Sinmara looked like nothing more than a sleepy, dreamy white fox. More relieved, Tryg let out another sigh and smiled.

Have safe dreams, teacher, he thought, touching her furry head between her pointed ears, and wish me luck...

Tryg walked toward the Valkyrie with his sword slightly raised and stopped a few steps away. From the way her head tilted, Rist seemed to have heard his footsteps, but she remained silent, her back turned and her arms crossed.

"What are we going to do, lady—"

"Why did you give me that?!" Rist exploded, suddenly turning toward him.

Her furious eyes were wet, red even.

"Why do you help me? You yourself said my people are the reason for your suffering. Are you stupid or something?"

Tryg blinked, his muscles tensed. He had been prepared to argue, but that question caught him off guard. "I—"

"Don't answer that," she interrupted him. "Of course you're stupid. Or insane. No one in their right mind would heal an enemy who could kill him with a snap of her fingers. And I could've killed you. I can and should kill both of you right now for what your allies did to my people. But no, instead, I decide to hand over that damned flask so you can help that miserable woman. Why?! Why in Hel don't I kill you?!"

Rist brought her hands to her hair again. Tears welled and ran from her eyes.

"I think you've already answered that question yourself," he said, fighting to suppress his guilt and remain calm, forcing himself to lower the tip of his blade. "You said you weren't the kind of person who would stain her hands with the blood of those who helped her."

"I also swore to be an irredeemably relentless warrior against my enemies — against traitors like you, against monsters like her. But I can't!"

Rist fell to her knees and wrapped her arms around herself.

"Why can't I...? Why can't I ever be strong like my sisters...? Why, why...?"

Against all his screaming instincts, Tryg sheathed his sword. Then he stepped closer to Rist and knelt before her, unarmed, practically defenseless.

"I keep lying to myself..." she continued, "telling myself I made the right choice by not killing you. But I was wrong. I wronged my god. I wronged my sisters and my people. And even knowing that, I can't fix my mistake."

She stared at him with fury and anguish at the same time. "It's your fault... the lies you told me. If you hadn't told me all that, I would never have committed the sin of doubting my own values. You... You really are... the most despicable man I've ever met."

Tryg stayed still for a moment, feeling his shoulders grow heavy.

Rist did not seem merely shaken. She seemed broken. Lost. As if everything that had sustained her for her entire life was crumbling.

He himself had gone through something similar, before and during Ragnarök, when he realized the Midgardians were nothing more than disposable pieces to Odin, and shortly afterward, when he had to entrust his own life and his mother's to Hildisvíni and Sif. But that did not even compare to the storm raging inside Rist.

She was right. Tryg was guilty. And although he did not know her as well as Sinmara or Frida, her sharp words hurt him more than he wanted to admit. Not because of some deep feeling. But because of who the Valkyrie was.

Hearing Odin or even Sif call him despicable would awaken nothing in Tryg. Hearing Sinmara or Frida say the same... would be devastating. Hearing Rist characterize him that way was not nearly as bad... but it still made him feel awful.

But Tryg would never again let himself be carried away by anyone's cruelty, not even that of those he loved. Sometimes people did not think about what they said. Sometimes they were so blinded by their own emotions that they did not immediately understand how powerful their words could be.

Tryg would probably be hurt again, at least a little, whenever he heard someone trying to belittle him, like any person capable of loving and being loved. The difference was that, now, he had conviction in who he was and what he was. And no one would ever make him doubt himself again.