Chapter 940: Scathach is being neglected again.
Strax entered the mansion in silence, carrying in his body the heavy expression of someone who had aged a few thousand years in only a few days.
The main door closed behind him with a low sound, almost respectful, while the gentle warmth inside the mansion wrapped around him after the cold of the courtyard. Outside, snow continued falling over Asgard, covering rooftops, gardens, and stone paths with an almost offensive calm. Inside, everything seemed too organized. Too clean. Too peaceful for someone who had just dealt with a hyperactive dragon child, an attempted kidnapping, an idiotic Monarch, an imperial crisis, and a possible opportunity for territorial expansion.
He crossed the corridor without greeting anyone.
Not out of rudeness.
Out of lack of energy.
Some servants noticed his arrival and simply stepped aside discreetly, realizing from the line of his shoulders, the tired look, and the disheveled hair that this was not the moment for reports, requests, questions, or anything resembling work. Strax kept walking until he reached one of the mansion’s private rooms, where the fireplace remained lit and the wide sofa in front of it seemed to offer the only form of mercy that still existed in that world.
He looked at the sofa.
Then threw himself onto it.
Without elegance.
Without posture.
Without the slightest attempt to look like a ruler, dragon, husband, lord of Asgard, or anything else impressive. He simply fell onto the cushions as if his own body had given up on continuing to support his existence.
A deep sigh escaped his mouth.
"Dealing with children..." he murmured, his voice tired and hoarse. "I really did not expect it to be so exhausting."
He ran one hand over his face, then through his white hair, pushing a few strands back only to watch them fall over his forehead again. The image of Vex running through the courtyard, asking about trains, trying to make ice stars, and then sleeping in his lap appeared in his mind. Soon after, like an inconvenient shadow, came the memory of the bag of sweets fallen in the snow and the empty feeling when he realized she had disappeared.
Strax squeezed his eyes shut.
"Especially with that shit happening in the middle."
The sentence came out lower.
Heavier.
For a few seconds, he stayed still, breathing slowly, trying to convince his own body that it did not need to remain on alert. Vex was with Mercedes. The North was safe. Aelyra was no longer a threat. Asgard was protected. The Heavenly Emperor was doing exactly what intelligent rulers did when they realized they had come too close to disaster: pretending control and avoiding problems.
Even so, the exhaustion remained.
Not only in his muscles.
In his soul.
Strax sank even deeper into the sofa, letting his head fall against the backrest.
"I urgently need a hot woman to drown my worries."
The answer came from behind him, far too calm to be coincidence.
"I am here waiting."
Strax did not open his eyes.
Did not move.
Did not seem surprised.
He simply remained exactly where he was, one arm fallen at his side and his head resting against the sofa, as if even reacting required more willingness than he had in that moment.
"You are being quite bold."
Scathach appeared behind the sofa as if she had been there from the beginning. Perhaps she had. With her, it was difficult to know. She was still wearing the mansion’s maid uniform, impeccable as always, with the dark dress fitted to her body, the pale apron carefully tied, and her hair arranged in a way that made the outfit seem less like a costume and more like a personal decision. There was something irritatingly natural about her dressed that way, as if that role had been chosen not out of obligation, but through some kind of intimate stubbornness no one could tear away from her.
She rested her hands on the back of the sofa and leaned slightly forward to look down at him.
"You asked for a beautiful woman."
"I muttered an existential complaint."
"Out loud."
"To myself."
"Then you should have spoken lower."
Strax opened one eye, just enough to stare at her without much conviction.
"You listen too much."
"You complain too loudly."
He closed his eye again.
"I do not have the energy to argue with you."
"Excellent."
Scathach circled the sofa without asking permission and sat beside him. The movement made the cushion sink slightly, but Strax remained still. Perhaps he intended to complain, perhaps not. Either way, before any word could appear, she took his shoulder firmly, pulled him to the side, and made him lay his head on her lap.
Strax opened his eyes.
He stared at the white apron for a few seconds.
Then sighed.
"You need to stop acting like a servant."
Scathach looked at him with a serene expression.
"I am not acting like a servant."
"You are dressed like one."
"Because I want to be."
"You are working in my mansion."
"Because I want to."
"You are putting me on your lap as if I were an exhausted child."
"Because you are acting like an exhausted child."
Strax raised his eyes to her.
"That was unnecessary."
"It was true."
"You have always been terrible at comforting."
"I did not say I was comforting you."
"Then what are you doing?"
Scathach brought her hand to his hair and began to stroke it slowly, running her fingers through the white strands with unexpected patience. The gesture was simple, with no apparent magic, no force, no intention beyond making him relax. Strax tensed by instinct for a second, but soon realized there was no threat there. Only the warmth of the room, the lit fireplace, and her hand moving in a calm rhythm.
"I am doing what I want," she said. "You do not need to worry."
Strax was silent.
The answer was not quite what he had expected.
Perhaps that was why he did not know what to say.
Scathach continued stroking his head, undoing small knots, moving strands away from his forehead, and touching his scalp with a delicacy that contrasted strangely with the image he had of her from other times. The woman who had once carried guilt, distance, and a series of unresolved problems was now there, dressed as a maid, using her own lap as a pillow and telling him he did not need to worry.
It was absurd.
Comfortable.
But absurd.
"You know this does not erase anything," he said, his voice lower.
"I know."
"Then why insist?"
"Because I am not trying to erase anything."
Her hand stopped for an instant over his hair.
"I am trying to be present."
Strax did not answer.
The sentence found a place inside him that was far too delicate. Perhaps because, in the last few days, he himself had spoken about that with Mercedes. Being present. Not appearing only to solve problems after they happened. Not becoming someone too strong to lose wars, but too absent to hold a child before she became afraid.
Scathach seemed to notice the change in his silence, but did not force it.
She merely went back to stroking his head.
The room grew quiet.
Outside, the snow continued falling against the windows. The fireplace crackled in soft intervals, casting warm shadows over the walls. Strax’s body, which until then had seemed locked in continuous tension, began to yield little by little. First his shoulders. Then his jaw. Then the hand that had been closed over the cushion relaxed.
"You are doing this on purpose," he murmured.
"Doing what?"
"Making me soft."
Scathach smiled.
"Is it working?"
"Unfortunately."
"Then yes."
He let out a low sound, almost a tired laugh.
"You are dangerous."
"Did you only notice that now?"
"No. I just forgot for a few minutes."
"Rest, Strax."
"I am not sleepy."
"Yes, you are."
"I am not."
Scathach leaned slightly over him, observing his face with an almost amused expression.
"You are arguing with your eyes closed."
"So what?"
"That is the last stage before sleeping."
"Nonsense."
"Of course."
Strax tried to open his eyes just to prove the opposite point, but the gesture failed halfway. Her hand continued passing through his hair, slow, constant, far too calm. There was no seduction in the gesture. There was no urgency. There was only a simple, almost domestic care, and perhaps precisely for that reason it was so difficult to resist.
He thought about getting up.
Thought about saying he needed to speak with Monica.
Thought about training more.
Thought about checking Asgard’s barriers.
Thought about sending some message to Mercedes asking whether Vex had arrived safely.
But all those thoughts began to lose shape before they could be completed.
Scathach watched his breathing slow.
First, Strax merely relaxed.
Then he became too quiet.
Then he slept.
It was so sudden and so natural that it took her a few seconds to notice. That man, who could face Monarchs, devour battlefields, and make the sky tremble, simply went out with his head in her lap while she stroked his hair.
Scathach stayed still.
Then blinked.
Then looked at the fireplace with a slightly betrayed expression.
"Aw..."
Her voice came out low, careful not to wake him.
"And here I thought we were going to have a naughty night together..."
She looked down.
Strax slept deeply.
Completely defenseless.
Or at least as defenseless as someone like him could seem.
Scathach made a little pout.
"But he only slept."
For a few seconds, she remained pretending indignation, as if the world had committed a great injustice against her expectations. Then the pout slowly disappeared, replaced by a small and soft smile. She pulled a folded blanket from the arm of the sofa and carefully adjusted it over his body, making sure not to move him too much.
"Well," she murmured, returning to stroking his hair. "I suppose this counts too."
Night slowly advanced over Asgard.
And in that room warmed by the fireplace, Strax finally slept without fury, without politics, and without the immediate weight of a threat in his hands.
Scathach remained there, seated on the sofa, wearing a maid outfit, with his head on her lap and a discreet smile on her lips.
It was not the kind of quality time she had imagined.
But perhaps it was exactly the kind he needed.
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