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It took longer to reach the Lake nowadays, his old legs not built for the walk. Still. It was important, and Tor and his brother made their way to the Lake edge as often as they could.
Some days, no matter the aches or pains, they would always come down. The nights they lost their friends Barbara and then Tom, the day they first discovered their powers, the day Freya left.
That was today, the 30th anniversary of his daughter leaving, of an argument he could never apologise for, of losing the most important thing in his life.
At least he still had Odin. No matter how much his brother pissed him off, Tor knew that the other would only leave him when he died, and not a second before.
He wasn't meant to be out here, too dangerous for a senile old man. And it wasn't like they were never allowed out here. Rose wasn't half the dictator that Hartman had been and had driven them down to the Lake often.
But his penance he needed to do alone.
He sat on a stone outcrop, letting the water wash over his ankles. He used to do this with Freya when she was only little. Tell her stories, some real and some that were a little more creative. He taught her to skip stones at this lake, how to see through the lies of the world, and how to hold her drink once she was a bit older. He'd listened to her problems sat on this very stone, playground worries and then teenage drama. He'd scowled at her boyfriends and then ex-boyfriends and consoled her after each break-up.
Maybe, if he'd acted like an adult for once in his life, she'd still be here. Or at least would have visited. He wondered if she ever thought of him, of her own father, or if she had let the anger she had inherited from him fester until she could no longer bear the thought of him.
He wondered if she had had children, if he was a grandfather. Enough time had passed for it; well, enough time had passed for him to be a great-grandfather by now. The thought of family he would never meet, Andersons who would never taste the waters of the Lake, children he would never teach.
It was haunting.
Tor looked down at the pitch below him, unending darkness awaited him. So tempting to just let himself fall and find out what truly lay at the bottom of Cauldron Lake.
Maybe Tom, maybe nothing, maybe death.
All equally tempting.
The sound of a familiar van, headlights washing over him, a door being flung open:
“Mr Anderson!”
Rose.
Sighing, Tor stood up, slipping his shoes back on and letting her guide him back to the van.
He'd be back. He had to. Something was happening beneath the waves, and he would not be unprepared this time.