Archive of Our Own ^beta

Ragnarök brings intruders into their woods.

The raiders were a minor threat at first. But now, as the unending winter endures, they have grown worse.

Kratos sidesteps the swinging metal teeth of a trap—part of an ambush they have stumbled into. The raider who set it off dies with only a gurgle of blood from her throat as Leviathan makes quick work of her. He calls the weapon back, swinging into the next wave of warriors that rush forward.

Across the clearing, Atreus is busy taking on his own swarm. Every now and then, Kratos can see flashes of gold as he ducks between flying swords and shields. His son has been mastering his magic well.

A throaty growl snaps his gaze to the opening of a ravine ahead. Leviathan smacks back into his palm as the god faces the emerging burly figure. A chieftain. The man’s decorated regalia clinks as he stalks forward. He lifts his blade in challenge, scarred face twisting into a sneer.

Kratos meets him halfway with a snarl. They clash, and it soon becomes clear why this man is the leader. His speed outweighs half of the other raiders combined. In between his strikes, he chants incantations, bursts of magic crackling from his broad sword. Kratos responds in kind with his own runic defenses.

The chieftain narrowly rolls away from a frosty wave unleashed by Leviathan. He spits something in a tongue Kratos does not understand.

A loud yelp from across the clearing grabs the god’s attention. Atreus is wrestling against a chokehold one of the raiders has captured him in. He breaks free a second later, eyes flashing gold as he wheels to ram his summoned shield against the man.

Kratos turns back to the chieftain. He had instinctively deployed his own shield as he looked away, denying his opponent an opening. Seeing the man lifting his hand, he raises it.

“Verkfall!” the chieftain shouts with a sharp grin, throwing his hands in a wide arc.

Shards from the spell sing through the air in a blur. But not toward Kratos. For a fraction of a second, confusion blinds him. By the time he turns to catch sight of what lies in their trajectory, it is too late.

“AAGH!” Atreus’ shout of pain is enough to set every one of Kratos’ nerves ablaze. Most of the shards deflect off the golden shield the boy had summoned, but there is one—just one—that strikes true.

Atreus’ leg buckles beneath him, knees slamming down into the snow. Blood seeps up around the metal shard embedded in the calf of his right leg.

The crimson color of his son’s blood washes over Kratos’ vision. His roar shakes the trees down to their very roots. In a heartbeat, he is upon the chieftain. The squelch of tearing flesh fills his ears, limbs dropping like felled branches at his feet.

The man barely has time to utter his last agonized howls before they devolve into low gurgles. The mash of his shattering skull beneath Kratos’ boot sounds as the final note in the symphony of revenge.

The remaining raiders scatter. Kratos almost chases after them as the angry beast in his chest roars for more.. But he does not let it overpower him. Instead, he turns, a force of nature as he sweeps across the remaining distance between him and his own.

Atreus struggles to sit up from where he has fallen backwards in the snow. His face twists with pain, hands scrabbling to reach for his leg as he stares in horror at the knife-like piece sticking out from it.

“Do not touch it!” Kratos thunders, kneeling at his side. He snatches Atreus’ hands up before he can reach for the wound. The boy looks at him with wide eyes, raw fear in their depths. The sight twists something deep in Kratos’ chest.

“How bad is it?” Atreus asks, trying to peer down at the wound.

Kratos does not respond. He’s already ripping off one of the belts securing his pauldron, wrapping the thick leather piece just below Atreus’ knee and pulling tight. Atreus grunts, still trying to see past his hands.

“Be still,” Kratos orders, voice taking on a softer note as he inspects the wound. The metal has not impaled completely through, but it is not a clean shot by any means of the word. The bone seems to have been avoided, but the amount of blood seeping up sends a jolt of alarm through him.

Kratos shifts, angling one arm to slide behind his son’s back. The other carefully shifts below his knees, readying to lift him up into his arms.

“Wait,” Atreus rasps, but before he can finish his sentence, he interrupts himself with a howl of pain.

The older god flinches at the sound, eyes snapping from his too-pale face to the shard. He’s just in time to see its protruding end crumble away into vapor. Sticky warmth floods onto his hand.

Kratos’ breath stalls in his chest. No.

Atreus groans as he releases him back to the ground. In the spear’s absence, the blood now gushes from the wound unhindered.

Kratos’ hands dart forward, grasping the limb and pressing over the wound hard. The pounding of drums in his ears does little to block Atreus’ responding yell of pain. He maintains his grip even as the boy instinctively tries to pull away.

He is bleeding far too much.

“Atreus,” Kratos says sharply, managing to hold his son’s attention. “Heal yourself.”

The boy squeezes his eyes shut in concentration. Gentle waves of magic run over his body. It looks as if they might seal the wound in his leg—

—And then they stop.

“Try again.” He works to keep the same commanding tone, even as his stomach plummets.

A few more weak flickers of magic spark and die out. “I—I can’t. That’s all I can do.”

The bleeding has not slowed enough.

Atreus’ voice is hoarse as he whispers the question running through both of their minds.

“What are we gonna do?”

Kratos finds that he does not have an answer. They are in the middle of the woods, far from the cabin. With the blood coming this fast, they will never make it in time.

A desperate glance cast around the clearing yields nothing. They possess no magic to help; Kratos can only heal himself, no matter how desperately the writhing beast in his chest howls for him to help his son.

He swallows, pressing back the ever-growing tide of fear that tries to drag him under. Panic serves no use; panic would not save him.

Memories from his past surge through his thoughts. Images of war, and the brutal consequences for the men who fought in it. Seeping wounds that should have killed, quelled by skilled hands wielding…

There is warmth growing at his back. The Blades call to him, their familiar heat egging on the roaring in his ears.

Slowly, he releases his hand from where it restrains the uninjured part of Atreus’ leg, reaching up to touch the hilt of one Blade of Chaos.

The sword slips into his hand with deceptive ease, lowering to his side as his eyes meet Atreus’.

The boy pants, staring at him with a complexion white enough to rival the snow around them. The fear in his eyes is barely leashed, every breath more strained as he waits for Kratos to help him.

“Atreus…” the chain hanging from his wrist rattles softly with the brief tremble that runs through his hand. “I must seal the wound.”

His son blinks, eyes widening. “How?”

Kratos does not answer. He busies himself with tearing away a piece of his bracer. He proffers the thick leather material.

“Bite down,” he says, voice nearly a whisper. “Lie back. You must be as still as you can.”

Atreus accepts the piece with shaking hands, eyes wide. He looks back to Kratos, a question clear on his face. Kratos can only stare back as he sees realization set in. For a split second, he’s certain his son is about to refuse. Then Atreus places the material in his mouth, moisture shimmering in his eyes as he leans back to lie against the snow.

Kratos turns back to his wound. Seeing that Atreus is still watching, he says, “Look away.”

The Blade grows hotter, embers drifting up from the scalding metal.

In one swift movement, he pulls his other hand from the wound. Blood erupts in its absence. He attempts to slam the door on the thought that this is his son bleeding out as he moves to tear away the fabric of Atreus’ pants from below his knee.

With the wound exposed and pouring away precious lifeblood, there is only one thing left to do.

He feels the heat of the Blade against his palm. Sees it inching closer to the limb his other hand now pins firmly in the snow, slick blood coating his ashen skin.

A strangled gasp mingles with the voices that are drifting up with the sparks from the red hot metal now inches from his son. His wide eyes find Atreus’, and he cannot hide his grimace. “Look away.”

Atreus’ eyes squeeze shut.

The Blade presses to his family’s flesh.

And Atreus screams.

Kratos is aware of frantic hands clawing into the snow, the limb trapped beneath his own hands thrashing with all its might. The slickness of the blood makes it difficult to pin, but he presses down harder, feeling bone creak beneath his palm.

Atreus is begging for mercy, lunging for him. Kratos has to angle his upper body to block the boy’s desperate hands, letting his shoulders take the brunt of his attacks. Atreus’ other knee slams up to collide with Kratos’ jaw, nearly breaking his focus on the careful pressure of the blade against his skin.

The screaming will not cease. It’s interspersed with sobs, Atreus’ voice breaking as he pleads for him to stop.

“Father, please—!”

There are mere seconds left.

Each is a lifetime.

When Kratos finally pulls the Blade back, it flies from his grip, landing in the snow with a hiss.

The smell of seared flesh burns his nose. Kratos looks upon the work of his own hands and feels something deep inside splinter apart.

Atreus is sitting bolt upright, wide eyes unseeing. Tear tracks run down his face, the shuddering gasp he draws in punctuated by a whimper. Then his eyes roll back in his head, and Kratos scarcely has time to catch him before he’s slumping backwards.

“Atreus?” he asks, supporting him in his arms. “Atreus!”

His son’s chest rises and falls in shallow breaths against his own. Unconscious.

Kratos climbs to his feet, lifting Atreus with him. With the boy held close, he takes off into the woods, moving as quickly as he dares without jostling Atreus’ wound.

The journey back to the cabin feels endless. When their home finally comes into view, he almost rips the door from its hinges, shoving it open with one shoulder and rushing his son to his bed.

“What the—” he distantly hears a startled voice. “Brother? What happened?!”

Kratos rifles through Faye’s herb stores, searching for one of the few that are familiar to him. The dried leaves are thrown into a stone mortar and pestle, a splash of water soon following from the basin that rests beneath the table. He pours some of the water on his own hands as an afterthought, desperately rubbing away the dirt and blood that clings to his skin.

“Kratos, what happened?” Mimir asks again, voice ingrained with fear.

He does not answer, focusing on swiftly grinding the leaves into a thick paste. He returns to Atreus, adjusting his leg before scooping up the paste and slathering it across the angry burn. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he can hear Faye’s soft voice.

“This one for infection.”

He forces himself away from Atreus’ side again, moving to make the next salve.

“This one for healing.”

He carefully paints the salve over the first one. Then, faced with no other choice, he sits back and waits.

The silence wraps around him like the constricting coils of a serpent. The rise and fall of Atreus’ chest is far too shallow.

“Brother…?” Mimir asks tentatively.

“We were attacked by raiders.” He does not look away from Atreus’ face. “He was…injured. I had to stop the bleeding…”

“The blades,” Mimir whispers in realization as he catches sight of the wound. “I’m so sorry.”

A quiet groan from Atreus draws both their attentions. The boy’s brows tug together, pain written across his expression.

Kratos watches him intently. Another soft sound of pain from him, and his hand drifts out to rest on his shoulder.

“Atreus?”

Bleary blue flickers open briefly, his eyes wandering aimlessly across the ceiling. He seems to fight an unnatural heaviness to them as he slowly tilts his head to look at Kratos. The older god tries to reign in the worry that writes itself on his features.

“Father,” Atreus’ voice creaks. His eyes squeeze shut as a ragged breath catches in his chest. “Burns.”

“I know.” Unconsciously, his thumb rubs a small circle into his shoulder. “It will pass. Here, eat.”

The boy shakily accepts the healing herbs Kratos gives him to chew on, downing them with a nauseous look.

“You must try to heal again.”

“Not s-sure I can.”

“It is necessary.” The older god’s hand tightens around his shoulder, as if to lend him some of his own strength. “Use what remaining energy you have. Then rest.”

“I don’t think I’ll have any left to stay alive.”

“You will.”

Atreus holds his gaze for several beats longer. Then, he swallows thickly, staring at the ceiling above with the expression of someone expecting his imminent doom.

His muscles tense as small flickers of green blossom from his leg, running across his body like tiny roots. A muffled sound escapes him as his brows knit together, clearly fighting to draw on the last of his strength.

It’s mere seconds before the glimmers disappear, and he’s slumping back on the bed with a groan, face drawn and exhausted.

Kratos gives his shoulder another gentle squeeze. “Rest.”

Atreus seems to take the prompt to heart—or perhaps his exhaustion finally wins out—because his eyes fall shut not a moment later.

Even in sleep, his face does not relax.

It is some time until Kratos finally stands again, moving to find bandages that are tucked away in a chest against the wall. He wraps the wound, covering the angry burn marring Atreus’ skin. It looks a little better since he healed again, and will likely continue to improve once he regains his strength.

Kratos takes the furs from his own bed and lays them over his son to ward off the ever-present cold. Then he pulls over his chair from beside the fire, and waits.

For the first hour or so, Atreus is still. The only sign of his affliction is his furrowed brow.

Then comes the restlessness.

Kratos waits for him to settle as he turns to one side then the other over and over again in his sleep. When he realizes he will not, he presses the back of his hand to his forehead. He stands abruptly.

“What’s wrong?” Mimir asks as Kratos crosses to the other side of the cabin.

The god dips a cloth in the basin. “He burns with fever.”

Mimir curses. “It could be infection at work. Although with his godhood, I didn’t think that could happen...”

Kratos lays the cloth over Atreus’ forehead and then directs his attention to his leg.

When he peels back the bandaging, it is to reveal a wound that looks unchanged. It is not any more inflamed than it was before. Kratos looks back to Atreus, taking in the slight shivers that have begun to run through his body.

It is not the same sickness he suffered as a child. Yet something about it seems almost unnatural…

His gaze snaps to the single Chaos Blade discarded in the corner. Its twin is still somewhere in the forest where he dropped it, waiting to find him again.

“There may be something fouler at play.” He takes a few steps toward the gleaming metal, glaring at the cursed sword.

“We don’t know that,” Mimir says. “The lad’s strong. Watch him close. He probably just needs time.”

“And if he does not?” Kratos asks, turning on him with anger not rooted with its recipient.

“Then we cross that bridge when we come to it. We’re not totally alone out here, brother. See if you can lower his fever.”

A gasp comes from behind Kratos. “Where,” Atreus pants, eyes wide as he looks around frantically. “Where ‘m I?”

Kratos swiftly returns to his side. Atreus startles upon noticing him. Shivers wrack his body as he squints up at him with hazy eyes.

“Father? What’s happenin’? We were…we were in the forest and…” His words trail away, eyes sliding out of focus.

“We are home,” Kratos says, voice low as he kneels back at his son’s side. “You were…” he pauses, searching Atreus’ anxious face. “Hunting. And now we are here.”

“Oh.” Atreus gives another shiver, this one more violent. When Kratos’ hand moves forward to press to Atreus’ forehead again, he is surprised to find the boy shoving it away.

“‘m fine,” he tells him, shifting further back on the bed. At the movement, his eyes widen, face contorting in a wince. “My leg—” He sits up, the damp cloth falling from his forehead as he reaches for his limb. This time, it is Kratos’ hand that stops his.

“It is healing. Leave it be.”

“I need to see,” Atreus insists, making a weak attempt at prying his hand away.

“No. It is time to rest. You will feel better after you sleep.”

The statement feels almost patronizing, but in Atreus’ current mental state, it has its desired effect. He ceases his efforts to reach for his leg, instead fixing him with a bleary, imploring look. At his father’s unrelenting stare, however, he lowers himself back to the bed with a pained groan.

Kratos waits until he has settled before reapplying the damp cloth, watching Atreus’ eyes fall shut once more.

It’s going to be a long night.

It has barely been an hour, and the chills have worsened.

“C-cold,” Atreus breathes between chattering teeth, curling into a ball beneath the furs of his bed. “Why ‘s so cold…?”

A single touch confirms Kratos’ fears: his fever is continuing to worsen. He grabs the edge of one of the furs Atreus is huddled beneath, prying it away from the boy.

He’s met with a whimper of protest. Atreus tries to pull the covering back. “F-freezing,” he insists.

“It is in your head. You have a fever.”

He is met only with incomprehensible mumbles.

“Don’t think he’s going to understand you in this state, brother,” Mimir says from the other side of the room.

Kratos sets the extracted fur aside, leaving Atreus with less blankets to huddle under. The miserable pull of his son’s brow and the shudders that wrack his small frame serve only to carve deeper into the vulnerable feeling coiled in Kratos’ chest.

Atreus pulls the remaining covers tighter around him. “Burns,” he mumbles.

“I know.” Kratos reaches for the wooden cup he had set on the table earlier, passing it to his son. “Drink.”

Atreus is slow to pull himself up to sit, so he slides a hand under his back to help him. When the boy’s hands shake enough to almost spill the water, he steadies them with his own, making sure he does not drink too fast.

When he has drained the majority of the cup, Atreus curls up once more, turning his back to him with an incoherent mutter. Kratos sets the cup back down, watching the rise and fall of his back.

He hopes that what little he can do will be enough.

When Atreus’ eyes open again, they are filled with terror.

Kratos doesn’t react in time to stop him from leaping out of bed, the boy almost landing in the firepit in his haste.

“They’re dying!” Atreus shouts. Judging by the way the lingering color drains from his face, he is in no small amount of pain. “I have to help—”

“Atreus! It is alright,” Kratos catches his hands. “No one is here.”

“They are!” He tries and fails to wrench out of his hold. “In the temple—the fire— They’re screaming.” His words catch on a sob.

A flood of ice rushes through Kratos’ veins.

“Please…There’re children…” his shoulders heave as he slowly tips forward, forehead dropping against the center of Kratos’ chest.

The older god slowly releases his son’s arms. His hands find his shoulders instead, gently guiding him back to peer into his face.

Tears run from Atreus’ exhausted eyes. He stares somewhere beyond Kratos’ face, gaze lost in another time and place.

Tentatively, Kratos’ hand cups his face. A calloused thumb brushes away his tears. “They are at peace, Atreus,” he whispers. “They burn no longer. Only in your mind.”

Atreus shudders, but slumps against him. He does not resist being guided back to bed.

After tucking the furs back around him, Kratos resumes his seat at his bedside. He stares at the boy as his eyes slide shut again, heart still pounding in his chest. Only after Atreus has fallen asleep does Kratos allow his head to fall into his hands. The flames of the fireplace dance mockingly in the corner of his eye.

“You alright, brother?” Mimir asks.

It is a long time before Kratos can answer.

“What he dreams of… He should not see. My Blades…”

“You saved his life.”

At what cost? Were these visions permanent? Had his curse been passed onto his son?

He wasn’t sure he could live with himself if it had.

“I know that look. There was nothing else you could’ve done.” Mimir’s firm tone pulls him back into the cabin he sits in. His voice becomes softer as he adds, “Besides, we’re not really sure what we’re seeing here. The lad could just be having nightmares from the fever.”

Kratos is certain it is not coincidence. But all he can do is sit and watch his son while the ghosts of his past loom over his shoulder.

Atreus does not leave his bed again, but he cannot seem to rest.

The boy mumbles and whimpers as he tosses and turns, tangling the furs around his legs. Kratos tries to stop him—it must be aggravating his wound—but he will need to exert more force than he wants to in order to hold him still.

When Atreus rolls far enough over to almost fall off the bed, Kratos decides he has had enough. He gathers him up, furs and all, and sets him down on Kratos’ own bed. It leaves him room to sit beside Atreus. He wraps the furs around the boy so they contain his restless legs, much like a cocoon. Then he pulls him into his arms.

Atreus grumbles something probably meant to be a protest, trying to writhe free. Kratos keeps him close, his arms a gentle cage.

“Be still,” he murmurs. He has not cradled his son like this since he was a small child, weak from the sickness that plagued him for so long.

A pitiful sound leaves Atreus as his struggles finally slow. Faced with the prospect of his fitful movements resuming upon release, Kratos keeps hold of him. His eyes move up to Mimir. The head only gives him a sympathetic look, remaining quiet.

He looks back to his son’s miserable face. “Atreus,” he whispers. “Do you remember the story your mother used to tell. About the huntress and the bear?”

His only reply is another weak moan. More than he had expected.

Kratos takes a quiet breath, then tells the story. Of a huntress, who found her patch of woodland terrorized by a ferocious bear. How she hunted and trapped the creature through her own skills and determination, and how her sharp eyes let her see the bloodied paw the beast was favoring.

“When she saw the thorn stuck deep in its paw, she decided…to free it.” He pauses, eyes fixed on the dying flames in the firepit.

“So she laid aside her bow. Dared to creep close enough to pull the thorn from the bear’s paw. Treated its wounds. And as she did, the beast’s nature began to change. Rather than hunt each other, they hunted together.

“Through her patience, she found that the bear was not cruel by nature. The…kindness she gave it was reflected back onto her.”

He looks down, and feels a small jolt of surprise when he finds Atreus’ eyes open and watching him. They slide shut again a few seconds later, as if his mind had conjured the sight.

If his hold around his son tightens for the next few moments, no one is the wiser.

Atreus seems to have run through his remaining energy. Kratos manages to coax him to drink a little more water, before finally releasing him from his protective hold. The boy curls up on his side, his face troubled, but his body still.

Kratos, who has stood to attend to the fire, settles back in his chair and takes the momentary respite to close his own eyes. It has been some time since he last slept, and he finds himself slipping in and out of blurry consciousness. When he comes to, it’s to the sound of a small groan from Atreus.

The older god leans forward, fully expecting to find his son’s gaze wandering wildly again. It comes as a welcome relief when their gazes connect and hold.

Kratos’ heartbeat quickens at the sight. Atreus still looks muddled, but there seems to be a break in his delirium as he looks at him and whispers, “What’s happenin’ to me?”

Kratos brushes the back of his hand to the boy’s feverish forehead as if it were made of glass. Atreus’ eyes slide closed at the contact, leaning into his cooler skin.

“You are ill,” he rumbles quietly. “Fighting the remaining effects of a wound.”

“I’m…so tired. Can’t…can’t sleep,” Atreus rasps.

“I know.” Kratos’ hand turns, gently resting over his eyes so they close. “But you must keep trying.”

Atreus’ fingers find his other hand where it rests on the edge of the bed. They weakly curl around it. He returns the gesture, holding his smaller palm in his.

For a moment, they both remain still. Just breathing.

A strange sound meets Kratos’ ears. The wind outside almost drowns it out. It takes him a few seconds to realize the source.

Mimir sings softly in his native tongue. The words roll over each other like wide open hills, strange to Kratos’ ears but oddly soothing.

Atreus gives a small sigh. His eyes finally stop fluttering open, sliding shut a final time when Kratos smooths a few gentle fingers through his hair.

And for a while, he sleeps.

It’s at least another hour before he stirs again, his ramblings having faded to restless murmurs.

Kratos instinctively wakes when he does. He gives a murmured, “Hush,” and presses a thumb over his pulsepoint.

Somehow, it seems easier for both of them to relax with touch anchoring them. It gives Kratos the reassurance that his son is still breathing, and perhaps, given the way he quiets at the contact, it gives Atreus the comfort of knowing he is being watched over.

The next time Kratos opens his eyes, faint light is peeking through the gaps in the walls. He sits up from the awkward half-slump he has fallen into, rolling his shoulders back and studying the object of all his worry.

Atreus’ face has finally eased. His chest rises and falls slowly, body blessedly still compared to the frantic tossing and turning of the night before.

Kratos wonders about the state of his wound, but does not dare touch him. He stands, moving to take care of the fire again. He will need to prepare something for them to eat.

“Asleep at last?” Mimir whispers.

The god gives a nod, reaching to grab the large metal pot stored in the corner beside the fireplace. Stew seems to be a good option, even if he has never been very good at preparing it.

The only sound through the rest of the morning is the howl of the wind outside and the soft clink of the pot as he prepares the food. It’s not a specific kind, more of a hodge podge of the various kinds of game they’ve been able to trap or kill.

He finds himself cutting the meat into smaller bites than usual as he adds it to the pot. The same size he used to make when Atreus was young. Perhaps it’s foolish, but sometimes he used to refuse food…

A muffled groan alerts him to the fact that the boy has finally woken again. He finishes his task, then moves to hover by his bed.

“Father…?” Atreus blinks up at him. “What…” he starts coughing.

“Atreus.” Kratos kneels, reaching for him. “Are you…?”

The boy’s face scrunches up. “Water?” he requests. “Throat’s really dry.”

Oh. Kratos passes him the cup, watching him down the whole thing. Atreus coughs a bit more, then settles. He swings his legs over to sit on the edge of the bed, and promptly winces.

“Oww. My leg…” he pulls up the furs covering him, staring at the bandaging wrapped around his shin.

“Do you remember what happened?” Kratos asks.

“Yeah. There were raiders, and I got stabbed. Then…” he pales. “Oh, no. You had to…” his eyes flicker to the Chaos Blade flung in the corner across the room. “Um. Stop the blood.” He tries and fails to suppress a shudder. “I’m sorry.”

That is enough to make one of Kratos’ brows twitch. “Should it not be me saying that to you?” he asks lowly.

“It really hurt, but you saved me,” Atreus fidgets with a loose thread on his tunic. “I didn’t make it easy, either.”

“You weathered great pain with bravery. Do not be ashamed.”

Atreus is quiet for a moment. “What happened after that?”

“I brought you here. Treated your wound. You were…unwell.”

“There was—” Atreus starts, then stops himself. “I…saw things, after. There were people in pain.”

Kratos says nothing.

“I wanted to help them.” His thumb winds tighter around the loose thread. “But I couldn’t.”

“You had a Hel of a fever, little brother,” Mimir speaks up. “They can make you see all sorts of things.”

“I know,” Atreus says, his eyes distant. “It just felt so real.”

“What you saw…” Kratos pauses, waiting until Atreus looks to him again. “It is not your burden to carry. Do not let it consume your thoughts.”

Atreus’ brow furrows, and Kratos can see the curiosity that alights in his eyes whenever he thinks there is something to uncover.

He does not give him the chance to ask. Kratos stands, moving to tend to the stew simmering above the fire. It’s ready by now, so he scoops a serving into a bowl, bringing it back to his son.

Atreus takes it and gives the stew a few tentative sips. He burrows a little deeper beneath the furs, tucking his legs back up onto the bed. When he begins to take gradually bigger bites of the stew, Kratos feels the knot in his chest loosen.

Mimir soon fills the silence with a pointless yet entertaining story, enough to hold the attention and spark conversation between himself and Atreus. The boy eventually falls quiet, and when Kratos glances it up, it’s to find him nodding off. He reaches over and takes the empty bowl still balanced in his lap. Atreus blinks, stirring.

“You have yet to fully recover your strength,” Kratos tells him. “Rest.”

“‘m not that tired,” he yawns. “Been sleeping all night.”

Mimir chuckles. “Aye, but looks like you could do with more yet.”

Atreus shoots him a petulant look, but ends up curling back up beneath the covers a few moments later.

Kratos settles down nearby, listening to the storm howl outside. Even if the sky were clear of a blizzard, he would remain here, continuing to keep watch over his son. He picks up the small pieces of wood he has been carving lately—the beginnings of a small stand to hold books for Mimir, although he hasn’t told anyone yet.

Atreus’ soft snores soon join the sounds of the storm and his knife against the wood.

Atreus spends the remainder of the day, then half of the next one, resting. He tries to convince Kratos that his magic has healed him enough on the morning of the second day, but only when he can walk without wincing in pain does the older god deem him well again.

He now carries a permanent scar on his leg. Atreus claims that he doesn’t mind, that it’s just another reminder to others that he has fought and survived many battles before. “Even if this one’s kinda from being in the crossfire,” he mumbles with a blush.

The sight of the scar only serves to fill Kratos with guilt. Guilt over failing to protect him, and guilt for being the one to inflict more damage in his effort to save him. Atreus has assured him that he holds no grudge, but it is not something that can be forgiven.

Thankfully, the nightmares no longer seem to plague his son’s sleep. Kratos spends the first few nights afterwards wide awake, listening for even the slightest sound of distress from Atreus. None come.

Once, he catches the boy staring at the single Chaos Blade lying in the cabin’s corner. His gaze is distant, but he does not say anything as he turns back to fletching more arrows.

On their first hunt after the incident, they run into more raiders. This time, Kratos does not let Atreus out of his sight for a moment, a fact which he can tell annoys him. They will probably argue about it later, but right now, he does not care.

As the last man charges Kratos, the god hacks into his chest with his axe. The raider slumps forward onto Leviathan’s blade. His own weapon falls limply from his hand.

It lands in the snow at Kratos’ feet with a hiss.

The god shoves the man’s body away. He looks down to find a single blade waiting for him. Kratos bends, lifting it with the reluctance of someone touching a serpent ready to strike. His murky reflection stares at him from the dark metal.

The bond snaps back into place where it belongs. The feeling of unity entwines with disgust.

A soft intake of breath comes from his right. He looks up to find Atreus watching, eyes fixed on the weapon.

Kratos shoves it into its holder on his back. Slowly, he approaches his son.

Atreus doesn’t step back. He does not flinch like some dark part of Kratos fears, even as the older god touches a hand to his shoulder.

“Were you hurt?” he asks lowly.

Atreus shakes his head, never once turning away from his face. “No. I’m fine.”

Kratos looks at him a moment longer. Then, he nods.

The two turn, walking together deeper into the woods.