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They were hunting. Fimbulwinter allowed them little else. They hunted. They trained. They slept. Already, most days consisted of the same mundane cycle of survival, one that would persist for the next twelve seasons. Kratos did not mind. It was precious time to prepare his son for whatever would happen come spring. He hoped for nothing. He hoped the snow would melt away as it always did, and they would continue on much the same as they always had. Either way, all that mattered was the boy's capability to survive on his own by winter's end.
The snow was thick, blanketing Midgard in a way that Kratos had never seen, even in the harshest of winters he had spent with Faye, huddled in their cabin for warmth. It froze in clumps to their clothes, collected in his son’s hair, his eyelashes. They trudged on by foot, staying carefully within the stave. They had learned not to wander beyond it weeks ago when Freya had attacked them. It had been deserved, and Kratos had not fought back beyond what was needed to keep them alive. Escape had not been easy, the snow piling high and restricting their movement. He had not chanced it again, knowing she was watching, ready to strike the moment they left their woods. He could not judge. Had something happened to Atreus, he would have been no better.
“Father, I hear something.”
“Then be quiet.” They had been tracking a deer. Fresh tracks were obvious in the snow, and it made good practice. Atreus had been leading the way. He slowed until he fell into step at his father's side.
“It’s not a deer. Or at least I don’t think it is.” Kratos reached behind himself for Leviathan. Its pommel met his palm, icy.
“I hear nothing.”
The boy stopped him before he could draw it. “It’s not like that. I think he’s friendly.”
“You think it is friendly?”
“Maybe. I can’t understand him, but I can feel him.” Kratos said nothing. Atreus tilted his head, listening. Focusing. After a few moments of silence, he said, “He’s… content? It’s not like he’s angry or anything. I don’t think he’s a threat.”
“Regardless of what it is, it may be our next meal.”
Atreus ignored him, pointing. Kratos followed his finger out in front of them, where the snow had been disturbed. “Look!” Tracks turned out onto their path and continued straight ahead. As they came close, Kratos drew his axe and the boy dropped into a crouch. He pressed his fingers into the snow to compare. “They’re fresh.” Hoof prints. Large, not from an elk, but perhaps something even larger. Another set of tracks accompanied them, two parallel lines carved through the snow. “These must be from him. Looks like he’s pulling something. What do you think it is?”
“I do not know.” Kratos had his suspicions. The boy’s creature was pulling a sled. There should be no one in these woods but them. The knowledge put him on edge, and he adjusted his hold on Leviathan’s grip. Its weight was grounding. They would do what they must.
“I’ve never seen tracks like these before. They’re so narrow. Definitely not a deer.” Atreus craned his head back to look at his father. Kratos stared down his nose at him. “You think it’s some kind of mountain goat?”
“I do not know.”
“What do you think it is?”
“I said I do not know.” Kratos did not want to know. He took a step back, ready to beckon the boy to follow. It had startled their deer, its tracks veering to the side and continuing on in a different direction. If the beast and its owners meant no harm, they would allow them to pass. Otherwise, they would deal with them. For now, they posed no threat, and he and his son had a hunt to finish. Kratos turned to follow where the deer had deviated from its path. The boy did not move to stand. When he looked, he found him frowning. Kratos readied himself.
“Do you know anything?” asked the boy.
“What I know is that you are letting this distract you. The more time we waste, the more ground the deer places between us." Kratos beckoned him with his axe. "Come.”
“But this is a lot bigger than a deer.”
“Atreus.”
“Come on, you aren’t at least a little bit curious?” Kratos sighed, his breath streamed from him like water from a dam. The boy stood with a triumphant grin. He knew already that he had won. Kratos should not let him have this. The days were short. If they failed to track his creature, then they would not have time to hunt anything else. He stalked back to his son, the deer's prints destroyed beneath his boots.
“Tomorrow we hunt. Without distractions.”
“Yes, sir!” The boy’s voice was enthusiastic, barely able to contain his excitement for a new animal he had yet to meet.
He unthreaded himself from his bow and ran ahead, jumping over a fallen log that the tracks had carefully gone around. Kratos followed behind, axe in hand. He hoped this animal's sled was empty.
“Slow down, boy.”
“I don’t want to lose him!”
“You will not. Stay where I can see you.” The boy slowed his pace some, but remained a few steps ahead, leading the way. They followed the tracks in silence, pushing on against the snow and the bitter cold. It was not long before they came across it, large and flaxen where they could catch glimpses of it between the trees. He stopped. The boy stood at his side. He notched an arrow and held it down toward the ground, waiting for his mark. The beast was still, its dark face rooting beneath the snow for something to graze on. A ram. Its horns great and curled around its ears. It was yoked to a sled, though Kratos could not see the entirety of it, blocked by brush and bramble and the trees. He strained his ears. He heard nothing. No voices. No footsteps. Perhaps whoever it belonged to had frozen to death.
“Do you want me to shoot?” asked Atreus, and Kratos saw the ram’s ear flick. It lifted its head. He held an arm in front of the boy to keep him quiet and realized a moment too late that he should have remained still. The ram’s eyes were on them, and then it was rearing onto its hind legs, its belly a pale flash against the dark tree bark. The wood of the sled creaked as it was lifted from the ground, and the moment its hooves crashed back into the snow, it was charging at them, fast. The boy yanked up his bow and fired.
The arrow whistled through the air and missed in his haste. Its hooves thundered beneath its weight. Kratos shoved him aside in the moment he had to spare before it was on them. He dropped Leviathan, knowing he would not have time to ready a swing, and grabbed it by the horns. He dug his feet into the snow, his boots slipping on ice as he sought traction. If he went under, it would trample him and turn on his son. He could not let that happen. It was strong. Its hot breath puffing against him, humid even through the fur of his tunic. He pushed back, grunting with the effort. He could feel the beaded jewelry that adorned its horns tapping against his arms, the stones cold. As he readied to call out to Atreus, to command him to shoot, he heard a voice. Someone frantic and in a language he did not immediately recognize. There was movement in his periphery, the boy sitting upright and digging through the snow for his bow. The ram's fight left all at once. It raised its head, and Kratos let it go. Its breath poured from its nostrils in twin clouds of white. Kratos recalled Leviathan without looking, his eyes on the beast as he stepped aside and held out a hand to haul Atreus to his feet. The ram stood, unmoving, until they began toward its rear, then it widened its stance and began to root again. In the sled, a man was sat, struggling to stand. Kratos watched him, cautious, an arm out to keep Atreus safely behind him. He held the axe in his other hand, ready to strike.
“Who are you?”
“My apologies,” said the man, and it took Kratos a moment to realize that he understood. The man spoke Greek. It was strange. He had not heard it spoken aloud since he razed Greece. Since Athena’s apparition had come to mock him. “I do not speak your tongue.”
The boy whispered at his back. “I can’t understand him.” Kratos did not respond. He could walk away. Go home. Pretend this never happened. Obviously, this man meant no harm. He had a crutch under each arm, pulling himself upright and out of the sled. He moved slowly, as if he were in agony. The cold likely did not help, nor did his animal’s loss of control.
He did not look at them until he was sure his footing was sound, and when he did his eyes widened. Kratos did not take his gaze from him. “That tattoo…" said the man, in Greek. "It cannot be. Is that you, Spartan?” Kratos did not move. He did not know this man. Did he? He held his breath and studied him. Dark hair and a beard, braided at his chin. An inky mark creeping up his neck and across his cheek. It caught the sunlight, slick, shiny. Suddenly, a name came to him, along with a dozen memories he had tried and failed to bury. Chained and on his knees. A stranger saying I believe these belong to you.
“Orkos,” he said, before he could think better of it. It could not be. He had killed him. Felt the give of his flesh under his own blade. Burned him in the house Lysandra and Calliope had called home. “Impossible.” He dropped his arms to his sides. Leviathan hung loosely in his grip.
“Orkos?” The boy spoke it slowly, testing the foreign name on his tongue. “You know him?” He stepped around his father, and Kratos stopped him, a hand on his chest, and gently urged him behind him again. “Is he from your homeland?”
Kratos, victim to his surprise, struggled to voice an answer. Finally, he said, “Yes.”
“Is he a god?”
“The son of one, yes.”
“Is he going to try to kill us?” He could hear Atreus notch an arrow, the string pulling taut. Orkos did not speak, but his eyes were on them. He watched, calm, calculating. He did not attempt to come any closer. He lifted a hand to pat the ram on its flank. His crutch dangled at his side from where it was looped around his elbow.
“No,” said Kratos, though he knew Orkos could use the ichor to come to them in an instant, quicker than either of them could react. He also knew he had no reason to. His death had been by his own wish, one Kratos had begrudgingly fulfilled. He had given Kratos the path to freedom, and in a way, he had freed Orkos as well. They had both been tied to Ares in unfortunate ways. “I do not think so. He was a friend, but we cannot be sure that he has remained one. Stay behind me.” He hesitated as he turned his attention to Orkos, knowing whatever he said would have to be in Greek. He had not spoken it in decades and had trained himself not even to think in it. Had shed it like snakeskin the moment he became proficient in the tongue of these lands. Orkos did not move from the ram’s side. Its breath rolled like fog across the ground. He put his weight back on his crutches. Kratos could not tell if his shaking was from the strain or the cold. “How are you not dead?”
“If I am being quite honest, I am not sure. I expected the death you granted me, Kratos, to be my last,” said Orkos, and Kratos’s skin crawled with the sound of his voice. He had been so young the last he heard him speak, in the midst of the thousands of mistakes that marred his time spent in Sparta. He had not been a god of anything then, only a man consumed by his grief and his rage. Nothing more. He brought himself a few steps forward and stopped when Kratos took a step back. He bumped into his son, and he heard the crunch of snow behind him as the boy scrambled out of the way. He could not trust this. His father had come to him in Hel. Whatever magic supplied the illusions there did not exist in Midgard, but that had not been enough to stop Athena. “The gods traded my lifetime of servitude for one of freedom. It was a gift along with the Fleece.” He tipped his head toward the ram. “But there are things even the gods cannot fix. Oath keeping is not kind to the body, nor is death. There are days where I believe the pain may not be worth it, but I always wake the next morning glad to have been given a second chance.”
“What is he saying?” asked Atreus. Kratos did not answer him. There were more pressing matters than translating.
“The gods did this?” They had dragged Orkos from Elysium’s fields before he had felled Olympus. He had known nothing of his resurrection. No one had ever told him. Was Orkos aware of what he had done? That he had slain more gods than just his father? No. Had he remained in Greece long enough to see its destruction, he would surely not be so casual. He would, as they all had, have run in fear at the very sight of him.
“Zeus. How, I do not know. I woke in the halls of Olympus to Athena.”
“And you did not stay?”
“My father did not know. I am sure my death was but one of countless he celebrated. I had no choice but to flee.” Kratos said nothing, knowing it was true. Ares had celebrated all the blood he spilled. His enemies. The innocent. His family. “I have not returned since, but with my father dead by your hand and once I find whatever it is I am to find, perhaps I will.” Kratos was unsure what he meant. The gods would not have given him a mission if he was forbade from Greek soil. Kratos did not know how to tell him there was nothing for him to go back to, either. Regardless, whatever Orkos sought did not concern him, and when he returned he would see for himself what had happened. Orkos had interpreted his silence to mean something else entirely. A strange, uncomfortable expression crossed his features. It drew his brows and tightened his lips. “You did kill him, didn’t you?”
“I did.”
Atreus stepped out from behind him, his hand ice on his arm where it begged for his attention. “Father, what did he say?”
Nothing had been said that he was remotely comfortable with the boy knowing. He was grateful for the difference in language. It would not last, he knew. Once Atreus had heard it enough, he would be bound to learn it. He hoped desperately that day would never come, and if it did, that Orkos would be far from them. Kratos had killed his mothers. One of the hundreds upon hundreds of families he had slaughtered. His own and Freya’s among them. It was yet another reminder of his failure to change and potential proof to his son that he was incapable of it. His heart in his throat, Kratos turned his eyes from Orkos down to the boy, who stared up at him, pleading.
“Later,” he said and watched as Atreus's mouth screwed into a pout. He shouldered his bow and crossed his arms over his chest. It was for his benefit. The boy would not understand. Kratos rested a hand between his shoulders, meaning to soothe. He turned back to Orkos, finding him patient. He lifted his eyes from the boy to meet Kratos’s. “You are in no condition to travel.” The rapid transitions between Greek and back made his tongue feel clumsy, too large in his mouth. Kratos slowed his speech until it was clear. He did not trust that Orkos was alone. The woods were harsh, and with Fimbulwinter, even more so. Even he had struggled until Faye found him, and he had been able-bodied. Orkos, even with his beast of burden, could not have made it this far from Olympus on his own.
“There were arrangements made by the gods for me to leave Greece. After which, I had the help of a friend.”
“A friend?”
Orkos’s lips twitched in a brief grin. “Not to worry, Spartan. We were only headed in the same direction and parted ways once we reached these shores. I have not seen him since. It is just myself and the Fleece now.” He retreated to his sled and bent to fuss with the bundles of supplies there, weight leaned heavily on one of his crutches as he readjusted the load. He must have stopped to tighten the ropes that held them down. The ram's sudden upset had only served to knock them looser. When Orkos spoke next, he did not look up. “Is that your son behind you?”
“He is none of your concern.”
“You have said it yourself that I am in no condition to travel. If that is the case, then I am in no condition to pose any threat to either of you.”
Kratos considered him, his words. He was right. No amount of magic would be enough to protect him, not in his current state. Orkos had never given him reason not to trust him. The hand he had on the boy’s back moved to his shoulder. He pulled him close to his side, unable to help the flicker of pride that licked up in his belly. “His name is Atreus.”
“Atreus,” Orkos said, and the boy looked between at the mention of his name. His sour expression from earlier had softened with surprise. “A Greek name for a Norse child?”
“After a friend, yes.” He had been more than that. A mortal man whose memory had kept him alive through every horror he encountered. Details Orkos possessed no need to know. He looked down to where the boy stood at his side, found his eyes turned up at him, brow knit.
“Is he asking about me?”
“Yes,” Kratos said and dropped the arm he had placed around his shoulders. The boy put a step's worth of distance between them and kicked the snow.
“I wish I could speak your language. I’ve never heard you use it before."
"There has never been reason to." Atreus's lips pursed, pouting. He cast a pleading glance up at his father. Kratos knew he only wished to feel included. He wanted to reach for him again but did not.
"Do you think you could teach me? I mean, I’m teaching you how to read—fair’s fair.”
Orkos interrupted before Kratos could answer. He was thankful for it. “Is your son fond of animals?”
“He is,” said Kratos, wary. Orkos stepped away from the sled and toward the beast’s head. He stroked the blonde wool of its side, as if to demonstrate his next point.
“Well, I assure you—your introduction aside—the Fleece is only territorial. Your son may come closer if he wishes.”
He adjusted his hold on his axe. If it were to charge again, he would not be able to make it to Atreus in time. In the end, it was Orkos’s animal, and to have traveled this far with it, he must know it well. Kratos trusted his word. Okos had no reason to desire seeing the boy hurt. Kratos dropped his gaze to his son. “He says his animal is friendly.”
“So… I can pet him?”
“Yes.”
Without wasting another moment, Atreus broke from his side and jogged to the ram. He ran his palm down the side of its neck as he passed, and it lifted its head at the touch, grating whatever dying vegetation it had found between its teeth. Kratos watched carefully—swallowing the urge to call the boy back to him—as he stroked its broad muzzle, the wide spiral of its horns. He inspected the beaded jewelry that hung from them, bright against the grayscale of winter. The ram bleated and Atreus frowned. “I can’t understand you,” he said to it, and then, after a moment of thought, “I guess you can’t understand me, either.” He turned his head to look at Kratos, the beast's hulking head still cradled in his hands. “What’s his name?”
Kratos, though he was reluctant to do so, tore his eyes from him. He directed his attention to Orkos. “The boy wishes to know its name.”
“Ah,” he said, and then he stepped away from the ram, raising his voice as if the boy would be able to understand him. “His name is Melite, but you may know him, Kratos, as the Golden Fleece Jason sought. You have heard that story, haven’t you?”
Of course he had. “Melite,” he said to the boy.
“Melite. Hey, boy. That’s your name, huh? I’m Atreus.” He grinned, petting its cheeks. The muscles there flexed as it chewed. “What else did he say, Father?”
Kratos gave no indication that he had heard the question, and Orkos continued. “I’ve learned to knit his wool. If you’d like, I could make something for your son.”
They managed with pelts and hides. Though Fimbulwinter was only beginning and the temperatures would only worsen, he declined. They did not need to be beholden to a dead man. “That is not necessary.” His refusal brought with it a thick quiet. They watched the boy and the ram. No one spoke.
Finally, Orkos said, “I came to these lands because I was told I would be safe here.” He had been told wrong. Kratos did not say it aloud. The wind whipped cruelly as if proving his point. Orkos did not speak again until it had calmed. The snow clung to the ram’s wool, nearly invisible against its fair coat. “I heard word of a tattooed man killing gods. I admit I thought of you until I heard he traveled with a child. I did not realize you had another—”
“You told me you did not speak this tongue.” Though he knew Atreus would not be able to understand, Kratos would take no chances. It was clear in his tone that his daughter was not a subject for discussion, the words a harsh snap. The boy looked up from the beast, concern in the pinch of his brows.
Orkos lifted a hand as if to plead for mercy, his mouth a tight line. He did not seem afraid. He had overstepped and was well aware of it. “I am far from fluent.”
Atreus patted the side of the ram’s neck in parting. He scurried back to his father. “Is everything okay?”
Kratos looked down at him and tried not to think of his innocence. There was a wounded part of him that wondered what had stopped the gods from bringing his daughter back. They had possessed the power. He had suffered from it so, had begged for the nightmares to cease, had done the impossible in attempt to end them. He felt his rage begin to broil and took a deep breath to calm himself. Anger would not bring her back. Orkos had served a terrible purpose. He had use. She had been important to no one but himself and Lysandra. He placed a hand on Atreus’s shoulder, more to comfort himself than the boy. He was warm under his palm. Healthy. Alive. He gave a curt nod, grunted in the affirmative.
Orkos’s shoulders rose with his breath. He looked down at himself and brushed the snow from his tunic. “If you will excuse me, I must sit down. It is painful to stand for too long.” Within the beat of a heart, he was back in the sled, the ichor crawling in the air around him. He seemed tired, the pain and the cold draining him. He shed his crutches and bent over his lap to tend to his supplies again, wrenching tight the ropes that held them in place.
Atreus looked between him and his father. “Did he just step into the realm between realms?”
“No. The magic is his own.”
“Is he leaving?”
“I will ask.” Kratos replaced Leviathan in its hook on his back and waded through the snow toward the sled. Upon their approach, Orkos looked up. He was a friend, and Kratos did not wish to send him along believing he had made a mistake. “The boy wants to know if you are leaving.”
“I should be on my way, I suppose.”
“Did he tell you where he’s headed?” asked the boy.
“The boy asks where you are going.”
Orkos grinned slyly at the question, his eyes sliding to him from his son. “I am afraid I do not know yet.”
“He is passing through.”
At his translation, the boy threw up his hands, frustrated with the lack of detail. “Okay, yeah, obviously. That still doesn’t answer my question.”
“I know what you know,” said Kratos firmly. He wanted to scold him, to tell him to mind his tone, but found himself unwilling in the face of company. “I will ask no more of it. It is not our concern. Or our business.”
“I know, I know! I wasn’t being nosy! I was just wondering if he's going to pass by our house.” The boy looked down at where his hands fiddled nervously with his bowstring. “I thought maybe he would want to stay and rest for the night before he gets back to going… wherever he’s going.” He looked up, his eyes wide. Kratos sighed, unable to tell him no. He turned to Orkos, who had returned to tying down his belongings.
“The boy wishes for you to come to our home.”
“I have all I need.” He finished the knot he was tying and pulled it tight. His fingers shook. He looked up. “Tell him the offer is appreciated, but I must be on my way.”
Slowly, Kratos turned back to the boy. “He said no.”
“What? No, he didn’t! He said way more than just that.”
“The boy insists.”
There was a pause wherein Orkos seemed to reconsider the offer. He looked out to the woods, vast and freezing around them. The sun would set soon. “I would not object to a fire and a hot meal,” he said, finally. “If you do not mind, of course.”
“I do not mind.” Kratos, even still, felt indebted to him. He would have never escaped the furies on his own. Time did not change the fact that he had been a friend and was still.
The boy peeked up at him. “So? Is he going to stay?”
“Yes.”
“Yes!” The boy balled his hand into a triumphant fist. “Wow… I can’t believe I got to meet someone from your homeland and now he’s going to stay the night.”
Kratos noticed Orkos’s gaze, fond and fixed on his son. He wondered how long it had been since he had last seen a child. He offered a succinct interpretation. “The boy is glad.”
“I only wish I could better understand him,” said Orkos, and then he tore his eyes away to meet Kratos’s. “ Thank you for this. You two lead the way. Melite and I will be right behind.”
“Come, boy. Let us—” Before he could finish, Atreus was marching ahead, tramping in the direction of home through the tracks they had left. Orkos chuckled and then spoke something to the ram, unintelligible over the wind, and it began after them, lumbering, the drag of the sled audible behind it. The boy craned his head to ensure it was following. Kratos was not fooled. He had seen both its speed and its strength firsthand. He was careful to keep himself between it and his son.
“Father, do you think we could ever have some animals to pull us around? It would make traveling a lot easier. And faster.”
The boy had a point, the snow would only climb higher as winter drove on. Because of it, they never strayed far from the house. Luckily, so far, they had little trouble finding food. “No. Our journey is over. We have no need for travel.”
“Yeah,” said the boy, sounding disappointed, “I figured you’d say that. Are you going to tell me what you two were talking about?”
Kratos sighed. It clouded the air in front of him. “I told you, later.”
“Fine.” He trudged onward, ahead of them, the snow slowing his pace. After a few moments of silence, he turned around to walk backward. “Mimir is going to really regret not coming. He missed meeting Orkos!”
“He will meet him,” Kratos said, nodding to the trees that stretched on in their path. “Now quiet, keep your eyes open. Just because our hunt was interrupted does not mean it is over.” He knew the sound of the sled would startle any game long before they were within sight. If the boy was aware as well, he did not argue.
“Yes, sir,” he said, turning around to draw his bow. He did not speak again, and Kratos used the time to think. When their home came into view, it was just as they had left it. Modest, inviting. The smoke curled from the vent, rising until the wind blew it away. Orkos had not inquired about his missing blades. Kratos thought of them, hanging on the beam by the door, crossed one over the other like the crooked teeth of an animal. He could not help but wonder how Orkos would feel sharing a roof with the weapons that had orphaned him.