Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The truth of Atreus’ sickness wasn’t completely truthful; yes, his godhood and mortalhood clashed, yet Atreus was still a child born early, born little, born sickly. So while that intense comatic fever never returned, others did; it was not uncommon for him to fall ill especially in the cold weather, and unfortunately it was cold nigh all the time.

Today was no different; the weather was cold, but the earth was muddy; the snow had begun to melt, making the dirt wet and mushy, which was helpful for tracking a deer through the woods. Yet the wetness sank into Kratos’ boots, and no doubt his son’s too; they’d trekked for days now, chasing this particular buck deep within the green and far from home.

Kratos waited for Atreus to catch up, eyeing along the horizon for a sign of the buck; the boy was falling behind on the hike and though Kratos would very much like to continue onwards, his boy was tired, wheezing, muffling coughs in his tunic. Kratos turned back to the path.

“Boy.”

Atreus hurried his pace, though his lungs could not take enough air to compensate for his movements; he coughed, though his grip upon his bow was strong enough that the pit of worry did not run as deep as before in Kratos. “Did you find the tracks again?” His eyes were alert, ready for a battle, but Kratos was not deterred.

“Come,” he pressed the back of his fingers to Atreus’ brow, just as Freya taught him; there was heat there, noticeable even with how fast Atreus pulled away.

“I’m fine!” His face took a determined turn, something Faye may have called a pouting glare. “I’m not sick.” But the coughs came then, and Kratos gently pushed his son off the pathway.

“We will find a clearing to stop. Then head back home in the morning.”

Atreus persisted, however, that he was well; he sniffled, and trotted along as quick as possible. “I can go on! We’re so close, Father, and the buck was ginormous; enough meat for weeks!” At no change in his father’s demeanor, Atreus stomped his foot in frustration. “I’m ready!”

At that, such a simple saying carrying so much weight, Kratos turned and knelt; he took his son’s shoulders in his mighty hands. “I know you are; however, there is no weakness in resting when needed. You are ill, and I would rather not relive a life threatening episode again.”

Atreus’ face eased; his brows unfurled, and he turned his eyes downwards in deference. “Yes, sir; sorry, sir.”

With a reassuring huff, Kratos stood again; as they walked along, Atreus went about gathering kindling for their fire. They found a clearing near a stream and Kratos announced this would be their camp for the night; as Atreus began to set up a firepit, Kratos filled their water skins and took inventory of what food they had left on this journey. Plenty enough to last their trek back home, and there would always be another buck; Kratos handed his son a roll of bread and strips of jerky.

They ate in silence by the roaring fire as the sun set; Atreus ate slowly, little bites of bread and barely touched the jerky. Feeling his father’s gaze on him, Atreus offered the meat to him and Kratos accepted only to not waste it.

“Finish the bread,” Kratos near growled and Atreus did, however slowly, though he clearly tore the bread to crumbs; Kratos brushed the leftovers from Atreus’ tunic, helping the sleepy boy remove his bow and quiver. “Rest now; we will move in the morning.”

Atreus was happy to obey and he curled by Kratos’ side; Kratos needed less sleep, so he stays alert. The fire was stoked, kept aflame, and when Atreus shivered in the night Kratos pulled him closer. The night was a long one, but a quiet one and when the sun began to rise Kratos doused the fire which awakened Atreus. A brief meal of fresh berries found near the river, accompanied by warmed bread by the fire, and Kratos lead the way through the underbrush.

Atreus was quiet during the journey and Kratos ensured to keep his pace slow to accommodate; as the day continued, however, Atreus grew worse. His coughs could no longer be hidden, and there was something sticky that could be heard in his throat; his lungs tired from the effort until Kratos couldn’t take it anymore. He waited for Atreus to catch up and then pushed the boy to sit on a boulder nearby.

Atreus’ breathing was stunted; it wheezed through his throat in an uneven rhythm and he leaned heavily upon his knees. The rock was rough beneath him, but he was too thankful for a reprieve of movement that he didn’t care. Kratos let him be, opting to scout ahead while Atreus tried to catch his breath, and upon his return Kratos took a knee in the mud.

Atreus still struggled to breath properly, stifling coughs for there wasn’t enough air to breath and dislodge the phlegm; still, his body wanted the phlegm gone and so it robbed him of the air in his lungs. He leaned further forward, supported by Kratos, and let the sickness come out; it dribbled down his chin, thick and disgusting, and Kratos wiped the strands away.

Blessedly, the coughing stopped and Kratos eased his son into a sitting position again; he was pale and gasping, and Kratos made a decision.

He fit his hands beneath Atreus’ arms, lifting the boy with ease as he stood in one fluid motion; he may be nine, but Kratos was a god and Atreus was small. Carrying his son was no feat, and he stepped easily over a fallen log as Atreus rested his head upon Kratos’ shoulder. One arm clung to the back of his armor as the other curled between them, and the boy’s eyes slowly fluttered shut; lulled by his father’s warmth and the safety he provided, Atreus easily fell asleep.

His lungs had calmed, his body relaxing, breath puffing softly against his father’s neck as Kratos carried him home.

Chapter Text

Faye’s garden still garnered for them many different fruits, vegetables, roots, and herbs; Kratos enjoyed the time spent there, as if his wife were standing by him once more. He pulled weeds from the ground and removed bugs from the leaves; any overgrowth was trimmed back and he drew water from the stream to nourish the land.

Today Kratos tended the garden; though the land mostly stayed icy or drowned in melted snow, Faye’s garden was blessed with magic. It thrived in all weather, through all rain and snow, and any damage done to it would be healed in time. Her magic did not leave with her final breath; it stayed rooted in the ground and weaved warmth into Kratos’ soul.

“Father!”

Kratos raised his gaze to the woods that lined their home; his son had wandered off after his chores were completed, searching for entertainment, and Kratos had told him to not wander too far for safety. He placed trust that his son would not go far, so his attention had gone solely to the gardening. Now, he realized he should have checked on Atreus sooner.

The boy was coming limping from the woods, a large wolf at his heels, and Kratos called for his axe; immediately he felt his warrior instinct take hold, believing his son to be in danger. He leapt over the short fence surrounding the garden and barreled towards Atreus and the wolf.

“Boy!”

Atreus’ grin fell, blood dripping down one side of his face, and he stumbled to a stop; he held his hands up and stepped into his father’s path, them too scattered with cuts and abrasions. “Wait, Father! He’s my friend!”

With the black wolf hunkered behind his son, Kratos had no other choice than to grab Atreus and pull him away from harm.

“Come away!” With a shove, Atreus was safe behind Kratos’ bulk; the god hefted the axe and the wolf began to bar its teeth. “Is it rabid?”

“Father!” Two small hands tugged at his wrist, and then Atreus was clambering up Kratos’ body, using his armor as foot and hand holds. “He’s my friend! I slipped near a rocky craig and Fenrir helped me get out and back home.”

He wrapped his free arm tight about his boy, gaze still heavy on the wolf. “You...named it?”

Green eyes roll in humor. “No, he told me his name.”

Finally, Kratos turned to regard his son. “You spoke with it?”

He knew about Atreus’ inclining to speak with animals or elements; it was disturbing to the god, but he understood that Faye’s culture--and thus Atreus’--was different than his own. So he allowed, though did not encourage, such activities.

“Of course!” Atreus’ grin was back, and he wrapped his arms around Kratos’ neck, settling in, certainly getting blood all over Kratos’ armor. “He’s very friendly, and very strong! Isn’t he bigger than any of the other wolves? Is he a dire wolf maybe? Either way, can he stay with us?”

Kratos returned the axe to its holster, shifting Atreus in his arms so he could assess the boy’s injuries; gripping the boy’s chin, he studied the cut on his head, frowning at the blood staining the collar of his tunic, and gently touched at Atreus’ twisted ankle. “Does he have no pack?”

“No, and we could do with a guard dog right?” Atreus swung his non-injured foot. “He’s lonely,” he whispered conspiratorially and then leaned away once more. “Plus, I’ve never had an animal companion before.”

Kratos huffed, turning cautiously for their home to patch Atreus up, careful to not harm the boy further. “You are asking for a pet.”

Atreus laughed and reached one hand back to indicate Fenrir should follow. “You’re not saying no.”

“I am not saying yes either, boy.”

The wolf stayed the night, though Kratos insisted it stay outside; apparently, Atreus took that as a symbol to spend the night out with the creature too. And the following night. And the one after that too. Until, finally, Kratos broke and allowed the wolf inside.

“He is to stay off the furniture.”

Yet immediately the wolf made itself comfortable besides Atreus on his bed, giving a lick to the boy’s cheek, and a satisfied grin at Kratos.

“He is testing me.”

“Yeah.” Charcoal scraped across paper, the only thing that could keep Atreus still enough for his ankle to heal; there was a grin on his face and in his voice. “More like teasing though; he likes you.”

“Hm.”

That winter, Atreus’ fevers came rarely, sleeping under the warm bulk of Fenrir, and when they did the wolf stayed close by; any stumbling was compensated by the animal’s bulk, any coughing was met with what Atreus called kisses, and when Atreus does collapse at one point the wolf came running to bring Kratos.

Mimir, on an evening that Atreus’ lungs hung heavy in his chest, mentioned that the wolf might be a gift from Faye; Kratos considered this, watching his son’s chest rise and fall in a gentle but healthier rhythm than before, watching Fenrir’s face twitch in sleep. The wolf lay curled by the boy, muzzle atop his thigh, and Kratos reached out to touch the thick fur in thanks.

Chapter Text

Kratos watched the dwarf work, arms crossed in concentration, ensuring the axe would be perfect. Atreus was over Kratos’ shoulder as short ways away, clearly looking disinterested, and he first attempted to mimic Kratos’ demeanor; an exaggerated scowl accompanied the folding of his arms and he fiddled with his stance until he felt he mirrored his father better.

Satisfied with his success, he was once more left with nothing to do but wait; Brok was busy with his craft, and Kratos would say he was busy too though there was no need to wait. They could carry on and run other errands while Brok finished the weapon repairs; with a huff, Atreus scuffed at the ground. They had left Fenrir to watch over the homestead, so he had no one to keep him entertained. With another huff, Atreus searched for a small stick and, once located, practiced his runes in the dirt.

Yet this too did not hold his attention for long; brushing the dirt into a unified canvas once more, he began brushing images along the ground. A stick figure of his father, arms crossed, accompanied by Faye’s strong stature and then proceeded to work on a likeness of Fenrir; adding one of himself completed the picture, so Atreus began another working of the dwarf brothers. Brok was distinguishable by his slouching posture, and Sindri by his more rigid nature.

More doodles joined the others, of their journeys and people they knew or met; there was little else to amuse Atreus, and he fell back onto the ground. The clouds hung low and Atreus wondered what he could make if he could harness clouds like Thor. Thankfully, the sun was still very low in the sky so Atreus could easily paint images into the sky without worrying about going blind.

Atreus felt a gaze on him, and he met his father’s even gaze; easily, Kratos turned back to watch the dwarf, only checking on his son briefly. Atreus returned to the sky; they had left early in the morning, when the sun hadn’t even been up yet, to track the travelling dwarf down for repairs and improvements. As such, Atreus felt the time pass sluggishly and, on his back, his eyes fell shut slowly. He dozed in the dirt, waiting for Brok to be finished.

“Boy. Atreus.”

His father’s deep rumble drew him out of his sleep and he squinted up at the warrior; he sat up, rubbing his eyes.

“Is Brok done? Are we going home?”

Kratos hummed a negative and reached out, scooping Atreus close. “No, but you should not rest in the dirt in a clean tunic.”

Atreus chuckled quietly, shifting to find a comfortable place to sleep; Kratos cradled him similarly to when he had rushed his son to Freya for help, though Atreus was able to hold himself upright against his shoulder this time. Kratos turned back to Brok’s anvil and furnace.

“When he is done, are we going home?”

“Hm,” Kratos rumbled under Atreus’ ear. “Yes, we will return home.”

A sleepy smile was the boy’s response; good. He wanted to go on a rabbit hunt with Fenrir today, and Kratos was building a paddock for when they would buy some yak from a village nearby.

“I can walk, ya know.”

“Yes, I am aware of your skills; I watched you take your first steps.”

At that, Atreus lifted his head. “You did?”

“I did.”

“Will you tell me about it?”

“There is not much to tell.” Though his voice was serious, his beard twitched and Atreus knew he was fighting a smile; a fond memory then, and though Kratos’ storytelling was nothing like his mother’s his father was trying. And getting better, in Atreus’ opinion. “You bolstered yourself on your mother’s knee but wanted me to pay attention to you. So you took your first steps to stop me sharpening the axe and pay attention to you.”

There’s a pause where the only sound was Brok’s hammer upon heated metal. “Was Mother proud?” came the whispered questions and Kratos held him tighter. “Were you?”

“You’re mother was overjoyed.” Kratos almost didn’t answer the last question, pressing his lips against Atreus’ auburn hair. “As was I,” he muttered, bordering unintelligible, but it still put a soft smile on his son’s face. “Now rest; the walk back home will be tiring.”

Except, axe back in his possession, Kratos did not awaken his son for the walk back; he carried him, content with the life Faye had provided him with, and he pressed another kiss to his son’s head.