A/N: I thought of doing a story set in the new God Of War world. But I really wanted to deviate a little bit and get to know Kratos while he was in the Greek World (but I definitely plan on doing a story with Kratos in the Norse world). I won't be going through the whole storyline (that's waaaay to long). I want to emphasize a single moment in his life, some point in time during his service to the Gods. I won't talk too much about what the story is about, but I plan to update either once or twice a week (or more depending how much I can get done in day). I am prone to not finishing stories, but this one I actually do want to complete. By all means, hit me up about updates.

Disclaimer: Obviously Kratos is not my character, but the other characters in the story are from greek mythology and I add in my own character.

*A finale note: Some of the events that I've referenced from actual or mythological events may be a bit askew in terms of timeline.

Part One: The Priestess

The ruins of Rhodes was depleted of its former grandeur. The only reminder that civilisation could have existed here, was the Colossus of Helios standing tall but worn in the city's center. Nature had overtaken the ruins, bathing the entirety in green and peculiar indigo flowers. At some point in time, the Chimera had taken up residence here and Kratos had the unfortunate pleasure of running into it. He bested the beat in terms of sheer power, but he'd been too cocky. He should've seen the beast's reptilian tail closing in on him. But there was no point dwelling in a mistake. Blood wept from a large gash, just below his ribcage, where he'd been pierced by fangs thicker than his wound was hot and sizzling. The poison was increasingly making his vision blurry, as his eyes did their best to survey his surroundings hoping to find a brief haven for when he went unconscious. The Chimera's venom was working quick, as only minutes ago he'd been able to at least walk in a straight line. Now it took every bit of strength within him to stumble on. He was still in a dangerous place, even with the main threat dead. The sky had become a greying blue as the sun continued its descent. He didn't like the thought of being out cold in the dark. Nothing good ever happened in the dark. He managed to get himself to the outskirts of the ruins, just as his legs faltered and buckled. They couldn't withstand his weight anymore, and as he fell he shot out his arms and caught himself, yet his limbs were met with a burst of sharp pain, like needles gouging through skin and bone. He clenched his teeth, and begun to crawl. He still seeked shelter, but the poison had reached every crevice of his body. Eventually he was unable to move at all. He felt his eyelids droop. He had no choice but to give in to the poison's effects. And what came after was the worse hell not even the God of the dead could conjure.

The nightmare tore into his flesh, sinking its canines deep, and threatening to rip him to shreds. The dream took him into the past, into a phantasmic purgatory where he was forced to relive his most sinful acts. It took him back to that day, when he had been so consumed in power and bloodlust, and committed unforgivable violence. Kratos had commanded his own men to slaughter a whole village, an innocent bystander in his warpath. None were spared from his wrath, not women nor children. It was as if his body had a purpose of its own as it marched into the Temple of Athena, slaughtering priests and the remaining villagers who had thought their Gods would spare them. When he had finally calmed down and regained his senses, before him was hall of mutilated corpses, including the corpses of those he loved more than anyone on earth. He dropped to his knees and grasped his daughter's body, shaking her repeatedly as if she were merely asleep- though there was a gaping hole in her chest. Eventually his soldiers had forced him away. Someone had set the Temple of Athena on fire. He was forced away from his family, and dragged outside. His soldier let him be, as he kneeled on the ground staring at his hands stained with his family's blood, not quite believing what he'd done. He was so withdrawn into himself, he didn't see the village Oracle standing before him. Cursing him.

"You shall wear the ashes of your beloveds for the rest of your days," the old woman had said, and his skin burned as the ashes of his family molded onto him, turning him paler than a ghost.

"All shall know of the 'Great Spartan Warrior' who butchered his own wife and child." he tried to talk back, to explain himself. He was fooled, he couldn't be capable of such a dishonorable and shameful deed. But all that left his moving lips was silence. The dream shifted, making him nauseous as it morphed until reaching its desired shape. In every direction was pure darkness, save for a painfully bright light that shined from directly above him, illuminating the blood on his hands as the sword he gripped plunged deeper into a body. He looked up to the smiling face of Orkos, the only God who had ever truly helped him. Blood seeped from in between his lips, rushing down his bearded chin.

"It was the only way." Orkos said in a gentle voice, and the iron slipped out of his body as he fell to the ground. Kratos reached for him, but dark claws came out of the darkness, grasping the God's body pulling it into the void.

"Your fault!" the shouts of the Furies reverberated in the black realm. Kratos covered his ears, as the sound became so unbearable he thought his head would explode. And in an instant the dream changed again, this time putting him inside a little abandoned hut in a forest. He was looking at himself, sitting on the hay littered floor- his blade to his throat. He remembered that night; he had woken from an especially gruesome dream. He didn't want to live that way anymore, life simply wasn't worth the suffering. Yet he couldn't bring himself to commit. He watched himself throw the knife at the wall and his duplicate cried and shouted in a despairing rage until his voice was hoarse. And then the hut caught on fire. He couldn't move, his feet felt glued to the floor. Gradually the fire turned into an inferno, engulfing him completely. His blood boiled, he felt his skin and muscles being melted from his bones. He screamed in terror, as if somehow the action could relieve the pain. He gave up whatever willpower was left within him. All he longed for was to finally be embraced into Death's arms.

And the fire ceased to exist. The burning was replaced with an overwhelming cool feeling, like an ice cold stream showering his body. He opened his eyes. The pain lingered, but it wasn't as intense. His vision was stilly fuzzy, but he could make out a form, leaning over him, placing a cool hand on his forehead. The figure had a pleasant smell, like a field of lavender, and immediately his mind projected an image of his wife pressing her hand on his cheek.

"Lysandra?" he said weakly in utter disbelief. His wife smiled and shushed him, pressing a finger to his lips.

"Sleep warrior." she said. And he did as he was told.