Kratos looks through the window as Atreus endures yet another physical examination. He has lost count of how many times his son has been poked and prodded, and he honestly believes that lab rats suffer less. Faye taps him lightly on the shoulder and hands him a coffee. His eyes close as he takes a sip, the bitter mixture warming his insides.

"Doctor Hati wants to speak with you," His beloved says quietly. Kratos knows from her expression that whatever the doctor has to say can't be good. His son has rapidly worsened, it pains him to admit. It's always been bad, but the child can no longer stand unassisted, needing to be pushed in a wheelchair or carried to his many appointments. He can not dress himself and also relies on a nasogastric tube to feed him. His skin is grey and dry, bruises clustering every joint of his tiny body.

It takes all of Kratos' strength to tear his eyes from his son. He knows he is safe with Faye, but he is near the end, and if anything were to happen while he is gone...

"Thank you for coming," Doctor Hati greets as the distressed father takes a seat at her desk. "As you are aware, your son's leukemic cells are not responding to his chemotherapy. He is experiencing very intense bone pains, ostealgia, from the overcrowding of cells and we aim to do whatever we can to bring some comfort to this boy."

"What are you suggesting?" Kratos demands as politely as he can. He can not bare to see his son in so much pain.

"There are two options. There is a procedure that we perform typically on Recurred patients, to give them a push back in the right direction when chemotherapy is no longer effective. Doctor Skoll and I believe that a bone marrow transplant may be beneficial to your son. To perform this procedure we must implement a series immunosuppressive drugs to aid his body in accepting said bone marrow. The trouble is, this will also open him up to illness and infection, something we are not sure we can risk this far along."

"What is the second option?"

"Radiation therapy, as well as his chemotherapy. It will assist in killing off the bulk of his T-cells, and also reduce his bone pain."

"You make this seem like an easy choice." Kratos is suspicious.

"Radiation therapy may be sufficient in the short term, however will increase his chances of Recurring in the future. It is your call."

So die now, or die later.

Kratos feels ill as his stomach ties itself into knots. Although neither of the doctor's suggestions appeal to him, radiation therapy may be the lesser of two evils.

"Either way, I suggest you head to the donor centre for a DNA test; Family members are usually the best match for bone marrow." Hati passes Kratos a business card. "Otherwise, Atreus may have to wait longer than he has left for partial match from the registry."

—

The days have turned to months and Atreus is glowing. The last of his bruises have long since healed he can now brush his teeth without having to avoid the sores on his gums. His fingernails have grown back and his hands are no longer brittle. The colour has returned to his skin and his eyes are bright.

A series of tests at his recent check up confirm that he is still clean, but he already knew that.

As far as Atreus is concerned, he is invincible.

He grins into Father's mirror, and keeps as still as he can. Kratos stands behind him, electric razor buzzing in his hand. Strands of auburn hair fall to the bathroom floor as Kratos shaves the sides of his son's newly grown mop.

It hadn't taken long at all for Atreus' unruly hair to return and the pair had decided that it was time for him to adorn a new look to accompany his recently remissed self.

While Kratos works, Atreus compares their reflections. Their marked faces match perfectly and although Atreus understands the severity of his actions, he is still proud to resemble his father.

Kratos dusts the remaining pieces from the smaller shoulders in front of him, and lathers a thick gel between his fingers. Rubbing them through his son's fresh crew-cut, he styles the front into a small peak. Atreus crosses his arms smugly. He likes what he sees.

"Ready to go?"

"Yup!"

Atreus quickly pulls on his new pair of Nikes and swings his gym bag over his shoulder. He flicks a frozen mouse into Jörmun's enclosure and follows his father out the door. Only days after his final treatment, Atreus had begun bursting at the seams with energy and Kratos suddenly had his hands full. He only had to turn his back for a second, and his child would be doing cartwheels on the roof.

Just like any confused, single father would, Kratos began bringing his son along to the office gym to tire him out. Atreus gladly agreed to tag along and after watching Kratos, he quickly figured out a workout routine for himself. He loves training with his father, he loves their time together and loves growing stronger. He has become addicted to the burn of a workout, and pushes himself harder every day.

After a quick warm up on the rower, Atreus heads to the sled track and Kratos begins loading it with weights.

"More."

"Boy."

"I said more."

Kratos adds a 20kg plate to both sides and lifts an eyebrow.

Atreus wipes his hands on his shorts and grips the bars. He tightens his abdomen and with a grunt, he starts to push. He is almost at a sprint and Kratos is startled at his son's sudden burst of speed and power. He hadn't expected him to even move the sled, let alone run with it.

Atreus reaches the end of the track and and shakes his arms out in front of him, welcoming the throb. Kratos lifts off his son's weights and replaces them with four 50kg discs.

"This is how it's done, boy."

Atreus watches in awe as his father pushes the 200kg sled. He jogs to catch up and jumps onto the front of it, yipping in amusement.

"You're really strong!" He compliments as his Father reaches the end.

"I was just warming up."

Atreus is using the seated leg press, music blasting into his ears when Kratos approaches, showered and dressed. He lifts his son's headphones and pushes them down to rest around his neck.

"I am going upstairs now. I will be back on my break. Do not push yourself too hard while I am away."

"Yeah, okay." Atreus lifts his headphones back to his ears and Father pushes them down once more.

"Do not lock your knees, boy." Kratos reminds. He leaves one of Atreus' favourite protein bars on the ground next to the machine and heads to the elevator.

Another day at the gym done and dusted, and although he is exhausted, Atreus is still full of pep. He is dressing into his pyjamas when something in the corner of his room catches his eye. His bow, a gift from his mother, hangs on the back of his door, waiting for the day that Atreus is strong enough to use it again. For many months, it had gone unnoticed by him. He had been so confident that he was going to be sick forever.

He lifts it carefully, it is much lighter than he remembers. He reaches into his quiver for an arrow and threads the knock experimentally into his bowstring. He takes a deep breath and pulls the arrow towards him. His arms do not tremble, his aim is steady. Picking a target, he exhales sharply and the arrow flies through the window, right into the eye of the topiary dragon in Mimir's garden.

He's still got it.

He strokes the tattoos on his forearm, his mother's runes had certainly kept their promise.

—

Kratos has only been at work for a few hours when his phone begins buzzing on his drawing board. All it takes is a few short words from his son's teacher and he is sprinting from his office to the elevator. Pressing the silver button violently, he feels Brok's eyes on him from across the lounge. The builder's voice reaches his ears but in that moment he has forgotten his second language and the words do not make sense. All he can focus on his getting to his son. Finally, the doors open and he begins his descent to the carpark.

It is not long until Kratos returns, his child at his side. The office is full, his coworkers crowd around in the foyer. Atreus is fine, save for a few bumps and bruises, and they let out a collective breath of relief. Brok is still prattling on and Kratos pushes him aside. His head is pounding and a co-owner or not, Brok isn't helping.

He absentmindedly gestures for his son to wait in the lounge, and heads towards what was until recently, his wife's office. Day in and day out, Kratos looks up from his desk to see her belongings, exactly where she had left them. A consistent reminder of her absence. He has had enough.

He enters and his fingers feel for the small watering can that sits in the corner. Sprinkling water over the scattered pots of greenery, like he has so many times before, he looks around the deserted space.

And the memories hit him like a bullet.

The watering can drops to the tiles as he braces himself on the door frame. The arguments they had withstood, the many late nights, the slow but sure development of their friendship and their eventual love. It only feels like yesterday. Kratos takes a few moments to compose himself, then he begins to pack.

He starts with her industrial styled bookshelf. It is stuffed messily with computer cables, mock up furniture models and scraps of fabric. He places each item tenderly into a cardboard box. Amongst the mess is a single photo of himself, his beloved, and their son, taken on Atreus' last birthday before he was diagnosed. It was one of the only birthdays they had spent together as a family, and Kratos recalls how excited his son had been for him to have had the day off work.

He holds the photo close to his chest as it rises and sinks inconsistently. He misses desperately the days when there were three. He curses himself for being at work for most of them and wishes more than ever that he could turn back time. He places the last of the items into the box and tapes it up.

Tracing the dusty surface of Faye's desk, his fingers wonder over her neglected graphics tablet. Sitting in the middle is a pile of envelopes and home improvement magazines. Kratos had forgotten that Faye had started receiving both of their mail while he had been away on site, and wonders if he had missed anything important. He knows that most of their bills are emailed so he isn't too concerned.

He sifts curiously through Faye's subscriptions, recognising her designs throughout. She had managed to make quite the name for herself.

At the bottom of the pile is a single envelope, letters reading "Blódbankinn" in red on the front.

The test results. He had forgotten all about them.

Although Kratos had sent his DNA off to be evaluated, he and Faye had decided together that opening their son up to further illness was just too high of a risk. Atreus began receiving radiotherapy immediately, and it was to their great relief that his cancer finally started to respond. Although the t-cells still festered, they were no longer advancing and the treatment was enough to push his body into Maintenance.

They hadn't thought twice about the results after that.

—

Three clay pots shatter mid air and fall to the ground.

"Again! More this time!"

Six fire. Atreus hits them all without breaking a sweat.

"Faster!"

Again, all of them. He lowers his bow.

"This is too easy."

"Yes Atreus, we're just testing your skills to see where you fit in with the other students. Even though you have missed a lot of training, you seem to be quite a few years ahead of your age group."

"I know I am. How many more of your tests do I have to do, Tyr?" His instructor, and good friend of his mother sighs and looks through his clip board.

"Since you are so keen, I can slot you in with the young adults for now. We will look more thoroughly into your skill level as we go." Atreus smiles at the other kids in the arena as he is lead out. Tyr should've know better than to group him in with them.

As they walk through the mirrored halls, Atreus is captivated by his reflection. He hadn't really paid attention to his body since being remissed, but he notices now that all of his workouts and dinners with Father are staring to pay off.

He has put on a healthy weight and his face is no longer a nest of sunken features. His shoulders peek out from his black, sleeveless hoodie, but they are no longer the bony little edges that he had gotten so used to. His arms are still slim, but are toned, his biceps bulge without him trying. He looks like a strong, healthy kid. Atreus quickens his pace to catch up with Tyr.

"Your mother taught you well."

"She taught me everything she knew, she was the best." He drags his bow behind him until they reach the next arena. He spots Mimir in the glass cubical above them and waves.

Kratos takes a seat next to his neighbour and passes him a bottle of water.

"How is he?" The architect has just come from work. Huldra Incorporated are almost finished with their longest ever running project and Kratos had been working hard against a yet another deadline. Mimir had volunteered to take Atreus to his first day back at archery and Kratos wasn't going to argue.

This is their first visit without Faye, and Kratos hadn't been prepared for the bucket of isolation that had poured over him as he walked through the doors. He feels terrible for being so late and can only hope that his son has been coping without him.

"Oh, he's fine!" Mimir is confident in this statement. "He's been giving the teacher a bit of lip, but his skills are second to none!"

Kratos leans forward in his seat and notices that his son has already been grouped in with the adults.

"As long as he is feeling alright." Kratos remembers the long hours in these seats, watching the two most important people in his life do what they love most. He remembers clearly the day that his son could no longer hold his bow steady, and how devistated the boy had been. He frowns.

"The lad might be feeling a little too good, if you ask me!" Mimir gestures to Atreus, who is now flexing for a couple of young ladies. Kratos chuckles.

He had indeed noticed a change in his son's behaviour, but Atreus had spent so much of his life thinking he wasn't good enough, the scars on his cheeks remind Kratos of that every day. He watches as his boy effortlessly splits an arrow down the centre with another.

"You do not know the extent of what he has been through. There is nothing wrong with a little confidence."

"Fair point, brother."

Engine still running, they pull over outside Mimir's house.

"Thanks for catching the bus in with me, Mimir!"

"Aw, laddie, anytime!"

Atreus waves out the window as they drive off, stomach rumbling. Kratos had promised his son that he would take him out for burgers to make up for missing his first practise, and Atreus had agreed that it was a fair trade.

Fairy lights and decorative plants hang from the roof, and the luminescent signage mounted to the brick wall besides them bathes their skin in a soft, red glow. Waitresses scurry around the tables, plates balancing hazardously in their experienced arms and Atreus watches each of them hopefully as they pass. The pair sit opposite each other in a booth and Kratos has to lean in, gesturing to the boy that he hadn't heard him.

"I said, you like Mimir!"

"I tolerate Mimir. I like that you like him."

"Sure." Atreus rolls his eyes, he knows his father better than that. It has been half a year since Faye's passing and he thinks it would be nice for him to have a friend.

Kratos reaches over the table and gives his son a light shove, reading his mind.

"You shot just like her today."

"No, I shot better than her." Atreus swishes the water around in his glass.

Kratos debates internally whether or not to challenge that response, but decides against it. He clears his throat.

"I wanted to tell you something, boy." Atreus looks up from his glass. "Before I left work to collect you from practise, I spoke with Brok and Sindri. As of the end of Project Midgard, I am resigning."

Atreus squints at his father. "What for?"

"I know I do not speak of her often, but I mourn your mother every day. I can no longer return to the office where she is not." He takes his son's hand over the table. "And I miss you, son. I have worked too long and hard on this project and since before you were born, it has consumed me. I used it as a distraction from my past and more recently, a distraction from you. It was selfish of me to not be there when you needed me most, before and during your sickness. To this day, it is my biggest regret." His thumb travels up the inside of his son's wrist, along the self inflicted scar imbedded deep into his skin. Atreus pulls away. "Who is it who taught you how to read?"

"Mother."

"And who taught you to ride a bike?"

"Mother."

"And who didn't take you to your first day back at archery?"

"You."

"I have shut myself out of your life for too long, and I am tired, and I am hurting. It is time for me to take time to heal, and to be with you."

Kratos is waiting anxiously for a response, a complaint, anything, when burgers the size of their heads are placed in front of them. He thanks the waitress and has to nudge his son under the table, prompting him to do the same. Atreus looks to his father, boredom across his scarred features, and says nothing. Kratos thanks her again, on his son's behalf.

"What was that?" He questions as she leaves.

"I'm not going to thank her for her slow service."

"The food took a while to prepare, that is no fault of hers."

"Whatever." Atreus replies, mouth full, and Kratos chooses not to push it.

—

The architect sits on the edge of his bed, head pounding in his hands. Enclosed in the envelope on his lap are the results that will tell him whether or not he is a potential bone marrow donor for his son. Although Atreus is seemingly on the mend, the boy's recent experience with pneumonia has Kratos shaken to the core. All it would take is one more brush with illness, and Atreus could be lost to him.

He rubs his face as stress overcomes him, his headache nagging deep behind his eyes. What if he isn't a match? What if his fragile son falls ill once more, and he can do nothing to save him?

A deep guilt spreads throughout him. He holdes envelope tightly but he cannot bear to open it.

The toilet flushes upstairs, the sound Atreus suffering from his chemotherapy is familiar, but not any less heart-wrenching.

He walks into the ensuite, envelope in hand. His finger slips below the tab and fumbles there, stalling. He pushes under the adhesive lightly before quickly throwing the paper down next to the sink. It is too much. He brings his fist onto the bench and lets out a yell of frustration. He cannot do this, not without Faye.

I am weak. A coward.

His arms start to tingle and he strokes at his bandages, desperate for relief. Uncoiling the wrappings, he reaches into the draw under the sink as he has done countless time before. The flushing upstairs has stopped.

For a moment, the thought that this act of fragility could come back to haunt him flickers through his mind, but the pain is intoxicating and Kratos gives in to the high.