The Aether was a land of eternal shift and violence, where magics rolled over itself like the waves of the ocean. Here, there was no up or down, no big or small, not even a concept of time. It is a place where the physical form is unmade in the blink of an eye, then remade, then unmade again. It is a place where the powers of the Dark Gods forever push against each other for dominance, where a place can be dark, and yet bright all at once. It is infinite, yet infinitesimal, such that mortals who perceive it may simply go mad from the impossibilities of this alternate and chaotic dimension.
This place was where Kratos found himself when he dreamed, for his connection to the realm was never truly severed. As his body slept, his spirit wandered the Realm of Chaos, though, had he the option, he would never set foot in this place ever again. In this world, his true form as a God was still intact, with wings that spread wide, and armour of maroon and gold clinging to his every inch of skin.
Normally, Kratos was left alone when he wandered the lands, ignored by his brothers and sisters, but tonight, however, they had called on him. They summoned him before the Court of Covenant, the neutral ground where all Gods might sit at the table and treat. They whispered into his mind to come and sit, to talk, and to discuss. Initially, Kratos refused, but when they mentioned it was about his son, he obliged.
The Court was a place of blackness, a place where the energies of the Gods were blocked off from entering. In the darkness, a single table sat, black and plain, flat and undecorated, save for the eight outward-pointing arrows carved into its surface. Each seat at the table bore the emblems and architecture of its patron deity; Khorne's throne of blood and bone sat bleeding, razor-sharp and molten, across from which, Slaanesh's seat of chains and hooks, stretched flesh and purple spikes also sat. Nurgle's throne of green rot, fumes, and insects sat across from Tzeentch's amorphous seat of twisting energies, flickering realities, feathers, and barbs.
The lesser gods would come and go from this table, and so, too, did their thrones. As Kratos approached the table, his own throne materialized for him to sit upon. It was a throne of stone, simple and rectangular with a great cloak draped over one side, and around its armrest were lengths of chain, which led off into the darkness. He took a seat and leaned his head in his hand, and he waited for the others to arrive.
First among them was Khorne, a giant creature in black, rugged armour, which spilled flame and embers from its cracks with each breath he took. His face was covered by a great helm, which doubled for a crown, but his flaming eyes could still be seen through the eye slits. With Khorne's every step, the darkness trembled. Next, was Nurgle, who, instead of appearing from the darkness as a great blob of green sludge, teeth and tentacles, decided to appear as an old man, whose eyes were glazed white, and whose body was cloaked in a tattered and moth-bitten cloak. His teeth were rotten when he smiled, and his many tongues slithered in and out of his chapped lips. When he moved his arms, the cloak leaked flies and maggots onto the table and into the air.
Tzeentch was third to arrive, flickering into place on his throne. His body continuously changed, even from second to second; where when his skin was blue, now it was white, then deep green, and where two arms once were, now there were five. When his eyes blinked, they disappeared and reappeared elsewhere on his flesh, and all over his skin, grinning mouths and wings appeared, shrank, disappeared, then reappeared.
Slaanesh was last to arrive, much later than the others, arriving almost entirely naked. His one side was muscled and beautiful in its masculinity, while on the other side, she was slender, yet strong, and beautiful in its femininity. Only the thin strip of purple cloth hanging down over his/her groin protected the imagination's innocence. She/he slithered into his/her throne, lying upon it as a lazy queen/king upon their bed.
"Well?" Slaanesh asked, licking her/his talons of the bodily fluids that dripped from them. "I was busy, let's get this over with."
"Yes." Kratos grumbled. "Why are we here?"
"Come now, brother." Nurgle belched. "It's been too long since we've all sat around this table, and you can't find it in yourself to even greet us? Do we mean so little to you?"
"You said this was about my son, so speak."
Nurgle's smile dimmed. "Very well, little brother. Your son, then."
"YOU RAN OFF LIKE THE COWARD YOU ARE," Khorne roared. "ABANDONING GODHOOD FOR A PHYSICAL FORM!"
"And when you planted your demigod seed into that mortal slut," Slaanesh added.
"You broke the fundamental rules of reality." Nurgle finished. "Never in the Aether and beyond has there been a child born from a God. Daemons, yes, Daemon Princes, yes, but never a mortal child."
"You broke the laws of reality." Tzeentch continued. "Not even I know how you did it! By all rights, your wife should have exploded into little itty-bitty bits when-"
"When you gave it to her." Slaanesh interrupted with a cheeky look on her/his face. "God seed and mortal egg are not compatible!"
"What is your point?" Kratos asked.
"Our point is," Nurgle stated. "You've tipped the scale. The Great Game is about to unbalance, and not in any of our favour."
"YOU FUCKED EVERYTHING UP!" Khorne shouted, slamming his armoured fist into the table. "NOW KHAINE IS ABOUT TO PUSH HIS WAY INTO REALITY!"
"What do you mean?" Kratos asked. "Khaine is weak, a forgotten God worshipped by a failed race."
"Not for long." Tzeentch spat. "Soon, your son will walk through the gates of Naggarond, and the Witch-King will summon the Blood Lord into the material realm. Khaine wants to interact with reality without sacrificing his godhood. Your son, the half-god mortal, is the only physical thing capable of housing Khaine's full power. Khaine will channel himself through your son, and through him, all will die."
"NO WORSHIPPERS, NO FIGHTING!" Khorne spat.
"No playthings." Slaanesh lamented.
"No magic." Tzeentch added.
"No gods." Nurgle finished. "Save for Khaine and his world of death. We will fade into nothing without those mortal emotions to fuel us. Archaon is trying to reach Naggarond to keep the wheels from turning, but the Druchii have created a defense that our armies cannot seem to breach.
"You live in the material world." Tzeentch grumbled. "We...we need your assistance."
"I plan on saving my son already." Kratos stated. "So why waste my time?"
"Because you won't make it in time." Tzeentch hissed. "I've foreseen it."
"Khaine will enter the world." Nurgle insisted. "Your son will house him. When the time comes, your son must die."
"No." Kratos stated, standing from his throne. "I will make it before that."
"In that sad little boat?" Slaanesh scoffed. "The Black Ark is propelled by dark magics, and your ship relies on wind. Wind! You're well too far behind, little brother. Khaine is going to abuse your little son's body until it's a broken shell, and then the world will follow."
"When Khaine comes," Nurgle continued, "You will need a weapon capable of killing him."
"A GOD-KILLER!" Khorne exclaimed.
"The Sword of Khaine can kill its maker." Tzeentch said. "I'd love to see the look on his face when his own blade runs through his heart."
"But time is running short." Nurgle continued. "Already, Malekith has sent his armies to take the Sword from the Altar of Khaine. You must stop him, or Khaine will not only destroy the material realm, but he will obliterate the Aether. Every elven god, every consciousness, it will all be murdered by his hand, and when everything is dead, he will murder himself. Everything will become nothing."
"And we can't have that." Slaanesh sighed. "There's still too much to experience."
"If I take this detour," Kratos argued, "I waste time getting to my son."
"If you don't," Tzeentch replied, "You will be killed by your own son."
"There is, of course, the other option…" Nurgle said, gesturing to the chains attached to his throne, which stretched off into the darkness.
"No." Kratos grunted. "I am a creature of the Great Game no longer. They are not mine to wield."
"Then claim the Sword of Khaine!" Tzeentch hissed. "You must defeat Khaine, and you must defeat your son!"
"I will not kill my wife's son!" Kratos shouted. "He is the only thing...the only thing I have."
"This is your doing, brother!" Tzeentch snapped. "You've changed the Game! You birthed an abomination! Now, you have to make things right!"
"Perhaps I want the Great Game to end." Kratos grumbled.
"IT IS NOT YOUR PLACE!" Shouted Khorne. "YOU'RE NOT EVEN A TRUE GOD ANYMORE!"
Kratos stood turned from the table and moved back into the darkness.
"GET BACK HERE, COWARD!" Khorne screamed after him. "KHAINE ORDERED YOUR WIFE'S DEATH! YOU'RE THE GOD OF REVENGE, SO AVENGE HER! THIS IS YOUR ONLY CHANCE! OUR ONLY CHANCE!"
"Let him go." Nurgle sighed. "He will see reason."
"I'm not sure." Tzeentch muttered. "This whole thing is...not going as planned. It's like...he doesn't belong in this reality. The future surrounding him is so cloudy, I cannot see it."
"Can I go, now?" Slaanesh said dismissively. "If the world's ending, I won't spend it worrying. Anyone interested in the largest orgy in multiversal history, come down to my palace."
/
Wake up, Husband.
Kratos awoke on the longship, his blanket caked with a thick layer of snow. He stood from his slumber and looked out into the ocean; the blizzards had weakened, and in the distance, he could see the foggy, rainy coast of Albion. It would be the last landmass he would see until Ulthuan. The country bore the scars of an aeon of chaotic influence and millennia of battles between daemons, giants, mortals and sorcerers, and now, was not much more than a tale told by Imperial parents to keep their kids in bed at night.
The nerve of his older brothers and sisters to manipulate him. He condemned every word, every lie they told. He would save his son, and he would do it without any more dead family. Still, the winds were not in his favour, and his boat barely moved at all in the dead currents of this coastal Albion sea.
From the fog-covered trees, he spotted the silhouette of the Truthsayers, tribal sorcerers from a time before time, who silently watched him as he floated past. It appeared as though these ancient sorcerers knew of Kratos' urgent quest, for they emerged from the trees by the dozens, and with arms raised, the wind suddenly picked up, filling his sails and pushing him with enough speed to shoot him into the open ocean.
He turned back and gave them a nod, and the most decorated and eldest among the Truthsayer's ranks nodded in return. Kratos thought hard about his next bearing; head straight for Naggarond without the Sword of Khaine, and risk the Dark Elves claiming it for themselves, or push to Ulthuan, claim the Sword, then turn towards Naggarond, but waste more time. No. With this newfound wind speed, he would reach that Black Ark and rescue his son long before they reached Naggaroth. With the decision made, he turned his sails straight west, and hunkered down for the long trip across the Great Ocean.