KRATOS
When Kratos awoke, he felt warm and safe. The feeling was so foreign to him that he thought he might be in Elysium. But this was not his afterlife. Kratos felt that he was lying alone in an unfamiliar bed. He could hear a fire crackling, and beyond that, the call of birds and the howl of the cold northern winds. This was not some muddy ditch nor was it a bear's cave which he had usurped.
It was a small home that radiated with the soft glow of fire. Runes and other symbols were carved into the wood of the home but their meanings were lost on Kratos. Drying herbs and flowers hung from the rafters alongside the skulls of animals. Kratos spotted the larder and his stomach rumbled hard. Though it was entirely strange to Kratos, it was an inviting home and there was a fire to warm his tired bones.
Yet, the lingering whispers of dreams still clung to his mind like ghosts. No matter how warm the fire, there was a deep chill in his heart that he could not shake. He had been dreaming of a life that had not been his for a long, long time. He dreamed of Sparta. He dreamed of forests rich with cypress and juniper, and the land of rolling hills and tall sheltering mountains. There had been a wife and a child in that life so long ago. But like the once fertile beauty of the land, they too were no more.
All done by his hand, Kratos reminded himself bitterly.
How long had it been since he left the shores of Hellada? A few years? More? Time had only been measured by his hunger and exhaustion, dancing on a knife's edge between life and death. Survival was all that mattered. It had been cold when Kratos arrived on foreign shores, and it remained colder still deep inside the pits of his lost soul.
Fading orange light shot through the cracks in the thatch roof above Kratos, signaling dusk. Kratos shifted on the bed and grit his teeth as pain shot through every muscle. He had grown very weak during his travels. He had been constantly battered from the wildlife, the elements, and the natives with little reprieve except for the brief intermission of sleep where he could once again dream of that distant life. Kratos did not know what he was searching for when he left Hellada, if only to escape the nightmares that haunted him there in the wastelands of what was once his home.
Kratos had wandered aimlessly in this new and dangerous realm with little regard to his own well being. He knew that at some time he would pay a price for his carelessness. No matter how cozy the home and how warm the fire, this was not his home. His wife and child wouldn't burst through the door to greet him. No, this was a hell of his own creation. Someone had captured him. Hazy memories floated to the surface of his mind.
The hunter.
Yes, he remembered now. The woman in the forest with hair the color of copper had shot him full of arrows. She had been trying to take his kill. The first arrow to the shoulder had been a warning. When he would not back off the stag, his kill, she fired three more. He had been so hungry, starvation making a beast out of him. It had been days since he had seen any sign of wildlife. This land was cursed and barren. He was sure he would die before he spotted the animal among the foliage.
Perhaps the hunter was starving too. But he couldn't have worried about that. In an unforgiving world there is no room for weakness. Cruel and hard places often bred more cruel and hard creatures. This realm was not exempt from that simple fact of nature. Only the strong are permitted to survive. That left Kratos in a precarious situation. He should not have lived. The hunter, whoever she was, should have left him to die. Kratos didn't see any other reason for the hunter to take him captive.
That is, unless his capturer knew who he was. Knew what he was. Cold fear gripped Kratos' around his middle. He had come so far to leave his past behind, only to walk right back into its grasp. Could he ever escape it?
Sudden approaching footsteps tore Kratos from his thoughts. He inhaled a sharp breath and quickly shut his eyes. He hoped he would appear as if he were still resting. In his weakened state, the only advantage that he could have in a fight would be the element of surprise. He would wait for his capturer to get close, then he would strike.
He heard the door open, and heavy steps on the wood floor. The hunter gave a satisfied sigh as they entered and Kratos felt the frigid air creep across his skin. It was certainly warmer inside the home than outside in the chilled northern woods. The hunter kicked the door shut and then spoke, addressing him.
"I've caught us some venison, Fárbauti." Her voice was silvery and calming, far different from the day that she had shot him.
Something heavy hit the table, probably the hunter's catch. Kratos tried to keep himself still but there was a vibration that rumbled through his body. It was that trill of excitement, that anticipation before a battle. His heart pounded hard against his sternum as the adrenaline kicked in. He was ready to fight.
She said something else, but Kratos was too distracted to comprehend. He was already envisioning how he could attack without doing more damage to himself.
She said that name again, Fárbauti . Footsteps neared his bedside.
He could feel her standing close. The hunter's breaths were shallow as she looked down at him. Kratos caught her scent: a mixture of sweat and animal hide.
That feeling inside him rose up, clawing at him from the inside and screaming at him to attack.
Not yet, Kratos commanded himself. Not yet.
He almost flinched when she brought her hands to his shoulders. They were calloused and warm. The hunter shook him gently, calling out that name.
Why was there so much concern in her voice? She shook him again, harder. Her breathing quickened and Kratos felt two fingers at his neck taking his pulse. He cursed inwardly, hoping his heart would not betray him. He was running out of time. If he was going to attack, he would need to do it now.
Attack! his instincts screamed.
But Kratos ground down. Not. Yet.
The hunter said something else in a low, whispered voice. Something about an apology. There was a brief moment of silence and Kratos took in a slow, deep inhale, counting himself down.
But before he could give himself permission to attack, the hunter struck him hard across the cheek.
She knows.
Kratos' eyes shot open, a growl of rage burning in his throat. His cheek stung with pain.
Her pale blue eyes widened, and a look of surprise spread over her face. Kratos had to move fast while he still had the advantage. He snatched her wrist in his own, gripping her tight.
"Friend," the hunter stuttered. She tried to speak more, but Kratos did not stop his attack. With his other hand he took hold of her ivory throat.
She had shot him with arrows. She was not a friend.
Her freckled face turned red as she struggled to breath. He tightened his grip on her throat. Why had she waited so long to kill him if she knew who he was?
Kratos' head snapped back and pain exploded in his face. She had punched him. He released his grip on her and she escaped backward, coughing and sputtering.
Standing up was much harder than Kratos had expected. Every joint in his body ached and his sides burned with pain. He doubled over for a moment and realized there were heavy bandages over his injuries. She had healed him? But why?
The woman caught her breath, and she panted hard.
" Friend. " Her voice was hoarse.
Those pale blue yes darted from Kratos to something behind him. Kratos followed her gaze to an axe leaned up against the timber wall, right beside the bed where he had awoken. Ah, so she was a warrior as well as a hunter.
The axe was all the confirmation Kratos cared to gather. She had intended ill upon him. He would return the favor.
Though, with his wounds, he wasn't sure if this was a fight he could win. But that had never stopped him before and it wouldn't now. If he were to meet his end, he would do so with fervor.
"You are no friend of mine," Kratos said. He picked up the axe. There were shooting pains in his ribs, but his rage overrode pain. He gripped the weapon, a snarl on his lips.
There was a moment between them as Kratos narrowed his focus. He realized he hadn't gotten a clear look at the hunter until now. He felt as if he were seeing her for the first time.
Her hair reminded him red clay from his homeland, and her pale blue eyes pierced him like arrows. He stood a good head or so taller than the woman and her athletic body clad in a mix of pelts and linens. Runic tattoos peeked out from her clothing. He could see them in bands around her forearms and running down to her fingers.
Suddenly the axe pulled away from his grip. For a second, he thought that he had dropped the weapon. But no, it flew from his hand as if pulled by an unseen force. The woman caught it as it arced through the air. She didn't share Kratos' surprised.
The axe had been magical. There was more to this warrior than he had initially thought. Not only did she know his true nature, but she also had command of magics. In Kratos' experience, a mixture of those two never worked out in his favor.
"Come and get it, beast!" she growled. And Kratos obliged.
With a mighty roar, he tore across the room and rammed his full weight into the warrior before she could raise the axe against him. The weapon clattered to the floor. His strategy would be in close-range combat, to keep flying magical axes from gaining the advantage.
She fought fiercely, matching his strength blow for blow. But the God of War was still very weak. He felt his attacks waning in power, but she fought on. He could taste blood in his mouth. The pain was becoming unbearable and his attacks grew sloppy. She kept aiming her attacks at his wounds, knowing his weakness.
"Don't make me kill you," she had told him, recalling her axe.
Kratos wasn't sure if he even wanted this fight. He had grown so tired these many moons of traveling. All this time and so much running. All for nothing. Even a stranger could easily tell his nature. Was it so obvious? It seemed that he would never escape the stain of his past.
How easy it would be , he thought, to give in.
He could kneel and bow his head in defeat. But Kratos didn't want easy.
Kratos spit the blood from his mouth, his resolve weakened. A deep sorrow rooted itself in his heart. Perhaps he was not worthy of seeing this through. Could this be the end of the long road he had traveled?
If this was the end, Kratos felt no shame in this death. She was a hearty warrior. One worthy of his respect.
"Come on!" she goaded him. Yes , he thought. There would be no shame to die by a warrior's hand.
Kratos gave her one last fight with all his remaining strength. And she returned the same energy. She wouldn't make it easy, and that's exactly how Kratos wanted it.
The warrior landed another hard blow to his wounds, causing Kratos to cry out in pain. He had grown so weak, not only in body but in spirit. She finished with a hard jab to his throat, stealing his breath. Kratos clutched his throat, choking for air when she kicked him to the floor.
This is it. His mind became a blur of memories. He thought once more of Sparta, of the wife and daughter he delivered to Hades. Their memories tore at his heart.
The warrior took him to the floor and locked him in a chokehold. Kratos struggled, giving spirit to his denouement. He reached for hair, he kicked, and elbowed. The warrior released a fierce cry, tightening her grip. The world darkened and Kratos would rage into that darkness with the last threads of his strength. He managed to land an effective blow to her ribs, offering a fruitful crack . The hunter screamed.
Good. At least she would remember him for the wounds he gave her.
His lung burned for air and Kratos felt himself being sucked into the darkness. An overwhelming sense of relief flooded him. Perhaps, he would at last find peace and respite from the nightmares. He briefly wondered what kind of afterlife would greet him. With a smile, Kratos felt the last of his strength drain from him.
And he drifted into nothingness.