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2018-07-07
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A Moment of Rest

Summary:

Atreus sleeps more than any other infant Kratos has ever had contact with.

(alternatively titled "five times Kratos watched Atreus sleep, and one time he didn't.")

Notes:

This started as a note I left myself that just said "baby Atreus falls asleep on Kratos while he's sitting ;-;", and then it escalated a little bit.

Mild spoilers for stuff that happens in the game, so if you're trying to avoid that... tread lightly?

(only very briefly proofread, so bear with me.)

(See the end of the work for more notes.)

Work Text:

Atreus sleeps more than any other infant Kratos has ever had contact with. Not that it says very much; his life before coming to this new land was hardly one that allowed room for children to be involved. Not since losing Calliope has he allowed himself to hold a baby, but here he is; his little boy cradled against his chest while he keeps an eye on his wife. Faye is resting, still in the process of recovering from Atreus’ birth, and though he tries not to pester her about it, he worries. She insists that he focus on their son, though, and so he does his best to obey her wishes.

Thankfully, Atreus is not hard to look after. Even now, he snuffles and turns his face into Kratos’ chest, barely conscious enough to fuss about being held. He always seems more at peace like this than he does when he rests on his own, and if this is what it takes to ensure his son is comfortable and happy, then Kratos is more than willing to go the distance. Besides, it is a comfort to have the boy so close; he can feel Atreus’ heartbeat against his thumb, strong and steady, and every breath, every hiccup, every whimper is easy to attend to. As long as Atreus is in his arms, Kratos feels that he is in complete control of his child’s health and wellbeing, and control is something he has learned to value deeply.

Within minutes, Atreus has fallen asleep again, right there in his arms. Control aside, it tugs at Kratos’ heartstrings; his boy is small and fragile and so, so trusting. He would not rest so peacefully if any part of him believed he was unsafe in his father’s arms, and Kratos has not known this kind of faith in a very long time.

Quietly, he brings Atreus to bed with him, lying down beside his wife and keeping the boy in his arms. Kratos closes his eyes and allows himself to breathe. They could all use a moment to rest.

 

 

“Which story would you like to hear, Atreus?”

Kratos pays little mind to Faye as she spins tales of gods and beasts for their son. He has had enough experience with such creatures for a thousand lifetimes, and he has no desire to learn of the unfamiliar ones which inhabit this land. All gods are the same to him, at the end of the day, and he has no need to hear stories about monsters that serve no purpose in helping him protect his home.

Atreus seems to enjoy them, however. The boy is only a few years old, and though he grows every day, he is still sickly. Winters are especially harsh, often leaving him bedridden with blazing fevers that leave his parents fearing for his life. For now, he seems to be in good health, though he is clearly exhausted. His eyelids are heavy, and he is curled close to his mother’s side while he listens to her speak, the both of them sitting in his bed. Despite this, Kratos knows that Atreus will likely sleep sandwiched between them, come nightfall.

“Jörm- Jörmun-” Atreus fumbles over the name, and Kratos glances up from his work. He sits at the small workbench tucked away at the side of their home, sharpening a pair of knives. Faye’s axe rests on the surface beside him, next in line. “Serpent!”

Faye smiles, leaning down to nuzzle against the boy while he giggles. “Jörmungandr, the World Serpent,” she says softly. “Is he your favourite?”

Atreus claps his hands in approval, and Kratos looks back to his work, a smile tugging at his lips. “Yeah!”

Faye laughs, too, and Kratos does his best to focus and not let it distract him, no matter the warmth that blooms in his chest with the happy sounds. “Then Jörmungandr it is.”

Faye’s voice fades into the background, and Kratos does not devote his attention to picking out individual words; it is easy to let his mind drift away from a language he has only learned in the last several years. Instead, he allows her voice to soothe him, a familiar comfort that does not distract him from his work. He takes great pride in keeping their weapons in good form, and in being able to protect this place and his small family.

Eventually, Faye stops talking, and Kratos looks up to see that Atreus has fallen asleep. He still clings to his mother, but his lips are parted and his eyes are closed. Wrapped in furs and tucked under a blanket, he looks smaller than usual, and Faye seems intent on staying right where she is.

“You can finish in the morning,” she says, and Kratos realizes that he is the one being addressed now. “Come to bed, Kratos. He will not stay this close forever.”

Kratos has learned better than to miss out on these moments when they present themselves, so he does as he is told and sets his work aside. His family will always be more important.

 

 

The first night without Faye is a cold one. Since leaving home, the pair of them have taken shelter in a shallow cave to rest for a few hours until the sun rises again to light their way; though Atreus had protested, insisting that he was strong enough to continue, Kratos sees the way his shoulders droop and his feet drag. The boy is tired and will not make it much farther without a break.

As Kratos prepares a fire by the cave’s entrance, he keeps one eye on his child, already curled up on his side some distance away. He pillows his head in his arms, and his bow rests within arm’s reach; a habit his mother must have taught him some time ago. Kratos can see him breathing, even from this distance, but he misses the tiny shudders until he moves closer to lean against the wall.

Though the crackling of the fire is nearly enough to drown it out, Atreus is crying. Kratos catches the way his shoulders tremble, easily mistaken for shivering, and he sees the tear tracks making their way down the boy’s face. His eyes are closed, but he does not seem to be sleeping; his body is too tense, and it occurs to Kratos that he is fighting to stay quiet and unnoticed. To disguise this display of pain and keep it to himself.

Kratos knows he should not be surprised, but it does not hurt any less for the fact.

He sighs quietly and sits down once more, back to the cave wall so he can watch its entrance for hostiles. Though a part of him wishes, more than anything, to cross the small distance between himself and his son and offer some form of comfort to the boy, he shrinks away at the thought. He feels crippled by Faye’s passing, and he could never hope to be as close to their child as she was. If Atreus has chosen to hide this weakness from him, then Kratos feels it is not his place to intrude.

Instead, he watches. He keeps one eye on Atreus until the boy finally falls asleep, his breath evening out and his fingers unclenching themselves. His tears have dried, for the most part, but Kratos cannot help himself from leaning forward and reaching out with one hand, just enough to brush a stray droplet from Atreus’ chin.

“Sleep,” he says quietly, returning to his spot to sit watch for the night. He has no intention of resting, not as long as he is in charge of protecting his son. “Things will be easier in the morning.”

He does not know if the words are true, but clinging to their meaning is the only option he has right now. He cannot afford to give in to the despair that grips his heart. Not if he is to keep them both alive long enough to fulfil their mission.

 

This sleep is not a natural one. Atreus does not stir when Kratos speaks to him, nor when he shouts. He shakes the boy’s shoulders until a fear arises of causing further damage, and instead, he scoops his child into his arms and follows the head’s advice.

Freya.

The trip to the witch’s home stretches on for eternity, and through it all, Kratos can barely bring himself to look away from Atreus. He takes in the shallow breathing, the bruising on his fair skin, the blue tinge to his lips. He looks like he belongs on a deathbed and it is tearing Kratos apart, desperate and racing for any solution that will save his boy’s life.

“Hurry, brother,” Mimir reminds him, and Kratos does not respond. “There’s no telling how much time we have.”

Even the urge to toss the head into the lake is drowned out by the fear that curls tight and cruel around his lungs. Kratos picks up the pace and holds Atreus close, cradling the boy’s head against his shoulder.

He always looks small like this, and it feels no different than when he was an infant, fighting every single day for the simple gift of life.

There is no time to panic, but Kratos cannot stop himself. Not when his son is on the line.

 

 

They have finally reached the end of a momentous journey, and fairly, Atreus seems just about ready to pass out where he stands. The golden gates of Jötunheim have closed behind them, and the promise that started their adventure to begin with has been fulfilled. That adventure might be far from over, but Kratos thinks that Atreus deserves a little rest.

“Boy,” he says. They walk together on the path back to the Wildwoods, intent on returning home now that Faye’s ashes have been scattered, as per her wishes. There is more yet to see and do across the realms, but it feels important to return to where everything began. “Come here.”

Atreus, having run out in front to lead the way, pauses where he is, obviously curious. Even Mimir has been quiet since leaving Týr’s temple, and Kratos is not often the one among their group to break long stretches of silence. Atreus trots back to join him, and Kratos sees the weariness in his son’s expression, though it hides behind excitement and relief. “Father?”

Kratos stops walking only to turn his back to his son, bending his knees just enough to make his intentions clear. Atreus is familiar enough with this process. “Up.”

To his credit, Atreus does not hesitate to do as he is told. Kratos feels the familiar weight hopping up onto him, and a pair of skinny arms curl around his neck. He straightens up and hooks his arms around Atreus’ legs, ensuring that he stays in place before starting to walk again. “Um- Father? I can walk on my own.”

“It has been a long day.” Kratos keeps his eyes fixed on the path ahead. It will not be long now before they reach their home and are finally able to sleep. “Close your eyes. Get some rest. You have earned that much.”

Atreus does not respond right away, but Kratos feels him shifting until the boy’s head rests on his shoulder. He can feel small puffs of breath against his skin, and they are a comfort. “Alright,” the boy says, voice softer now. “Thank you, Father.”

Kratos grunts, and the both of them fall quiet. Kratos keeps walking and Atreus stays put. Within a matter of minutes, Kratos feels the boy starting to relax, his grip going slack, and he tightens his own to make sure Atreus does not fall. A faceful of snow would be a very rude awakening.

“You’re a good da’.” Mimir speaks quietly. “He’s lucky to have you around.”

Though Kratos has no intention to admit it out loud, the words are a comfort. With his bandages left behind, his wife’s final request fulfilled, and his son asleep on his back, he feels like he can finally rest after everything. Like he has earned the right to breathe without burden.

It is an unfamiliar feeling, but a welcome one. He embraces it.

 

 

Atreus blinks himself awake to find that it’s still dark outside, only the old embers in the fireplace offering any lighting to their small home. He squints through it, trying to force his eyes to adjust more quickly as he takes in the scene around him and wonders about what’s woken him up.

Nothing stands out right away. Father’s axe hangs in the same place where Mother used to keep it. His bow and its quiver rest beside his bed, untouched on the floor. Even Mimir seems to be resting; Father must’ve set him up on the wooden bedside table, because he sits there now, eyes closed and letting out nonsensical mumblings in his sleep.

Eventually, Atreus’ eyes land on his father in the other bed- the one that seems much bigger now that Mother isn’t here to fill the other half of it- and it occurs to him that he can’t remember ever seeing the man sleep.

It’s a silly thought, and maybe one filtered through the eyes of a child, but Atreus is almost positive that this is the first time he’s seen his father rest like this. Of course, there were long stretches of time when he hadn’t been around, off hunting or doing other things in the woods, but even so- perhaps it’s just a matter of coincidence, and Atreus has always been the first to fall asleep between them, but…

But his curiosity knows no bounds, and he won’t pass up this opportunity while it presents itself.

He sits up in bed so he can scoot closer and get a better look at his father, cautious of making any noise that might wake him. Thankfully, it seems that Father is just as exhausted by their journey as he had been; the man doesn’t stir, continuing to snore softly as Atreus leans in to take a peek. He looks younger like this; the grey in his beard is disguised by the darkness, and the creases in his face have smoothed out. The scar across his right eye stands out prominently, a mirror to the tattoo that passes his left, and Atreus finds himself wondering, not for the first time, how each of these features came to be. There is still much he doesn’t know about his father’s past, and he suspects that this is by design. Still- who gave him that scar? Was it another god? A mortal? Why does he have the tattoo? It’s like nothing that Atreus has seen on any other being, human or otherwise; nothing like the markings on his own skin, or Freya’s, or Baldur’s, or even Mother’s. Something from his homeland, maybe? Something that holds its own significance?

Asleep, it’s easy to forget about the havoc that his father has brought upon the world, or the horrible past he has described in only vague terms. Asleep, he looks peaceful. Like maybe this whole journey helped him in some way, the same way it’s helped Atreus.

So caught up in his thoughts, Atreus doesn’t notice the change in his father’s breathing until the man’s eyes open, slow and languid.

“Atreus,” he says, voice lower and rough with sleep. Atreus nearly jumps out of his skin, trying to scramble back in bed, and- is that a smile? It’s gone too quickly to be sure. “Go to sleep, boy. The world will wait until morning.”

With that, his eyes are closed again, and Atreus just keeps watching him. His father is right, so slowly, he crawls under his covers once more, though he can’t help but sneak a few more glances towards the other bed. Father seems to have fallen back asleep, and Atreus allows himself a few more seconds of wonder before closing his eyes.

There’s still so much he doesn’t know about his father, and so much he’s intent on learning in a quiet moment like this one. Even as he falls asleep, his head is filled with questions, a million mysteries he wants to solve and a million more to work out as a team.

It’s a good thing they’ve got all the time in the world to find the answers. He thinks they might need every second of it.

Notes:

I'm having a lot of fun trying out different narrative styles with these two, so tell me what you think. And thank you so much for reading! <3