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Life in Sparta is harsh and unforgiving. Every day is a struggle to survive; ruthless training exercises from sunrise to sunset, pushing young men to their mental and physical limits in the pursuit of breeding the strongest warriors in the known world. Of those who prove worthy, many die honourably on the field of battle, each soldier eager to lay down his life for the sake of the man beside him. There is no room for weakness and no room for mercy; if a Spartan cannot carry himself through life unflinchingly, he will likely meet a quick and bloody death.
Kratos understands this, better than most. He remembers vividly the night his village was raided; his home burned to the ground and his family torn apart. It is in the past, though, and now, he uses it as fuel. If he trains hard enough and pushes himself far enough, perhaps he will be able to protect himself from losing any more of his loved ones, however few they may be. Perhaps he will save himself from facing further tragedy; he simply has no other choice in the matter.
The sun beats down from overhead, baking the ground dry and bringing sweat to his skin. Kratos does not allow it to bother him, standing straight and tall in line with his fellow trainees. Before them, their primary commander, Aleksander, watches them critically. Any sign of weakness, any insubordination is swiftly disciplined. Kratos knows his place here, and he knows what is expected of him. As punishing as this lifestyle might be, it is one he understands. It demands he give his full devotion to the unending quest of becoming stronger and better; to surrender his entire being to the glory of Sparta.
At fifteen, this is something he is good at. He itches for a fight, and he knows it will come in due time.
“You.” His patience is rewarded as the commander nods at him, then jerks his chin to the sparring area behind him. Etched out in white lines on the ground, specially set out for these very training sessions. A weapon rack stands by its side, offering a wide range of swords, spears, shields, and more. A small seating area rests a little farther back; there are no spectators today, but occasionally, the older warriors will come by to check on the fresh crop. “Go.”
Kratos does as he is told, stepping out of line to make his way over. He ignores the weapons in favour of waiting for his opponent; he excels in hand-to-hand combat as well as working with several of the tools on display, so his choice will depend on who the instructor sends to fight him. A smart warrior bases their strategy on their opponent; he will assess their weakness and then exploit it. It is what he has been trained to do.
He watches Aleksander walk down the line of young Spartans, reviewing each one in turn. Many of them are familiar to Kratos; he has trained alongside them for years, and they are his comrades. Some of the younger boys are strangers to him, but he is rarely pitted against them in these practice matches. No sense in handing a boy a fight he cannot hope to win; it does no good for his training if he is not allowed room to grow.
This is why it surprises Kratos greatly when Aleksander stops in front of a boy who must be a few years younger than him; still soft in the face and smaller than the older ones. He stands just as straight as his comrades, shoulders squared off, and Kratos watches quietly.
“You show promise, boy,” says Aleksander, which is surprising in its own right; the man rarely offers any semblance of compliment to his students. He steps aside, then gestures towards Kratos. “Impress me.”
While Kratos hardly expects a protest- it would only get the boy punished, and even at his age, he must know better- it still surprises him when the boy visibly brightens. Excited. Maybe as eager to fight as Kratos is. “Yes, sir,” he says with a dutiful nod, and then he walks towards Kratos, a skip in his step like he has not just been handed an opponent far out of his skill bracket. Kratos almost pities him.
It becomes harder to focus on that feeling when the boy approaches. Up close, Kratos catches himself lingering on the boy’s face; all big, bright eyes and smooth, olive skin. Though his hair is sheared short, as is tradition, it rebels in the way it has started growing back; a fine, dark fuzz across his scalp. His youth is obvious, but the discipline of a Spartan soldier still shines through in the way he holds himself, apparently unfazed by Kratos’ greater size once they are standing near one another.
“I’m Atreus,” the boy tells him, his voice as cheerful as his expression. It is not a name that Kratos recognizes, but it settles inside him, something quiet and unknown stirring in his chest. Why start a fight by introducing himself? It will offer him no advantage, and will earn him no sympathy. It does not make sense. “What’s your name?”
Before Kratos can respond- to tell the boy off, surely; he pretends to himself that his own name is not resting at the tip of his tongue- Aleksander speaks again. “Choose your weapons,” the man orders, and grateful for the reminder, Kratos nods, swallowing down the sense of distraction that threatens to pull him away from the here-and-now. Already, Atreus has turned towards the weapon rack, picking a spear and shield for himself; Kratos follows suit and ends up with the same set. It is familiar and traditional.
“Until yield or death,” their commander says grimly, just the same as he always does, and it is the signal to begin. Kratos breathes out hard and turns his attention towards the boy opposite him; this is where he excels, and whatever unknowable thing tries to stir inside him now, he will not allow it to take him away from the task at hand.
Though Atreus is the smaller between them, he is also quick and light on his feet; he evades Kratos easily in the first moments of their fight. Kratos allows himself to adapt and shifts to a more defensive approach; if he keeps chasing after the boy without success, he will only tire himself out and become a weaker opponent. He must allow Atreus to make the first move, and then strike when the opportunity presents itself.
As expected, when Kratos falls back, Atreus starts in on him; he goes for quick jabs that Kratos is just able to block, keeping his shield up in front of him, braced on his arm. From there, the rest of the world fades away and it becomes more of an even fight as the two exchange blows, most of which are quickly blocked or evaded. To Kratos’ surprise, Atreus seems more than capable of holding his own, proving to be a worthy opponent even when placed against somebody larger, stronger, and more experienced than he is.
Quietly, Kratos is impressed. Outwardly, he does not let it distract him; their commander is watching closely, and he does not intend to lose.
One thing in particular stands out, though. One tiny thing, as Kratos throws himself at his opponent again and again, grunting with exertion as they wear on over several minutes. More than how the boy fights. More than the muscle strain or the hot sun or the dust they stir up from below as they move with one another, a coordinated dance. More than any other single detail, what Kratos notices is the way Atreus continues to hold himself.
Even in the heat of their fight, both of them pushing themselves harder and harder to keep up with one another, Atreus looks like he is enjoying himself. He bears none of the grim, serious expression to which Kratos is so accustomed; he is almost smiling between the harsh breathing and the low sounds he makes when Kratos hits him hard. His eyes are bright and excited, nothing like the heated determination he often sees from his fellow Spartans.
There is familiarity here, and when Kratos realizes where it comes from, he feels like he has been punched in the gut.
Deimos. This boy reminds him exactly of Deimos.
It throws Kratos off, and it is exactly the opening that Atreus needs; he takes advantage of the heartbeat’s worth of weakness and strikes once more. His spear slips past Kratos’ shield and skims his side; the cut is not deep, but the pain it causes brings him back to the present, sharp and demanding. Already, Atreus is starting to pull back, ready to attack again, and Kratos can see how his balance has shifted in the aftermath of his jab. That this is his chance to finish this fight before it gets out of hand; he refuses to yield, and he does not intend to allow this boy to kill him.
Without letting himself to think about it any more, he spots the moment when Atreus is just a fraction off-balance and moves quickly; foregoing the spear, he swings him arm forward, hand fisted around the shaft of his weapon, and that is where he hits the boy, square in the nose. It has more force than he really intends it to, and he feels the crunch under his hand at the same time Atreus cries out in pain. He stumbles back, obviously stunned, and Kratos squashes the guilt that threatens to well up in favour of moving again, shield lifted, ready to continue-
“I yield!” But Atreus speaks before he gets the chance, dropping his spear and shield and bringing his arms up to guard his face. Kratos pauses, watching him for a moment, and already, he sees blood. Broken nose, probably. Much worse than the cut on his side, and much worse than the boy deserved. “I yield.”
“Kratos is the winner.” Aleksander’s voice reminds Kratos that a world exists around them, and slowly, it begins to filter back into his perception; the dirt beneath his feet, the sky above his head, the familiar sounds of combat filtering in from the distance. The other boys remain where they are, firmly in line, though when he glances their way, some wear a look of sympathy. He knows he carries a certain reputation among them, and perhaps they feel it unfair that Atreus was pitted against him despite their obvious physical differences. “Atreus, see that you have that tended to. You will not be excused from training.”
“Yes, sir.” Atreus nods dutifully, and when Kratos looks towards him again- the blood has started dripping down his chin, and he has cupped his hand around his nose in what seems like an attempt to staunch it, but despite it all, he smiles. He is looking at Kratos, too, and as Kratos watches him, the boy speaks again, softer. Not meant for outside ears. “That was a good fight. Thank you.”
Stunned into silence, Kratos can only watch as Atreus turns to walk away, headed in the direction of the nearest doctor. It is not until the next pair are called to fight that he gathers himself, slowly returning his spear and shield to the weapons rack and then taking his place in line once more, watching the fight without really seeing it.
He has no explanation for the feeling that sits heavy in his chest, warm and insistent, but it sticks with him through the rest of the day. He does not see Atreus again, though the boy is unavoidably present in his thoughts, and it is not until he works up the nerve to ask one of the other boys that he learns Atreus has turned in for the night. Not excused from training, perhaps, but given a moment to recover from an uneven fight, all the same.
Finished with his training and his chores for the day, Kratos finds himself lingering by one of the other barracks. The one where, he is told, Atreus sleeps. Surely, he should return to his own bed and get his rest for the night- the sun is close to setting now, and he will need his energy for tomorrow- but instead, he makes his way inside, quiet and uncertain of this new environment, and feeling terribly out of place with the mission he has in mind.
It is not hard to find Atreus. Kratos follows the sound of laughter and finds the boy with a couple others who look to be around his age; they sit together on one of the beds, but they stop talking when Kratos steps into the room. One of them, lankier than Atreus, looks at him with slightly wide eyes. “You’re right. He is bigger up close.”
Kratos cocks an eyebrow, and Atreus shoves his friend, shooing him away. The other follows along, laughing again. “Go to bed. You were the ones complaining about being tired, weren’t you?”
The two boys slip out past Kratos, each giving him a surreptitious look on their way by, and Kratos chooses to ignore them. Instead, he looks to Atreus, frowning when he sees the bruises that have already formed around his nose and under his eyes. His doing. “You are hurt.”
“So are you.” Atreus smiles at him, and Kratos is reminded of the cut along his side. One of the doctors had dressed and bandaged it for him earlier, and it has become an afterthought. “Isn’t that the point of sparring?”
It is not untrue, and Kratos stays quiet for a moment. He does not know exactly why he came here, and he lingers by the doorway, feeling far out of his element. He does not often speak to the other boys here outside of strict necessity, and he still cannot fathom what drove him to come here in the first place. Perhaps it would be best for him to go. “I… I will not bother you any longer. Get some rest.”
“Wait.” Atreus speaks up before Kratos can turn away, though, and he pauses, curious. Atreus is looking at him in a way that Kratos cannot decipher, and he is still puzzling over it when the boy speaks again. “You didn’t tell me your name.”
Privately, Kratos thinks that Atreus must know it already. From the other boys, or from the commander. This feels important, though, for a reason he cannot identify, so he responds, quiet. “Kratos. I am Kratos of Sparta.”
Atreus smiles again, and he settles back on his bed, apparently satisfied. “Well… goodnight, Kratos,” he says, and there is something about the way he says it that makes Kratos warm inside. “See you tomorrow. Bright and early.”
Kratos does not know what compels him to linger as he does, but by the time he tears himself away and turns to step out of the room, Atreus’ face is perfectly preserved in his memory. Soft and warm and cheerful. Happy, despite his injury and the pain he must be feeling.
It is the last thing he thinks about when he falls asleep that night, alone in his own bed. Atreus lingers with him, overtly present and demanding his attention, and Kratos does not understand why.
He does not understand for a very long time.