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Day 5: "Stop whining, you're fine," (They're not fine)
It was deep into the night, but Atreus could not sleep. It wasn't his mind that kept him up, but senseless restlessness. He had little to no energy—barely able to sit up in his bed—and yet he could not fall asleep.
To say the least, it was aggravating. He had gone to bed earlier than usual last night because a sudden exhaustion had caught up with him. When he retired beneath his quilts, Atreus had thought he’d be out like a light. That was not to happen, however, because it turned out that despite his exhaustion, sleep had become an impossibility.
He tossed and turned, kicked off his blankets, then pulled them over his head. Atreus counted sheep—an old practice his mother had taught him when he was young—then turned to look at the faint light of the hearth. Nothing changed.
At first he had hoped to get up and sharpen his arrows or check that they were in as perfect condition as always. It always took his mind off things. But the moment he tried to step out of bed, an awful headache assaulted him with a bloodthirsty vengeance. He decided that getting up was not an option.
The headache unfortunately did not go away, and neither did his boredom. He had to clench his jaw to fight back whimpers. His father and Mimir would not appreciate being woken from their slumber because of a little headache.
Atreus gazed at the window with barely repressed sadness. The blankets were thoroughly kicked off by now; he could not stand the heat; it felt as if his skin was boiling. The cold outside their home would be a welcome reprieve from this scorching hell he was in right now.
Outside the window, Atreus could see the stars slowly retreating, the pitch-black sky becoming more colourful with the light of dawn. The sun was not up yet, but vibrant red and yellows painted the scenery. For a moment, Atreus could pretend that they did not live in Fimbulwinter and that this was just like any other spring morning.
At one point he heard his father slowly wake. Kratos was up with the sun, always. Atreus was also an early bird; however, he slept more than his father; Kratos was always plagued with nightmares. Mimir snored until someone pinched him and woke him.
Thus, it must have been a surprise for Kratos to see his son awake so early. He frowned in his direction and crossed his arms but did not comment. “Get up. We’ll hunt today.”
Hunt? They were not supposed to hunt for three more days at the least. They had hunted yesterday and had managed to shoot down two deer. Those should last them for days.
“But—” he went to protest, however his voice cracked audibly. If Kratos noticed, he did not show it. Atreus's throat was drier than he had expected it to be. While, yes, he had been awake all night with no water, he had hardly talked! He cleared his throat, barely hiding a wince at how scratchy it felt. “We hunted yesterday.”
His father did not grace him with a response. Instead, he went to the kitchen and grabbed some oats. Where he got the oats from was a mystery, but Atreus had learned not to pry for his own peace of mind.
Taking a deep breath, he willed himself to get out of bed. Now that Kratos was in the kitchen, he could take all the time he wanted to get out of bed without worrying about how pitiful and pathetic he would look in front of his father.
It was not as bad as he had envisioned. His headache did not intensify, but his vision swam. He grabbed the wall and tried to steady himself. Thankfully, the dizzy spell passed quickly enough that his absence would not be anything noteworthy.
Slowly enough to make sure he would not dive headfirst into the floorboards, Atreus made his way into the kitchen. His father was mixing the oats as if that would magically make them more tasty than grain slop.
Immediately, once he found purchase, Atreus slumped on the kitchen counter. He put his head in his hands and barely suppressed a groan. His back was starting to hurt, and the light from the window—so much more blinding and overwhelming now that he was not covered by quilts—made his vision tumble and his headache worsen.
He heard a bowl landing on the table with a resounding thud. Reluctantly, Atreus picked his head up only to be met with the narrow-eyed stare of his father.
If Kratos were any other man, Atreus was sure that he would have asked what was going on with him. It was obvious that he had not been doing that good a job concealing his sickness—not that he wanted to. While being ill was an inconvenience he had grown used to during his childhood, it was not like he wanted to go hunt when he could barely move himself to the kitchen. But thankfully Kratos was decidedly not a talkative person, and thus let Atreus stew in silence with his oats.
He was not as hungry as he ought to have been, seeing as he was up all night. Atreus poked at the porridge and ate small bites. He refrained from sighing a couple of times, knowing it would only draw his father’s attention further, and managed to munch on about half of the meal.
“Come,” Kratos said abruptly, snapping Atreus out of his haze. “We’ll hunt.”
He still didn’t know why they were hunting today when they already had yesterday, but his father’s commanding voice brooked no argument. The nightmares must have been especially rough last night if he was this gruff today.
Just as Atreus was about to stand up, another dizzy spell overcame him. His head swam and he had to grip the table’s edge for support. Suddenly he was sweating again, as if he had been placed next to lava, and he could scarcely breathe because a sudden weight settled against his lungs.
He could not go hunting like this. Atreus was smart enough to know that if they got into a fight or a risky situation, he would collapse the moment his adrenaline drained. Responsibly, he should not even think of going outside in the cold. If he had a fever, it would only worsen.
“Father,” he blurted out before he could stop himself. There were no take-backs now. Kratos turned to look at him, Leviathan Axe in hand. “I–I don’t think it’s a good idea for me to come with.”
His father stayed silent for a minute, studying him carefully. “Why?”
Atreus hesitated, but the headache reminded him of his courage. “I’m not feeling so well.”
Kratos grunted and moved closer to him, inspecting his features. For a moment, Atreus had hope that his father would recognise how awful he was feeling, how incredibly stupid it would be to make him hunt in this condition, and let him stay home.
“You’re fine,” Kratos murmured. He waved a hand towards where Atreus had placed his bow and quiver yesterday. “Stop whining. Get ready.”
Atreus swallowed heavily. He knew this was a possibility. His father was a god; he did not consider such a minor illness a hazard, but he had wished…
He hoped he could get through this hunting trip unharmed.
Atreus’ whole body was a giant bruise. His arms felt heavy at his sides, his neck stiff and immovable. The headache had not necessarily worsened, but the pain had not been alleviated. As with all other hunts, his father was silent as a ghost, and Atreus appreciated it. He could only imagine how much worse he would be feeling with chatter. He was also not sure he would have even been able to contribute; his throat hurt so much.
His skin was flushed by the time his father had spotted a deer. He pointed at it with the precision born of countless decades. Reluctantly, Atreus coked his arrow in its direction. Just as he was about to let it free—knowing it would strike true—the world suddenly tumbled. He let the arrow fly immediately, aware of the fact that if he waited another second, he would completely lose his aim.
There was a shout from what might have been Atreus’s father and a sudden distressed noise that could only come from the deer before he heard hooves falling against the damp earth.
“Go after it!” Kratos shouted, pushing him towards the direction of the deer. Atreus was still dizzy, but he had found his bearings enough to recognise his father rushing towards the injured animal. While Atreus had been aiming for its head—a small target that was not usually recommended in hunting, but he had the skill to achieve it—the arrow had landed on the deer’s leg. It had pierced it thoroughly, and the animal could barely run.
Adrenaline pumped in his veins, but he knew it would not be for long. He rushed alongside his father and cocked another arrow. This time he had no time to concentrate on the aim, just hoped that it would hit his target. Thankfully, his wish came true, and the deer dropped with a pained whine.
They came to rest next to the dead animal. Kratos touched its body as if to be sure it was dead. After picking it up, he turned to Atreus. “What happened?”
He swallowed; he wanted to answer, but it was as if his tongue had become molten lead. The adrenaline of the kill was slowly draining from his system—as he had known it would—and his body became as immovable as it had been this morning.
His eyes closed of their own accord, spots of black filled his limited sight, and he swayed on the spot. “Fa—” He tried, but his voice failed him.
He started feeling his body tilt forward, and Atreus resigned himself to falling on the snow. It would be heaven on his fevered skin.
But familiar, calloused hands grabbed him before he could fall. “Atreus?” His father questioned, steadying him. While he was still holding the deer, he put his left arm around his son and gently touched his forehead. It felt heavenly. The heat receded like a frightened beast, and Atreus suddenly felt cool.
He leaned into his father, supporting himself against the god’s chest. His eyes had closed completely now, and with the cold hand on his warm skin, Atreus could have fallen asleep right there and then. The restlessness of last night had vanished as if it had never existed.
“You’re ill,” Kratos stated as if it was not obvious enough. Atreus hummed. Hadn’t his father realised that already with all that careful inspection of his face and actions earlier?
Lost in his thoughts as he was, he hadn’t realised that Kratos had sneaked an arm over his waist until he hoisted him on his left shoulder. Atreus yelped, the sudden movement jostling him and worsening his headache.
“Father,” He started to protest, but his throat was so dry no more words could come out of his mouth. Kratos did not inquire further. He simply made his way back to their cabin with steady steps. His keen eyes scanned their field of vision for lingering opponents and any other day Atreus might have been inclined to do the same. But today he was content to lay his head on his father’s shoulder—resolutely ignoring the embarrassment it caused him.
Eventually they returned to their cabin. The journey back was longer than usual, but then again his father’s speed must have been hindered by the weight of Atreus and a deer on his shoulders. While he tried to convince Kratos to let him down, his father did not budge. Instead, he deposited the deer on the table, to Atreus’s disgust; blood poured down from the table onto the floor in uneven drops that echoed like fireworks against his ears.
“Brother! What’re you doing slung with the lad over your shoulder?” Mimir exclaimed once he saw them. Kratos only grunted in response.
Thankfully, he put Atreus down, but kept a hand slung over his son's back. Atreus internally admitted that he was grateful for it. His head ached too much, and his limbs weighed him down. While he could stand, it was a difficult undertaking.
Mimir, even receptive, chittered. “What’s wrong with you, boy?”
Atreus barely hid a yawn. The lost sleep of last night was catching up to him. “I’m fine.”
Mimir snorted in a very offensive manner. “He’s ill,” Kratos replied in his stead. Atreus glared and huffed. He was sick, yes, but the matter-of-fact way his father said it made him sound immature.
“Ah, well, wet a rag and place it on his forehead, and brew some herbs. He’ll be back on his feet in no time.” Mimir said, looking at Atreus with barely suppressed worry.
Kratos gave his son a little push towards his bed. Atreus groaned but gratefully curled up beneath his blankets.
He felt his eyes close against his will, the incessant headache that had been plaguing him since last night receding to the back of his mind, and he was sure that this time he would rest.
His father returned some time later, a wet cloth in his hand. Gently, he laid it over Atreus’s forehead and for a quiet moment he placed his hand over his son’s hair. “Rest,” he whispered quietly.
Atreus sighed. He popped his eyes open and gave his father a small smile. While Kratos may be a rough man who did not express emotion the way Atreus might want most days, there were these little gestures that told him more than any word might.
Atreus fell into a slumbering darkness, knowing that deep down his father cared about him.