Chapter 2: Footsteps Beside the Storm
The mountains rose before them, jagged spires scraping the pale sky. Snow clung stubbornly to rocky ledges, and the wind cut like a blade, carrying the faint scent of pine and frost. Kratos led the way with the precision of a hunter, each step purposeful, every movement calculated. Atreus followed closely, furs wrapped around him, his bow slung at his back, eyes darting between the path and the distant horizon.
And behind them… Aslan moved with silent grace, following at a distance that respected Kratos’s boundaries but never left him out of sight. His red hair flared like fire against the white landscape, and his blue eyes were like still water, calm yet impossibly deep.
“You move well for one who walks behind,” Kratos said abruptly, voice harsh. He didn’t look back. “Stay there. Not close enough to be a burden.”
Aslan inclined his head slightly, voice smooth and even. “I do not wish to burden you, Kratos. Only to walk beside you… as a witness, if nothing else.”
Kratos’s jaw tightened. “Witnesses are dangerous. They see weakness.”
“And yet you walk with a boy,” Aslan said softly, lips twitching in the hint of a smile. “He sees much more than I could ever hope to, and you still move forward.”
Kratos’s pace faltered, ever so slightly, though his expression remained hard as stone. “The boy… he is my son. Not you.”
Aslan’s gaze softened. “And yet, he has need of you as I have need of neither. Sometimes, strength is not the absence of burden—it is choosing what to carry and what to leave behind.”
Kratos remained silent, jaw working as if to form a response but refusing to. Aslan said nothing further, simply walking, letting the cold wind and the crunch of snow underfoot fill the space between them.
Atreus, sensing the tension, looked up from the path. “Father… he’s not like the others. He’s… calm. He doesn’t try to hurt anyone.”
Kratos’s eyes narrowed. “Calm is a mask. There is always a shadow behind it. Remember that.”
Aslan’s lips curved faintly, not mocking, but amused. “And yet you judge quickly, as you always do. Perhaps you will learn… it is possible for a heart to carry both shadows and light without destruction.”
Kratos’s hand tightened around the Leviathan axe. “I have learned what the world teaches. Shadows… destroy. Light… blinds.”
“And yet,” Aslan said softly, voice carrying over the wind, “even in the darkest places, some light persists. Sometimes it is merely quiet, waiting for attention. Sometimes… it is patient, waiting for the walls to crumble.”
Kratos’s gaze flicked toward him, sharp and wary. There was a tension in his chest he had not expected—a flicker of something buried deep beneath layers of anger and loss. He did not speak, but the silence lingered like a taut string.
Hours passed as the three moved through narrow valleys and snow-covered slopes. Aslan maintained his distance, but occasionally, when Kratos stumbled on ice or faltered in exhaustion, his hand would brush against Kratos’s arm—not with intrusion, but reassurance. Each time, Kratos would stiffen, jaw tightening, his anger rising before it softened into reluctant acknowledgment.
“You are patient,” Kratos muttered finally, low, almost a growl. “Too patient.”
“As one must be when dealing with storms,” Aslan replied, voice steady, gentle, and almost teasing. “I have watched many storms, Kratos. They rage, they destroy… but they pass. And after them, the world breathes again.”
Kratos said nothing, but Atreus’s small hand brushed against his father’s sleeve. “He’s right, Father. You’ve survived storms worse than this… and we’ve survived with you.”
Kratos’s jaw worked. His anger flickered, then ebbed—not gone, but tempered. He cast a glance at Aslan, blue eyes meeting blue. “You speak too easily of peace,” he said, voice raw.
“And yet you are listening,” Aslan replied softly, wings and posture relaxed, a small, gentle smile tugging at his lips. “Perhaps that is the beginning of understanding.”
The sun began to dip behind jagged peaks, painting the snow in gold and rose. Aslan finally stopped, standing quietly beside a frozen stream. He lowered himself to the snow, not as a show, but as a quiet acceptance of rest.
Kratos, still tense, watched him. “Do not think this… this ease will last,” he warned, voice quiet but sharp.
Aslan’s eyes met his, blue depths calm and unwavering. “I do not seek ease, Kratos. Only presence. And perhaps… a chance to remind you that even a hardened heart can be soothed, if it allows itself.”
Kratos’s fists unclenched slightly, the first sign of softening he had shown since meeting this strange, red-haired god of life. He did not trust it yet, nor did he allow himself to hope, but a small ember had sparked—an ember Aslan noticed and let burn quietly.
Atreus, seated on a snow-dusted rock, looked between them with a curious smile. “Maybe he’ll teach you how to smile again, Father.”
Kratos’s eyes flicked to the boy, then to Aslan. The corner of his mouth twitched, almost imperceptibly, but he turned away, masking it beneath his stoic mask.
Aslan watched the father and son, quiet amusement and gentle patience mingling in his gaze. Slowly, he leaned back against a snow-covered boulder, letting the silence speak. Hurt and anger still lingered in Kratos—but Aslan was patient. He would wait. He would endure. And he would begin the slow, careful work of softening the storm.
