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satindregs · 1 year

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Cannibal Kratos???

I have another draft!!!!

ofc it’s GoW and it’s abt Kratos struggling with, uh, uhm, cannibalism. Anyway!! it’s only like 2k and again a DRAFT so when I eventually post it it may look different(⺣◡⺣)♡

Anyway I'm proud of myself for writing this much cuz I went from 2-3 oneshots a month to 2-3 sentences...

Still thinking of a name! Either The Spartan General's homecooked meals OR The Bite Of '83 bc haha funny FNAF reference

Tell me how to improve if u read! (๑˘ ₃˘๑)

It has been a rough winter. The farmers were even beginning to struggle to feed their own households last Kratos checked. That does not make him feel better.

He attempts foraging, but the ever-falling snow does a good job of hiding what the god desperately tries to find, and for once, the rage heating his body does nothing to melt everything around him.

Faye pretends their bare cupboards do not fill her with worry or bitterness. (Kratos would not blame her for those feelings, as he feels them himself.) She feigns contentment, not showing her hunger.

“We’ll be okay, Kratos,” she mocks, voice too cheery for the somber occasion. “I’ve improved the snares,” The snares that Kratos himself had made. Had his been inadequate? “any rabbit or fox near won’t be able to resist!”

“They’re likely gone, Faye. It’s been weeks without any roaming game,”

“That’s why they’ll be out looking, you big grump,” she attempts to tease. Kratos does not answer her. It takes energy to keep himself calm, and he cannot afford to waste so much when he has so little. The god glues his gaze to his hands as if they hold the answers to his problems. It takes effort to not bury his head in them.

To think something as straightforward as hunger would be one of Kratos’s problems makes his palms itch. He does not take pleasure in what he is capable of, but he has long stopped trying to deny its benefits. One of the old, then new, benefits had been the ability to provide for his family. Whether he fought thieves in his mother’s home during the night, or fought to keep his wife out of lepers’ dirtied hands. When he slaughtered a mortal woman for attempting to run with Faye’s ill son (He has not yet told Faye of that incident, too ashamed of his frantic fear for the panting boy). Or even something as simple as being able to feed them.

He is proud of his ability to keep them safe from beings other than himself, but he cannot claim to be proud now, not when he can hear the boy’s hushed voice asking about the contents of their larders.

His mother responds in an equally quiet voice, offering exactly what her impotent husband begged her to. “Of course there’s enough, silly boy,” she ruffles his strip of hair as he giggles, vainly attempting to keep his voice down still. Maybe, in fear of what an angry Kratos might do.

“Though,” she continues, and this surprises Kratos. He lifts his head and finds himself staring into his wife’s eyes. He does not know what she will say and Kratos worries. “It’s just a snack. The rest will be saved for tomorrow, got it?” she whispers. Her son whines, as all kids do. But not all kids have suffered through the hunger pains he has, and is currently suffering through. Ultimately, the boy agrees.

Faye gives him their last strips of cooked venison and promises a more fulfilling meal later, “Perhaps tomorrow?” she smiles, conspiratorially. Kratos tries not to wilt into himself like a wildflower subjected to the strong winds of the north. His wife not only knew how incompetent he was, not being able to provide for his home, but so did her son. She even went so far as to set a deadline for the god. Has he been inadequate for so long?

Unable to appear completely unaffected, he winces, knowing he’s more behind than he’s ever been concerning food. If the gods here were anything like the ones in Greece, then they were laughing their asses off, surrounded by rich meats and cakes and drink. They’d laugh, while wiping the crumbs off their faces and onto the floor. He’d witnessed it many times during his stay with the pantheon.

Kratos loosens his fists and focuses on the fire’s embers. He should not bother them with his anger, not now. Not when he’s the cause for their own intense anger. Kratos drowns them out with thoughts and plans of how to keep his home alive. Plan after plan, all seem lacking when he considers what is at risk.

What will happen when his time is up? Will Faye leave? Oh, he hopes not; not into the biting winds. Atreus would not make the trip. So he thinks more, and more. He shakes, and shakes his head.

Wasn’t he clever, so long ago? Where is that general and his strategic plans? Then, Kratos remembers.

That man is long dead, perishing along with Sparta.

In his place is Kratos of Midgard. The god mourning the wife that will surely disappear into the night once she catches a stronger whiff of his limitations, and the boy so hungry he’d consider eating his own flesh if Faye would let him.

Kratos hears the snores of the boy. He relaxes, not feeling as watched.

Now that his body is slack, exhaustion slips through the cracks of the shield he had maintained throughout the day. Kratos looks away from the fire, only to see sunlight peeking through the hastily repaired roof. Kratos frowns at the beam and looks up further, meeting his wife’s eyes.

He wishes he didn’t. He wishes he’d kept his eyes where they were, but now it’s too late and his wife no longer has that smile on her face. Instead, it’s replaced with a nasty frown so deep it must hurt. “My love, do you feel alright? You have not eaten,”

“How could I?” he retorts, ignoring the snoring boy in her arms. He had to sleep on an empty stomach again.

“Kratos,” she continues, voice soft. “Do not push yourself,” she requests with a smile. Kratos has a feeling that if her arms were empty, she would’ve gathered him in them. It confuses him, but he does not dwell.

“I will check the snares”

Faye frowns once again. She seems to be doing it more often than not. “What? I only just set them out! You’ll mess with the scents I attached,”

“Then, I will hunt,” Kratos compromises. He cannot stay here, in this house. Not when he has a child to feed and a wife to please. Not when his wife cuts him deep with nasty looks veiled behind sweet buoying words.

She wishes to argue, he can tell. Kratos grabs a hatchet and one of the warmer furs they had (but still leaving the warmest) and leaves before Faye remembers how light her boy is.

As he leaves, he can hear his wife’s low and warm “Be safe, Kratos.”

He doesn’t know how long it’s been. In fact, he’s tried his hardest to lose track of where and when and why.

Kratos knows he is hungry. And he knows that in front of him is a rat feeding on a long-dead corpse. The rat is so plump Kratos can almost see it pop when it takes another bite of bruised flesh and chews slow. It seems to savor the taste; the flavor that, no doubt, is better than any scraps it’s had the fortune of ingesting.

It isn’t the first, and far from the last, time Kratos has seen flesh being gorged on. It also wouldn't be the first time he’d had the urge himself. Just seeing the rat have the privilege of such big bites has the god squeezing his fists and breathing heavier.

The noise is hard to miss, though the rat does not scurry back to its home. No, it cannot even risk it. It continues to eat, albeit faster; almost frantically so, as Kratos gets closer, like it knows this is the last time it’ll be granted such a delicacy. Soon, it is under his boot. It doesn’t squeak as it finally pops. Kratos briefly wonders if it had wanted to stop, but couldn’t find the strength. Had Kratos shown the rodent mercy by ending its life?

When he lifts his foot, it’s to a stain so large, made of only rat innards and bits of browned flesh. Kratos moves on but the image imprints itself in his mind.

As Kratos roams the ruins that make up the Wild Woods, he does not find any animals worth eating. Not even those unworthy of being consumed.

He does not find anything except rotting corpses turned dark from the chill. And draugr, who’ve long blackened and been reduced to almost completely soulless beings.

Kratos does not know much of Midgard’s gods, but to feed his son something so impure it oozes black blood should be a sin worthy of a fate worse than death.

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When overworked soldiers were finally given reprieve, they would gather round a small campfire. Not that the warmth was needed, the sandy shores were not known for being cold, they would gather to tell sweet tales or eat or sleep. Though, it was quite unusual to do anything but sit there.

If they told stories, they were distracted; if they slept, they could wake up as a lost soul. If they ate, the others would get nervous. They would start to count the heads present. But that was a dangerous game, especially during a war.

Some of the soldiers were innocent, the only thing filling their stomachs being stale bread. Unfortunately, not all were merciful.

It was common knowledge to not sleep next to a starving man.

When overworked soldiers were given reprieve, they would gather round a small campfire. They would gather to tell sweet tales or eat or sleep. They would sit tightly together to stop hungry claws from stripping their throats of meat, stopping them from screaming out as blunt nails stabbed and clawed into their still warm flesh.

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Kratos is covered in it. From his hands to under his fingernails, from the edges of his lips to between his teeth. It was everywhere. It stained him. If his poor boy ever found him like this, he wished he could say it was a mistake. He was out of his mind with hunger, he had no choice!

But he did, he realizes as he melts a hole through the thin layer of ice frozen over a winding stream. He slams his fists against the ice. Lightly at first, the thin morsels not enough to reawaken his strength. Then, angry, he cracks the ice to make a hole big enough for his head.

And he submerges his mouth and nose and ears into the hypothermic water. He forces himself to stay, even when, no, especially when his lungs start to burn.

In the end, he pulls his body up and out of the water. He cannot afford to lose his life, not yet.

The god can’t help but shiver at the gusts of chilling wind, the soaked fur doing nothing but aid the gods in punishing him. He staggers to his feet and continues his trek, not accomplishing what he wanted with the stream.

The yearning will continue because of his mistake. Kratos’s stomach rolls as he looks back to the desimates corpse stinking of burnt flesh. How much would it take? To make it stop.

His stomach is still full. His mind is clear, yet his conscience cannot say the same. But, it is too late to worry about that. Kratos must put his guilt behind him if he wants to focus, if he wants to sate his wife. If he wants to catch his prey.

Kratos waits, patient, on the balls of his feet, crouched behind vegetation to hide his figure. The animal senses his gaze, nostrils flared and braying, its ears pinned back.

The god tenses his thighs, ready to give chase. The animal rears high and makes enough noise to garner his prey’s attention. His prey lays a heavy hand on the donkey’s neck, trying its best to soothe the animal. It whispers words of encouragement, distracting itself from the rustling undergrowth.

The animal steps back, bringing his prey to full attention. “Who is there?” it shouts. Kratos readies his hatchet.

“I have nothing! Spare me!” it yelps into the trees. Kratos does not, in the moment, recognize the difference between the desperate Spartan soldier he once was and Kratos of Midgard.

The donkey’s incessant noise rises in volume as fresh gore splatters near its front legs. Kratos rises to his feet and steps over the shrubbery. The animal pulls and pulls at the rope attaching it to Kratos’s prey. Thankfully, the limp fingers do not give. He does not yet have the energy to chase after such an animal.

Its meat shall be a gift. It will provide Faye and her son the strength they need to make an escape from their disappointment and hunger.

The animal quiets down, but will not let Kratos approach it. The god pays it no mind, his attention instead focused on the steadily growing pond of red soaking into the dirt he stands on. He tries to hold himself back. He tries to stay on his feet, not letting his knees burrow into the dirt as his weight becomes too much. Instead of rushing forward, digging his claws into the dampness, he takes slow and steady steps toward the man. He doesn’t mean to lower himself as fast and desperate as he does, but it happens anyway. Kratos will realize this later and shame will overcome his body and mind, but now, nothing has ever mattered less.

He drags his heavy body toward the still warm man. He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. The tang in the air makes his stomach churn and his palms sweat. Kratos digs his fingers into the dirt to stop them from doing the inevitable.

It is inescapable, this hunger. Kratos thinks, somberly. He is reverting.

His stomach is full and his mind fog is gone. The trek back takes less time than it has in many moons. The god was no longer forced to take breaks from the extra weight of game, or his own insolence, mounted on his back. Now, the only weight comes from the meaty animal draped over his shoulder.

Faye will be pleased and the boy will be fed. He could not ask for more.

Ever since the flood, Faye has been acting strange– twitchy. Though, when it is mentioned, his sweet wife will do all she can to avoid it. ‘I’m tired, Kratos,’ she will say. ‘You’re still thinking of that?’ She’ll question with a curl of her lip. Kratos does not like to bother his wife, but this seems important.

She lays down the fabrics she was attempting, and failing, to mend. “You’re like a kit, Kratos. Hell, If a vixen heard your yapping, I'm sure she’d swoop in and rescue you from my depraved clutches!” Kratos ignores the jabs.

“Kratos,” Faye lays a light hand on his shoulder, “Are you alright? You’re- you look exhausted.” Kratos wants to lay a hand atop hers; he wants to savor the affection and burn the touch into his skin, but he cannot. He cannot touch her with his sullied hands.

He twists his body out of her hold. “I have brought meat. Enough to keep us fed,”

Faye pulls her hand away but keeps it suspended in the air. The shock is evident on her face. Kratos does not look into her eyes. He can practically hear Faye holding her words back. So she does not worry the boy, Kratos reasons to himself.

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