((A.N: I lied, this is the next part in the story; seemed like a logical conclusion.))
((A.N: Happy New Year, sorry for the wait))
Deimos was exhausted. He had been swimming and walking and tracking for who knows how long, following violently long trails of golden ichor and footprints, as well as strange, trailing lines in the ground, as if Kratos had been dragging two somethings on ropes behind him. Food? No, he couldn't find evidence of a camp anywhere. And besides, there was nothing to indicate he had killed something, tied it up and dragged it along, there was no sign of struggle, or blood. The only other conclusion he could make was he was dragging something else. But what?
He had been walking in this Desert land for a while now, at least for a month, trying to follow the shifting trail in the unwelcome sands, that kept changing and warping the tracks; he'd been led astray three times since he'd came to the land, costing him days, at most a week at a time to lead himself back to the right trail. He was tired, thirsty and his skin burned raw and red the longer he stayed outside tracking his brother. but he couldn't stop, not even for a moment. The only solace was the night, whose almost frigid air was a balm to his skin, burned by the sun as it was. He thought it strange. Kratos had killed all the Gods in Greece, including Helios, he had surmised long before now, so why was the sun still out? Why was the world not flooded and diseased, and how was it whole and hale?
He could figure out why and how later, when he had found his brother. He would find him before this night was over, or . . .
Or . . .
Or what? He'd said that so many times during his journey, and now he hardly believed it. But he had to believe. He had to hope he would find his brother. He couldn't do anything else.
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Kratos cast the Blades of Chaos from his wrists again, as hard as he could, yelling in frustration and anguish. He had paid already, leave him be! He thought to himself as the cursed blades passed over the horizon, far flung thanks to his strength. He knew they would be back. They always came back.
His arms hurt. His heart hurt, and he sat down on the unwelcome sands with Calliope's flute in his ears. Surely Elysium was untouched? He hoped it was. He didn't know what he'd do if he killed his daughter a second time.
Then he heard them. Soft, ragged footsteps against the dunes, trailing towards his position.
Kratos lept to his feet, a snarl on his lips, and a growl deep in his chest. He wouldn't need weapons to deal with this intruder, Greek or not. Clenching his fists, he pushed off the sand with his feet, launching himself at the figure with a yell, tackling the man to the ground, wrapping his hands in a vice grip against his throat.
The man was obviously very skilled, and very strong, since his reaction was, instead of panicking, and trying to break his grip, instead was to knee Kratos in the groin, making him ball up and cover the family jewels, groaning as he did.
Gods above and below, he was out of practice. No matter. He had already recovered, and--
He felt the tip of a blade at his throat, forcing his head up. Looking up with a sneer, his jaw dropped when he heard,
"A Spartan never lets his back hit the ground. Get up, Kratos," Deimos, it was unmistakably Deimos, said, planting the Spear of Sparta in the sand, and offering his hand to Kratos.
Kratos took his hand, still in a daze.
"How is this possible? I saw you die. Am...Am I--?"
"No, brother," Deimos responded with a laugh, "We're not dead yet. I think Hades absorbed my soul when I died, and when you killed him--"
"Hades release all of the souls he had trapped within him," Kratos said, remembering that titanic fight he had with the eldest male of the Olympians.
"That must have been in. Next thing I know, the world is ending, you're slaughtering what's left, and I've been tracking you ever since. Where were you going? What's the plan?" He asked, as Kratos turned from his brother.
"I do not know. North. Far from here," Kratos replied. Deimos huffed softly. 'Always uncomplicated.' He thought.
"Then north it is, Kratos. Let's rest for the night, and head out in the morning," Deimos decided, sitting down on the sand.
Kratos didn't immediately follow, instead, looking up at the moon.
He was quiet for a moment.
Then,
"I think this land has its own gods," Kratos said after a silent few moments.
"You think so?" His brother responded.
"The very air feels unwelcome, as if trying to ward us off."
"Well, we're simply passing by. If any God comes to us with complaints, we will tell them that."
Kratos grunted, his brows furrowing.
"Kratos, sleep. I'll take first watch," Deimos rose, putting a hand on his brother's shoulder. Kratos met his eye, and nodded, slugging him in the shoulder.
"Wake me for my watch," Kratos warned, eyeing Deimos.
"I will," Deimos lied, as they both made themselves comfortable on the sands.
Neither of them slept that night.
Neither of them said anything about it.
