Kratos followed. He followed Zelos. He followed Nike. He just… followed. Paying very little attention to the direction their steps took them, Strength trailed behind his siblings, trusting that they were going to do as they had been instructed. Not simply given permission, but instructed to avenge the wrong done to their mother.
His brain felt as though it was pressing against the inside of his skull and there was a dull throbbing in his temples as his mind continued to whirl. Too many things were going on, currents beneath the surface that he couldn’t see. Kratos knew he was missing something, that there were things that were being hidden. There was just something that was off about… well, about everything. Most especially, about Styx’s behavior, and that was not sitting well with him at all. In addition to the headache, his stomach was tight and hot with acid that was eating at him from the inside.
Or maybe it was just that Bia wasn’t with them. He never felt right in bad situations when she wasn’t beside him. And this was definitely a bad situation. Strength and Force. They complimented, they supported, and without her here, Kratos felt off balance. It only added to the confused irritation that was clawing at the inside of his brain with the rhythmic throbbing of his head. One word kept repeating over and over, with each foot fall, like the beating of a war drum.
Why.
His mother’s behavior and Bia’s absence aside, Kratos was having difficulty understanding what had motivated the object of his rage. Why would Akheron have hurt Styx that way? Out of all of Styx’s siblings, Strength would have put money on any hundreds of others that would have done this first. But not Akheron. Not the brother that held affection for his sister. Not the uncle that made a point to give attention to his nieces and nephews. Not the god that had been a model of family loyalty that they had all looked to. Admired. Loved.
There was a sharp pang in his chest as, for just a moment, Kratos wondered if he was this angry on his mother’s behalf. Or on his own. The urge to violence made it easy to push the thought aside, to hide it away where he wouldn’t have to examine it. He couldn’t face it right now.
His eyes locked onto Akheron and there was a sudden surge of hate that rushed through him, in a way that was almost audible. Kratos could hear the roar of it in his own ears. It was all he could do not to push his brother and sister out of the way in order to get to the god that had harmed their mother. Whatever his questions and doubts, there was a driving urge to return the pain that had been given and then some, accompanied by the almost desperate hope that it would make the turmoil inside his own chest stop. It had to. Because Kratos could not stand this state of being.
At another time, Zelos’ words might have drawn him back from the edge, pulled him away from the brink of chaos, given him focus. Even angry, he might have been able to retain the calm he struggled so hard to make part of his person. But he couldn’t get past the question, the one burning inside his brain. It made its way out of his mouth, hurt evident in his voice as he asked, “Why?”
It acted like a trigger, the sound of his own voice on the air, the pain that he could hear in that one word. Kratos didn’t realize that his siblings had moved out of his way, all he knew was that his path was clear as he reached forward to grasp Akheron. Hands fisted. One in the shirt his uncle was wearing, drawing him close, pulling him up Strength’s level. The other curled at his side, but it was still for only a moment before it was drawn back, before it was let fly and the coiled tension in his muscles released to deliver a blow. There was no focus. There was no aim. There was no restraint. There was only the need to cause as much damage as possible. He didn’t care where or how his fist met his uncle, only that it did. And each time he raised his hand, he spoke the word again. Why. Why. Why.