Akheron finally slumped back against the tree, his legs weak. Too weak to stand. All this pain was making him weak, making him strong, toying with his motor control. And he didn't want to seize that branch as his own river carried him downstream. The power was there, and though he'd wanted it a moment ago he didn't want it now. What was he going to do with it? Who would he see with it, and what would he say when he did? Would he see gentle Nike again, with a flower in her hair? Or Kratos smiling over a glass at Akheron's stony wit? Or Zelos expounding on scotch, relating details that the world had never heard before? Would he see Styx standing over him then? Or his son, with that ready laugh? No. No, no, no. No. It hardly seemed worth it to grasp that branch, then. He was actually hoping Zelos would kill him, put a final end to it instead of the stinking mess that Akheron had turned his life into. Could you ever put it into words? He had to try, had to say something even if he didn't know what. The despair. The black despair that washed over you in waves, and it was coming toward them.
"Just like me," Akheron whispered harshly, and he let his head fall back against the tree. "Just like Uncle Akheron, all of you. Hurt your family, crush everything you love, set it all on fire... ha, ha, ha. I couldn't be more proud of you than I am now. Come on, Kratos. You don't have enough blood on those fists... Father Zeus will want more when you go home."
He was turning into Moros. Moros must have felt this way. For an instant, for more. His brother must have felt this.
"He's going to want to swim in it," Akheron started laughing again. "I wanted to swim in his, and now he wants to swim in mine. I started out just like you, Kratos, I thought I was doing the right thing. Maybe I even was. Look at me now. Just look at me. The only ones you're hurting are yourselves... I can feel it in my bones, you know..."
When he shouted it was as though all the energy had been drained out of him. Dropped like the strings were cut, leaning against the tree. Oh, but he never stopped laughing. Feverish? Delirious? Moros would have been proud of him. Akheron no longer knew what he was trying to do, what he'd been trying to do all this time, but it wasn't enough to apologize to them. He had not given or offered his word, but he knew he couldn't tell them. That was ... the truth, wasn't it? He couldn't tell them. If he told them they would not forgive their mother. If he told them it might happen to reach the ears of Zeus, who was never forgiving. They were not children, but like children they would not understand. That meant they might as well be children, so far as Akheron was concerned. And that was the source of his ache, even if he couldn't name it. That she was lying to them, that he was lying just as much, and there was nothing Akheron could do about it. No truth to tell, no solace to give, his nephews and nieces to whom he'd never lied.
It wasn't over yet.
It was never over. He had, he thought, once flattered himself to think he could escape so easily.