They weren’t like Akheron. His siblings were right in that. They were nothing like the uncle that even now poured salt into the wounds he’d already created. Striking at their mother, for whatever reason, caused a deep amount of pain for them. And he knew that. Just as he knew what his laughter and taunting was doing to them now. Akheron was fucking with them, mentally, emotionally, and he was doing it on purpose. They were nothing like him.
But if they weren’t careful, they could be.
They were balancing now on that knife point, weren’t they? When did the need for justice tip over the edge into nothing but pure revenge? How many more times could Kratos hit his uncle before it became less about punishing a wrong and more about causing pain for pain’s sake? Or had he already passed that point when he began kicking Akheron after making the decision not to? He had a sudden urge to go see his Aunt Nemesis, and though he told himself that it was to attempt to get a handle on all of this, he knew that it was really just to have someone tell him that he’d been in the right. And the fact that he had to question it meant it wasn’t right at all. He knew better.
They all did, or at least, they all should. They were all very close to being what Akheron was accusing them of. Nike stood there, righteous in her anger, so certain that they were doing what was right. And Zelos, as usual, had said many of the things that Kratos was feeling, giving them an eloquence that Strength didn’t have. But his brother threatened Akheron’s son, even if it was only in the vaguest sense, and that was not right. His sister was intractable, using words like “never” because she didn’t see that they could be in the wrong. Just one little misstep and they were there.
And Kratos still wanted to hit his uncle. Even with all the thoughts in his head, the realization that they were treading into dangerous territory, there was still an urge to hit and hit and hit until his uncle couldn’t talk anymore because he no longer had a jaw. He wanted to punch and kick until it felt like he was striking wet oatmeal, until there was nothing but give because bones had snapped and organs had been ripped loose. It was horrifying and he felt slightly sick to his stomach for what he wanted to do. For what he’d already done.
His eyes turned to his uncle, cataloging the damage he’d done, looking for… something. He didn’t even know what. Some sign of remorse, maybe? Something that said that the uncle that he loved, who he thought returned that affection, was still there. “Do you even know why you did it?”
Did it matter any more? What they had done here in combination with what Akheron had already done pretty much ended any relationship they might have had with their uncle. Zelos was right. This was over. And Kratos was tired of being here.
He moved forward once again, and once again he gripped a fistful of his uncle’s shirt. But this time he didn’t raise his fist to strike Akheron, he simply lifted him up until he was several inches off the ground. Then he echoed his siblings, knowing the words were true only because they were going to make an effort to avoid following Pain’s example, consciously choosing a different path than the one he’d lain before them. “We are not like you. We are not going to be like you. We hold family in the highest regard. But you? Are no longer our family.”
With a sudden motion that looked casual and easy, Kratos simply tossed the battered god away from him and towards the river. His arm swung to the side, fingers releasing material, appearing to take no more effort than throwing a bag of laundry. Even as he let go of Akheron, Kray was turning away, turning to his siblings, and attempting to emotionally divorce himself from whatever else happened here. Not caring if Pain reached his river or not. He had given the last gift he would ever bestow upon the man who had once been his uncle, getting him closer to the waters that would ease his injuries.