He laughed. Hard as unfinished stone, hard as winter's first snow, he laughed. What a pair they made. Liars both of them, liars for different reasons. She lied, then admitted the truth right after. He'd been lying to her for so long that it almost didn't count. Not that Styx would care about that. What Styx cared about she'd made abundantly clear, in case he didn't understand it on his own. Akheron wished he could make her see, wished he could speak passionately to her about his feeling and the depth of it, see the understanding in her eyes. It wasn't going to happen that way, and even if it did, it was tainted by the moment and the fear that she felt. She didn't understand, and perhaps never would, that she'd always ruled him if only she'd taken the time to exercise her power.
His laughter died down, and he smiled, that toothy red smile.
"There isn't anything to be afraid of."
And there wasn't. The laugh was hard, but the god who issued it? He was weak, weak in every way. He'd mistaken being hard for being strong, mistaken inflexibility and implacable rage for power and true strength. What was left of him didn't think very much of the former plan, but there was nothing he could do to change history. What he had left was the knowledge that in his attempt to be 'strong' he had alienated or killed or destroyed every single thing he'd actually cared about, after his son died. What remained when you realized that? When even the goddess whom you loved as much as you'd ever loved anything told you she was afraid of you? Could he sell her on his weakness, pitch her the idea of letting them try and see?
She would do that if she wanted to do that.
He wasn't going to ask her to.
"Maybe there was, once. Not anymore."
And then another laugh, this one much more short. Much more harsh.
"I think, truth be told, that Kratos pummeled it out of me."