The world outside did not stop for their loss. The wind still howled through the trees, the snow still fell in soft flurries, and the sun still rose, uncaring.
But inside the cabin, time felt frozen.
Faye was gone.
Atreus sat on the floor beside their mother's bed, knees pulled to his chest, silent. His hands clutched the fabric of his tunic so tightly that his knuckles had turned white. His eyes, red and puffy from hours of crying, stared blankly at the wooden floor.
Deimos stood near the fire, unmoving. His gaze was locked onto the flames, but his mind was elsewhere.
Kratos was outside. He had left before dawn, wordless as ever. Deimos had heard the weight of his father's steps as he dragged logs from the trees, preparing the pyre.
They would burn her soon.
And that would be the end.
Deimos' jaw clenched.
He hated this. The helplessness. The quiet. The waiting.
A part of him wanted to run outside, to lift stones, to train—to do anything but sit here in this silence, drowning in the weight of what had happened.
Instead, he forced himself to stay.
Atreus needed him.
The boy hadn't said a word since last night. Not since he had cried himself to exhaustion.
Deimos finally sighed and walked over, sitting down next to his brother.
"...Atreus."
No response.
Deimos exhaled through his nose. "We need to get ready."
Nothing.
He didn't expect much, but still, the lack of reaction annoyed him.
"Atreus," he tried again, voice firmer. "We have to go."
Atreus' hands gripped his tunic even tighter. His lips trembled before he finally whispered, "I don't want to."
Deimos looked down at him, at the way his little brother curled in on himself. He wanted to tell him that it doesn't matter what you want. That the world would not stop for grief. That no matter how much he cried, no matter how much he wished, their mother wasn't coming back.
But he didn't say that.
Because he understood.
Instead, he sat there in silence for a moment before speaking again. "Neither do I."
Atreus swallowed hard. His breath hitched, but he did not cry again.
"...Then why are you okay?" His voice was barely above a whisper, but there was something raw in it. Something angry.
Deimos looked away, staring into the fire again.
"I'm not."
Atreus flinched.
The answer must have surprised him.
But it was the truth.
Deimos was not okay.
His fists clenched in his lap, nails digging into his palms. He had spent years preparing himself for this moment. He knew this would happen. He had told himself over and over that he would not break.
And yet, here he was.
Sitting in this cabin, feeling smaller than he had in a long, long time.
Atreus sniffled, finally wiping at his face with his sleeve. "...I hate this."
Deimos exhaled slowly. "Yeah. Me too."
They sat there in the quiet, listening to the crackling of the fire.
Then, the door creaked open.
Kratos had returned.
The wind howled behind him as he stepped inside, the heavy weight of snow on his shoulders. His expression was unreadable as he glanced at them.
"It is time," he said simply.
Atreus tensed beside Deimos, his hands curling into fists. But he said nothing.
He just got up.
Deimos followed.
Together, they stepped out into the cold.
The forest was silent.
No animals stirred. No birds sang. Even the wind seemed to hold its breath.
The pyre had been built at the edge of the clearing, stacked high with logs. At its center, wrapped carefully in cloth, lay her.
Faye.
Atreus took a shaky breath beside Deimos. His small hands trembled at his sides. He looked up at their father, searching his face for something—guidance, reassurance, anything.
But Kratos simply stood there, his face unreadable.
Then, wordlessly, he handed Deimos a torch.
The fire flickered in his grip, its warmth licking at his skin.
Atreus looked up at him, eyes wide. "You're… the one doing it?"
Deimos tightened his grip on the torch. He glanced at Kratos. The older man gave him a slow, heavy nod.
"...Because I'm the eldest."
That was all the explanation given.
That was all the explanation needed.
Atreus swallowed hard, his lips parting as if to protest—but he said nothing.
Deimos turned back to the pyre, staring at the lifeless form of their mother.
This was it.
The final moment.
His fingers curled around the torch, his knuckles whitening.
A storm raged in his chest.
He hated this.
He hated how weak he felt. He hated how no amount of training had prepared him for this.
And most of all, he hated the silence.
The silence of her absence.
His breath came out slowly, controlled.
Then, without another word—
He set the pyre ablaze.
The fire caught instantly.
The flames surged upward, swallowing the wood, crackling hungrily as they consumed everything in their path. Heat licked at his skin, but Deimos didn't move.
Neither did Atreus.
He just stood there, silent tears running down his face as the fire roared before them.
Kratos remained still. His face was unreadable.
For a long time, no one spoke.
They watched.
Watched as the last warmth of Faye's presence was carried away by the flames.
Watched as the fire devoured the only mother they had ever known.
Watched as, piece by piece, she disappeared into the night.
And when the flames finally died—when nothing but embers remained—Deimos did not look away.
Even as the weight in his chest grew heavier.
Even as the ache in his soul settled deeper.
He did not cry.
Neither did Kratos.
Atreus did.
And Deimos stood there beside him, as they collected the ashes of their mother they are nearing a journey, it is the one that he knows very well, and it will start with the arrival of a stranger.
Morning passed, and it was now near noon, Kratos, Atreus, and Deimos were inside the cabin when suddenly they heard a knock.