There is no discarding the distress of his meeting with Útgarða, along with the multiple answers he couldn't anticipate. The ordeal was fatiguing, and mentally strenuous from the abundance of information he mistakingly believed he was ready to uncover. Even as he traverses the long ancient and abandoned caverns, with death possibly awaiting him behind any corner, he cannot ignore this influx of knowledge that now drags at his legs and heart. Yet, now that much of his anticipation has been alleviated from him, he now fixates on what everything all means to him. Atreus's part in Ragnarök is now indeed confirmed to hold great importance, enough so that he is prominent across different timelines and variants of such events. Including his soon-to-be encounter with the son of Odin, Höðr, who may have already caught up to Sigyn.
The time expensed to learn more of his prophecy, and that of the nine realms may have put the sorceress's life in further peril. Now stressing the Wolf of Midgard further, given his prior confrontation with her, as well as his vow that is now broken. Finding her before the Aesir is his only governing motivation allowing him to traverse this path, despite his distracted mental state. Even in these damp, empty caverns, the thoughts in his mind boom louder than thunder. And still presses onward, even approaching a catalyst of his past that still haunts him today.
"I wasted too much time," Atreus self-claims, marching blindly into the darkness. "I thought I'd find clarity, answers that would quell my inner turmoil. Maybe find a resolution for the oncoming oblivion that approaches... And yet, I just want to vomit from what I've been told... What's so important about me that even the gods and giants dread my existence? What role do I play in all of this?" Even with clarity brought to him, Atreus only finds himself drowning beneath a riptide of more significant concerns. The overbearing weight of uncertainty further tears him from his grasp of time and patience.
Although the minutes have dragged to appear rivaling the time of hours, Atreus eventually reaches a grim chamber of familiarity. Distinct, sharp, black stalactites hang from this poorly carved dome room's ceiling, and moisture remains to coat the rigged, uneven-paved floors. Only mere slivers of light can breach this room of vile intended anguish. And at its center, serving as the epicenter of his emotional suffering, is a hollow pillar of contorted rock, with several rusted chains dangling from above. The skeleton of the serpent that once dripped acidic venom upon his eye lay bare, coiled upon stone before greeting death.
While briefly kneeling to the snake, Atreus doesn't hold any disdain for the creature, as both were burdened to this cave of daunting memories and despair. Instead, the Wolf of Midgard remains disturbed by his lifetime of struggle, and the further challenges in his future. The years spent bound within the mountain will drag at his heels until the end of his days. The abandonment of Angrboða in his most desperate time, will forever plague his sense of trust. None of it will leave him, and he must hold onto it to ensure such errors and suffering are not inflicted upon anyone else.
"Was this my punishment?" Atreus fathoms in self-loathing. "For going against your teachings, Father? Had I continued to follow the path you paved for me, would any of this even be happening?" Atreus gently cradles the bones of the long-deceased reptile as he runs his fingers across its bones. "Even now, I'm slowly beginning to doubt if I'm making the right choices... Is what I'm accomplishing making an impact, or is it further dragging those around me down a doomed path?"
As his thoughts run rampant with misdirected notions and uncertainty, a single noise silences the gloom in his mind. A feminine scream, distinct, painfully, and fearfully driven from one's chest. The shout is undeniably familiar, and recognizable despite its muffled echo. Atreus's heart halts in its beats, painfully stopped as he realizes that outcry has to be Sigyn herself. The brazenly blind drive to chase after the rippling shout carries his motivation into a sprint. The prior gloom drowning his thoughts has run dry, now burning with dread over the sorceress and whatever she's enduring. All that he's concentrating on and all his swiftness is ignited in determination to save her.
Racing carelessly through the winter-soaked caverns, he closes in on the further shouts that incidentally beckon him. Despite the audible reflection that would disorient and trick mortal ears has no effect on the Wolf of Midgard. Who follows the sounds reaching his headspace, as if having them delivered telepathically to him. His body is unconsciously rampant by instinct, turning every corner, bounding over every crevasse and ditch, and leaping to every ledge in his path without expending his focus. Primal resolve guides him to Sigyn, charging forward even to the brink of silverly light that awaits him at the end of the black tunnels.
However, as he breaches the shimmering veil, what he uncovers exceeds his expectations. A husk of a cave, dozens to over a hundred meters high, the same as many others before it. But far more spacious, expanded, and left uncomplete with its ancient unfinished structures that stretch around the surrounding walls. A single skylight descends dim light into the chamber, granting moderate vision within its confines. An ominous silence weighs down the air, stirring brief hesitation in the Wolf of Midgard as his breathing slows to equate the deaf ambiance. He's cautious, lingering in the shadows until prompted evidence urges him forward. Even with the temptation to arm himself tethering at his tendons, the delicacy necessary to remain stealthy dismisses the antic. And after the many seconds of skin-chilling quiet drifts into minutes, his sign presents itself.
After much searching and scouring across Midgard, Sigyn finally comes into his sight. Fatigue brings her to her knees beneath the radiance, displaying the several slashes that stain her white outfit with patches of scarlet red. Disregarding any caution that had halted him prior, he leaps from his vantage point, racing to her need for aid. However, his abrupt appearance invokes further alarm and concern within the sorceress, prompting her to flinch at his arrival.
"Sigyn, are you alright?" Atreus questions, stopping in his tracks.
Her rattled mindset disallows her to discern friend from foe in those brief seconds. Her hand held up, shimmering with magic to defend her from the Wolf of Midgard. Yet, even after acknowledging him, the bitterness of their last encounter doesn't sway her discomfort. Reduced to a crawl from exhaustion, she enforces the gap between them. Her mannerism towards his presence only fills him with tremendous guilt for his previous actions. As such, he makes no further attempts to close the distance, even raising his hands as the only possible assuring offer.
"Sigyn, what I did, what I said-" He attempts to plead, only to be quickly interrupted.
"You shouldn't be here!" Sigyn spouts in grief from the recollection of his past behavior. "Why are you-"
Despite the harsh tone that boldens her words, Atreus detects more than anger that motivates her speech. A panic, grave concern not just for herself despite her pain-staggering injuries. The fact alone that she hasn't dealt a violent blast toward him attests to his suspicions. He doesn't have to question the source behind her wounds, as only a few he can think would do this to her. However, the brief lowering of his focus on her and what his next move should be deters him from detecting any outside influences. Even those with ill intentions toward them. As such, Atreus is absent-minded to the approaching danger. But Sigyn, eyes suddenly widened by shock, takes quick notice.
"ATREUS, LOOK OUT!" Sigyn shouts, directing a trembling finger behind him.
With the marginal haste he could call upon in the startling moment, Atreus meets the sight of a flying arrow. Although he scarcely diverts his head away from the projectile's path, the assailant that follows after his shot makes a savage impact. With inhuman force and speed, the Wolf of Midgard is rammed with a gut-shattering blow. A spray of crimson gore bursts from his shoulder as a spear soaked in shadow tears into his flesh. The attacker, callous but calm, is none other than the God of Darkness, the Aesir assassin and son of Odin, Höðr. The majority of his attire is still shriveled away from his prior encounter with the Last Son of Sparta. The force of the collision drives them both to the nearest solid mass of stone, pinning Atreus to its foundation. And his attempts to unlodge the armament from his upper torso are futile, as each grasping action fades through the darkness that consumes the weapon.
"Leave a trail of blood, and a slab of fresh meat, and the wolves are bound to come," Höðr comments with delight for his met expectations. Unlike Atreus, the Aesir has no issue wielding his spear in his darkened hand, twisting the blade while implanted into his enemy. Loki growls from the pain, rippling a satisfying shiver in the Asgardian. "I can feel your tendons snapping, smell the iron in your blood, and hear as your wounds gush liquid. Like standing beside a waterfall..." The Aesir leans to Atreus's ear, uncomfortably close for his breath to warm Loki's neck. "And it's intoxicating..."
Atreus makes another brash attempt to release himself, latching his furious grip around the Aesir's arm. However, in retort, Höðr scuffs before bashing Atreus into the wall of rigid rock. Several swift punches, followed by a harsh hurl of his fist into Loki's face, cracking the stone behind his skull from the might of the blow.
"A pity," the Aesir says with declining adrenaline. "I was expecting a better hunt from one of the last of the Jötnar."
Even with blind eyes and his back turned to the sorceress, Sigyn also shows incapability to aid Atreus, let alone herself. She flicks her wrist to a point toward the God of Darkness, sprouting a magical root to shoot out from beneath her. But, expending little energy and without shifting his position much, not only does he dodge the assault, but he grasps the plant in his hand of black magic. He keeps his body faced toward the God of Mischief, never entertaining the sliver of possibility he's exerting himself from their antics. A quick snicker hisses through his teeth before once more taunting the strung Atreus.
"A moment, if you wouldn't mind," he calmly says to annoy. The thrill of absorbing so many sensations entices him to twist his spear once. Relishing the anguish before moving away from his helpless enemy. "You, on the other hand, lady Sigyn, Goddess of Victory... You were a little more amusing to chase down."
With an effortless tug of his hand, he shreds the enchanted root from the soaked floor. Dark powder, water, and crumbling rock splatter across Sigyn as she falls back from the counterattack. Stripped of the privilege to take any further action, the Aesir latches his grip around her wrist. Yanking her up onto her knees, Sigyn yelps at the sudden pain in her arm.
"But, your little tricks could only delay our awaited reunion," Höðr states softly but confidently. "And how bold you were to assume you could escape and to have false ideas of freedom!" The Aesir has no consideration for her discomfort while continuing his degrading rant. Even taking such extremes as to tear her white sleeves from her arm, revealing the dreaded sight under. Atreus freezes in a saddening daze as he observes the events unfolding. Savage branded runes, scars, and poorly healed wounds run along her unveiled arms. Which the Aesir grips painfully, mockingly displaying her marks and damaged skin for any to see. The sorceress can only face her head to the ground out of shame and discomfort for her resurfaced past. "Such as not going back into your little cage..."
Every effort for Atreus to free himself remains in vain, so long as the blade within his torso is wreathed in its magic. Even trying to push himself from the ledge is pointless as it only causes him further agony and worsens his wound. All he can do is watch, unwantedly observing the Aesir's cruelty surface as Sigyn had warned long ago.
"There's no place you could have hidden, no realm you could have reached where the Allfather couldn't," Höðr comments, undoubtedly. "Your place is with him, until he has no need of you. Just like all those who seek to defy his divine rule."
The antagonizing belittlement, and the degrading treatment stir an unexpected reaction from the sorceress. To the surprise of Loki and the God of Darkness, Sigyn lashes out angrily. A firm, loud, and reckless smack on her behalf makes contact with Höðr's face. Rather it was from the shock of her action, or the power carried in her hand, she momentarily stuns him in his tracks. Yet, the sorceress's expression doesn't shift by the effects of her hit. A torrent of dread for what she may endure, and desperation, is spelled across her face for anyone with the barest vision can read. Even with every fiber of her being tugging to make her flea yet again, the fatigue and physical battery she's been dealt hinders her from doing so... And Höðr knows this...
Although undistinguishable at first, easily mistakable for wind, both Atreus and Sigyn steadily pick up on a soft noise. Beginning as a half-effort puff of sound, steadily intensifies. Eventually, what was leaving the God of Darkness as a muffled chuckle, grew into a loud cackle. The enemy Aesir is only delighted at the feeble retaliation, wiping his bloodied lip with his tongue as he looks back to the maiden in his grasp. A shiver from the potent taste is prominent enough to ripple into Sigyn'as arm. The unsettling calmness that Atreus had observed before of the son of Odin rapidly diminishes like a fire beneath a torrent of water.
"Oh, how I had missed this," he projects his whisper to her, licking his bloodied lip. "The thrill, the flowing of my blood in my veins, the racing of my enemy's hearts pounding in my ears at my coming. I had grown bored, too docile in the halls of Valhalla... I detest that this game is coming to an end..." The lunging of his other free hand to her throat matches that of a snake striking its prey. "Unfortunately, the fun will have to cease until Ragnarök... Most of it, that is."
With a twist of his wrist, a crack pops from Sigyn's arm, dropping her further upon the ground in agony as she shrieks. Her approach to anguish pierces his heart in distress, a gasp of shock leaving his chest as he freezes in a blind rage. Years of loss, torment, and witnessing innumerable atrocities reignite in his memories. Countless times, he was helpless or ignorant to prevent any of it, or thwart himself from inflicting them. And now, yet again, indirectly from his brash bias, Sigyn is forced to endure the Allfather's cruelty. The barriers he has placed upon himself to keep his reckless fury at bay dwindle, crumble, and shatter before an internal blaze of wrath engulfs his heart. The lifetime of abstaining from his anger was no longer an option, even if it endangered his safety. Only one sole purpose steered his rage. Save Sigyn!
Yet again, Atreus strives to unbind himself from the shadow-cloaked glaive from his chest. However, what was once a mere ripple of steam, became a primal flame leaking from his vein-swollen flesh in his forearms. The light of his anger is enough to counter the black mass that coats the Aesir armament. Now successfully gripping the spear, an animalistic growl thunders from the depths of his chest as he exerts every ounce of strength to free himself. Although the God of Darkness cannot perceive what unfolds, he is not clueless about Atreus's determined actions.
"The rapid dog doesn't know when to heel," Höðr comments in hilarity. "Nothing can escape my shadow, boy! Mortal, giant, or god, your actions are pointless! You can't win!"
The condescending remarks do not reach Atreus's ears, deafened by his furious emotional state. Although the God of Darkness cannot register Loki's actions, Sigyn's worrying reaction does pique his interest. Speechless, her breathing is heavy in shock over the wrathful radiance that consumes the Wolf of Midgard. Before, only mere glimpses of this unbridled force were witnessed, but this was a far more dire, volatile blaze than prior. And even Höðr soon realizes this as he redirects himself toward Atreus. And at that moment, even to the blindest of all, this power was a threat to any in its presence.
With an inhuman, primal roar, Atreus tears the spear from him. Even when no longer bound, all the rage that had been dormant, smothered by conviction and patience, erupted from his soul. Searing waves of heat blast from his body in all directions. Several gold sparks flash from his skin and reflect atop his metal attire. From this manifestation of might to the unnatural yellow glow in his eyes, Sigyn cannot conceive this as the Atreus she knows. The feelings of relief and terror mesh together in a horrific blend and are indistinguishable. Even the Son of Odin is silent in intrigue, never experiencing a power such as this. While enticing, he's also temporarily lost from the abundance of details burning his senses. The heat upon his skin, the ear-rumbling roar, and even the wind gusting into his face stunned him. Enough to the point he doesn't register Atreus's godly swift approach until near too late.
With a violent lunge, the Wolf of Midgard hurls himself with Höðr's spear at the God of Darkness. The Aesir is only permitted a minuscule opening to react, forcing him to prioritize his safety before anything else. Releasing his hold on Sigyn, the God of Darkness catches the back end of the spearhead in his flattened palms. However, the strength enforced by Atreus sends them both several feet back. And even with his efforts to avert the blind strike, the tip of his own armament pierces his chest before the two come to a halt. Despite his injury, Höðr swiftly disarms the Wolf of Midgard, resorting to an attack of blinding speed immediately after. But, in his arrogance, he underestimates the burning resolve of his opponent. Bringing the glaive down into a heavy slash, Atreus catches the weapon with a single hand below its hilt. While also enduring a mark across his bicep, the Last Son of Sparta displays no sign of slowing his momentum when counterstriking. His arm, infused with the celestial prowess of Sköll, rams his fist into Höðr's stomach. Yet again, Atreus lets loose another wrathful shout as his enemy is sent flying across the room from the blow.
Sigyn, lying upon the now warm earth, can only fall into an eery trance as she stares at Atreus. Her heart pounds, the fear of the Aesir still fresh in her chest, but now awe at Atreus's terrifyingly equal prowess. If this is the power he's striven to keep at bay, she now understands why he was concealing it. And of why the gods, and even the Allfather above all, saw him as a danger to their reign. Her feelings remain contorted because of the last few hours, especially towards him. And while she wants to believe he'll do no harm to her, like standing in a forest fire, she instinctively feels wary of him for his rage.
With the air bashed from his lungs, the Aesir is temporarily dazed, winded, and stunned in kneeling. Yet, the series of events unfolding doesn't dwindle his bravado for the thrill of battle. A choking cackle staggeringly echoes from him as he brings himself to his feet. The runes upon his body begin to singe a vibrant magenta. Even his absent visualized pupils glow beneath the veil over his face. And a grin of delight and lust for adrenaline smears across the Aesir's face.
"Now, this is what I CALL A HUNT!" The God of Darkness projects with rabid glee, slashing the ground as he takes his stance for battle.
Atreus, even in his fury, responds in an identical fashion to the Aesir's proclamation to battle. Calling to his ire, Loki again dawns on his father's ancient armaments of bloodlust. And though the signature blue flame rekindles anew, it does not remain so. In its place, rippling and consumed as its wielder, the cyan and azure fire violently shifts into a deep crimson red and vibrant orange. In his glowing yellow eyes, from his flesh, drenching his blades, and pounding from his heart, his wrath towards the world is all that motivates the Last Son of Sparta. Who's hatred is now solely directed at the haughty son of Odin. Who only returns this disdain with smugness and antagonism.
"Does the boy truly believe himself a man?" Höðr asks to mock his anger. "Do you propose your temper tantrum will make a difference here? How do you think this will end, MORTAL!"
Reversing his iron grip around the Blades of Chaos, ushering the blaze to intensify further, Atreus takes his stance. Fangs protrude in his snarl with a sharp glowing scowl that he refuses to remove from the Aesir. Sigyn, from afar, at last rises from the ground. She wishes to run, yet both the noble intention to be near to aid him and the haunting allure to see what happens confines her within this cave. Does he truly have what it takes to defeat a son of Odin as his father had done so many years ago? No significant time would ever grant such a ludicrous answer, until now.
"With me taking your LIFE!" Atreus coldly answers, ready to heed the bloodlust that he's released.