Atreus's blunt attacks to the constructed cage prove useless. No matter how hard he throws his fists or strikes them with his engulfed twin swords, the plates remain intact. His limited knowledge of magic only helps him deduce how the enchantment works. The runes etched onto the metal drains energy from the Light, protecting it from physical harm. Just like the barriers, the Light Elves used not too long ago. With each second wasted, Alfheim's one step closer to ruin. As well as shortening the countdown until Odin's legion arrives.
"What do I do?" Atreus questions in frustration. "What can I do?"
The temple around him continues to crumble and break down. Tremors pulse through the ground beneath him, and the stonework of the walls cracks and chisels away before his eyes. Even the storm outside begins to rapidly grow more violent, bolts of lightning cry out across the heavens, booming thunder in his ears. All the more filling his heart with dread, and adding disarray to his thoughts.
"What would father do?" Atreus asks as entropy clouds the realm. A quick decision and plan needed to be made. Recalling back to how his father dealt with many situations, he looks to one of the plates. "If you can use brains, use brawns."
Though Atreus can't break his way through the barrier, he can work around it. Grasping the ridges of one portion of the construct, he yanks at it with all his Jötunn and godly might. His veins swell, and muscles harden as he attempts to separate the corners from each other, to negate the spell's effect. His own groans of persistence muffle out the sounds of the bending metal of rumbling thunder. A moment passes, and his efforts don't appear to warrant any reward. Yet, his absolute determination prevents him from quitting so soon.
Eventually, his utilization of brute strength does show results. Slight flickers of the Light begin to pierce and flash through the white barrier. Every fragment of the minuscule beam reaches the sky, quelling the fury above ever so slowly. Accompanying the flickers of the Light, the constructs of the temple also flash and beat with life. The rhythm of blinking glows matches that of a heartbeat, the heart of Alfheim.
However, the Asgardian Construct's magic is too much, and it forces itself back into place. A slam of metal rattles the platform and prevents the divine glow from returning to the realm. It is not long after, that discord returns, and continues its degeneration of the sanctuary.
"Damn it!" Atreus shouts. "I'm not strong enough! But I can't give up, I have to keep trying!"
Though his odds are slim, and just out of his reach, the Last Son of Sparta repeats his action. Time and time, he repeatedly attempts to pry the cage apart with his bare hands. Yet no matter how hard his struggle and resolve are, only shimmers can be released into the world. Which only delays what could be conceived as the inevitable. Yet, even in the shadows of despair, a glimmer of hope does remain.
Though his actions only bring a dim glow to an entire realm, that fading Light was enough to guide the lost souls. On the platform's outskirts, watching wearily and weakened beyond the endless pit, the Light Elves have gathered. Much like the temple, those minor pulses of the divine pillar have renewed a fraction of their strength. Yet, only with the support of nearby walls or benches can some stand. They watch, inspired by Loki's persistence to save them.
Following just behind, the Dark Elves follow and enter the sanctum. Unlike the opposing faction, they are not shown to be as fatigued. While still exhausted, the dark clan can move far better, and some can stand. Most likely due to their forces not being as dependent as the others for the Light. They, too, watch in wonder over the foreigners resolve. Awestruck that one not of their world is risking so much to restore their source of power. Bǫjnir appears beside them, gliding with his weakened buzzing wings.
Altogether, the flickers of light pulse through both factions. The Light Elves shimmer and shine with each pulse of energy, while the Dark Elves' wings, eyes, and veins also blink with a red and white dim glow. Both factions glance at the other, watching this link send life and power coursing through them. For the first time in ages long past, they're reminded of their connection and their kinship. Though they represent different aspects, they all stem from the same source. Regardless of their nature, they are all Elves of the Light. In the wake of chaos, they have found a reason to make peace.
Bǫjnir watches not far from him, one of his soldiers approaches a near unconscious Light Elf. Though this warrior raises his spear to strike them down, instead, he impales the floor beside them. The angelic Elf flinches from the action, before being lifted and supported up by them. One by one, each member of both factions begins spreading the act of kindness. Lifting each other to their feet or resting them somewhere more stable. Bǫjnir watches silently, understanding the importance of Atreus's intentions. The Elf is proud of his influence and how his goal unfolds without his knowing.
"Warriors!" Bǫjnir calls out, his voice echoing throughout the chamber. The masses around him, along with Atreus, all look over to him. "Ruin is upon us, the realm teeters on the brink! It is time that the Light and the Dark come together! If we don't stand as one, all will be lost! United we must stand, for if divided we will fall!"
His forces cheer in praise, loyal without question. Their world crumbles, and they understand the importance of uniting under a single banner. Though true peace won't be so easy to forge, a more severe threat stands against them, one that they can't challenge alone. When the danger in front of them is no more, only then can the possibility be attempted.
Resting the Light Elven people down to rest, the Dark Elves rise into the air. Though their strength is dwindling and only enabling them to glide, the Dark clan is capable of reaching the platform. Atreus's driven act to release the Light of Alfheim gives the Elves enough power to land alongside him. Dragging themselves to different corners of the platform, they too start prying and pulling at the alternate corners of the Asgardian cage.
A conjoined effort between Atreus and Bǫjnir's forces stacks the odds of their success. Though Loki possesses superior strength, and their not at their full capacity, the Dark Elves aid is most helpful. Their combined prowess allows a thicker stream of illumination to breach the stormy heavens. The temple pulsates brighter, and with a faster glowing cadence. The Light Elves begin to bring themselves off the floor, their health gradually rejuvenating.
Yet, despite their combined efforts, the barrier remains strong. Even with a significant fraction of the Divine Pillar coursing its energy to the realm and the Elves, it's not enough. Atreus, Bǫjnir's, and his comrades are locked at a standstill with the construct. Not willing to relent, they continue prying and pulling with all their might. Loki and Bǫjnir fight even harder to tear down the construct, the two synch with an angry growl.
Unexpectedly, their final stand inspires more to rally with them. The Light Elves, granted enough power to glide themselves to the pedestal, lend their aid. Though not as physically matched with their dark counterparts, they don't hesitate to mimic their actions. Both the Light and Dark working together for the same cause, to restore what was lost to them. Several of the Elves look to each other, giving nods of acceptance, and others stern expressions of reluctance.
In a last-ditch effort, with the barrier drastically weakened, Atreus moves closer to it. He locks his hands onto the plate's firmest part, near where it and the beam meet. With another rough push, he rams his whole body into it. All of his strength, every ounce of his power, all directed into a single weak point. At last, the metal construct crumbles, bends, and breaks from the force of Atreus's hit. With one corner of the cage broken, the others fall apart along with it. The magic of the Asgardian steel shatters.
A blindingly bright radiance bursts from the platform, ascending to the sky. Never before has the Light shone so bright, rivaling that of the sun itself. From every corner of the realm, the primordial beam can be witnessed. With its majestic energy coursing through the earth, the realm's landscape revitalizes. The stormy sky disperses in seconds. The once withering forests and meadows begin to sprout anew and spring back to life. Even the Light constructs that protected and shielded the temple reactivate.
The masses of Valhallians are thwarted upon coming near to the sanctum. A wall of shining energy bars their path, and their preemptive assault has been compromised by the shimmering, rejuvenated realm. Having believed this to be an easy slaughter, the forces are ill-prepared to face what lies ahead. After a few minutes, the army of Asgard observes their impending and rushing enemy. Blanketing the skies and dazzling the forests, the Elves of Light and Dark race toward Odin's warriors. Having come to an agreement, and uniting in the time since their Light was restored.
Their unison of spells and mastery of the forces of nature, make the two Elven clans a menacing combination. The Dark bombard from above, dipping down occasionally to spear and gut stragglers and runners. Explosions set off from their tridents create discord among the golden masses. As for the Light, the glistening Elves divide and slow down the Asgardians with their manipulation of light and nature. Their speed distracts and disorients their number, leaving them vulnerable to the Dark clan's assault. Together, the Elves of Alfheim push the enemy back.
Back at the temple, the two factions cheer and celebrate over their triumph. The Light Elves dance and glisten through the air. Their energy bleeds off them and repairs the damage of the sanctum. The Dark Elves raise their spears and war chant to the sky, proud of their victory. Even when in such close proximity with their supposed enemy, neither clan takes savage action towards the other. Both sides relishing in the warmth of peace, something that neither has ever experienced.
However, among the cheer and cries of praise, an unsettling detail stands out to Bǫjnir. He whips his head and jerks his eyes in all directions, but what he seeks isn't there.
"Where is Loki?" He asks.
At the mention of the Last Son of Sparta's name, the other Elves also take to searching for him. Yet, even with all of their eyes on the lookout, there's no sign of Atreus anywhere.
As the radiance fades off his flesh, Atreus comes to, in a world of Black and Grey. Disoriented, bewildered by what transpired, he's lost in body and mind. Adding to the disarray, his armaments are gone, his bow, blades, gauntlets, and even his armor are no more. Even his fur tunic is gone, his bare chest visible exposing all of his scars and tattoos. All he has is his Greek sash across his waist, and linen legwear and cloth wrapped boots. Yet, even he is Grey in color, his flesh matching his father's.
"What is this?" He asks, his soft tone repeating into the distance.
Atreus thoroughly examines himself, trying to decipher his predicament. Recallings of the past flashback to him and how he received each black rune, marking, and scar. The burns from the Blades of Chaos stand out above all others. His hands tremble as he touches them, and thinks back to his dark experiences. A scowl of anger slips into his confused expression. He turns his head away while firmly grasping his arms. However, his frustration subsides with grave concern, as he comes to the realization of where he is.
"I'm in the Light," he deduces. The explosion taking hold of him do to how close he was amidst the wave. "No, no, no! I have to leave this place!"
In his urgency to find an escape, the voices return, more aggressive than before. Atreus cries out as he's brought to his knees in agony. Now in the heart of where the whispers come from, they become shouts. Voices that blare from all directions, even from the depths of his psyche. Each one he hears is distinct, yet they all speak simultaneously, becoming distorted cries of the past. Due to his Jötunn heritage, his precognitive powers are amplified tenfold. His mind tethers and begins to play out the past, but not his.
Ares, destroy my enemies, and my life is yours!
"Father!" Atreus calls out.
However, as he turns himself to the source of his father's desperate pledge, the world around him is set ablaze. The Black and Grey filter around him has burned away, the only thing bearing color is the figure he directs himself toward. Towering hundreds of feet above him, a warrior that radiates pure malice and arrogance scowls mockingly at him. This figure is clad with blood-stained armor, that bares the skulls of hell hounds on his shoulders and chest plate. Chains and shackles hold his attire together. A fiery mane, and beard, sprout from his head that not even the winds of Helheim could extinguish. Atreus backs away, knowing full well what he's witnessing. A god, unlike any that he's ever heard of or seen.
I'm from a land called Sparta.
Atreus hears the Ghost of Sparta once more before an agonizing scream reaches out to him from behind. Loki turns back, witnessing his father kneeling upon blood-soaked earth. His arms bound and pulled in separate directions, by searing chains that infuse to his flesh.
I made a deal with a god that cost me, my soul.
Like Kratos, when he witnessed Atreus's past within the Light, this time, it was the opposite. But Loki's Jötunn abilities force him to play out much more of his father's history. Even if he didn't wish too. Rapidly, the visions alter into critical moments of Kratos's past. Not his entire lifespan, but the most important events of his lifetime. The next being his time as a slave to Ares, committing mass slaughter in the previous God of War's name.
I killed many who were deserving...
Atreus stands in disbelief, barely able to stomach the atrocities that his father inflicted. It was one thing to hear the truth from him, but another to witness it first hand. He grasps his head, shaking it in disbelief, wanting the visions to stop. Yet, as his eyes are shielded by his palms, new voices come into the fray.
"Shhh. Stay close, Caliope," A woman's voice appears.
Atreus, steadily parts his hands, to regain his sight on the vision in front of him. A mother holds her child tight as distant sounds of battle, and shrieks of panic can be heard in the distance. To the God of Mischief, the woman looks all too familiar. Yet, it couldn't be who he thinks.
"Mother, I'm scared... Are they coming to get us?" The little girl asks.
"Your father will protect us," the mother assures, holding her child tighter.
In such a long time has Atreus never felt so helpless, so guilt-ridden. Though this is the past, he despairingly wishes that he could protect them. Yet, his empathy would soon be twisted to despair, as he hears Kratos once more.
"Burn this village! Burn it to the ground!" The Ghost of Sparta spouts furiously.
"Daddy?" The child questions, a sliver of hope sparking in her.
Atreus's expression reverts at the question, his eyes widen, and jaw hangs in shock and horror. His mind already putting pieces together of what this means, and what may unfold.
"Kratos?" The mother calls out.
"This was his family..?" Atreus asks, yet already knowing the truth.
The sound of shattering wood and stone blasts in Loki's ears, instinctively, he turns back to see the beast behind the ruckus. His father, concealed in a cloud of ash and smoke, dawns the Blades of Chaos. His eyes blinded with rage, and his flesh appearing black as night with only his glowing mark to give him away. Atreus glances back and forth between the maiden and child, and of Kratos. Once more, the vividness of this vision conflicts with his hold of reality.
"Father, don't do this!" Atreus demands as he places himself between Kratos and his past family.
However, this intervention is futile. The Spartan charges blindly forward, with even Atreus bracing himself to hold his father back. Yet, the moment the two clash, the visage of the God of War fades into a gaseous red cloud. The woman screams in terror, with Atreus, frozen in defeat and dread.
"No, father, no!" The child cries out.
And many who were not...
Atreus, regretful, and even with tears shedding, turns back to the aftermath. Kratos holds his lifeless family in his arms, broken in heart, body, and soul.
"Lysandra, Caliope," his father whispers.
This sorrow, the anguish, and turmoil of his decision, rapidly turns to rage. Blood-boiling anger builds in Kratos, his body uncontrollably trembling and shaking. As this unfolds, an old cackling echoes from all directions of the mindscape. Kratos's family turns to ash in his hold, molding and staining his flesh. Atreus watches this unfold, gently touching the mark upon his flesh, made of the same ashes. Not only does he bear a piece of his father, but that of his past family.
"ARES!" Kratos cries out, wrathfully.
The vision around Atreus alters once more, sundering around him to show a different event. An ocean of red splashes and drenches his feet. The mountains around him are scorched, and the sky is black with smoke. In front of him, the Last Son of Sparta watches as his father does battle with the previous God of War. Both of them riddled with rage and blind bloodlust. Until Kratos deals the killing blow, plunging a greatsword into Ares's chest. A seas worth of blood spews from the previous God of War, as a flash of light consumes everything around them.
When the bright explosion fades, a new point in Kratos's past is shown. Atreus stands atop a stormy mountain peak, lightning and thunder boom all around him. So much information, so many shifts through time, begins to conflict and only overwhelm the Son of Kratos.
"Make this stop!" He spouts, grasping his head once more.
"Athena, no!" The Ghost of Sparta says regrettably, alerting Atreus to the new event.
Loki turns to the source of his father's plea, looking out to the center of a platform surrounded in broken stone structures. Kratos lays down an armor-clad maiden upon the stonework. No doubt another god, given her attire and the energy that bleeds off of her. An open wound in her chest glows green, along with her deteriorating body.
"If all on Olympus will deny me my vengeance, then all on Olympus will die," Kratos decrees, lifting himself from the ground. "I have lived in the shadows of the gods for long enough! The time of the gods has come to an end!"
And so, history repeats itself, played out before the Son of Kratos. One by one, the visions from the Light of Alfheim present each and every barbaric atrocity that unfolded after. Each death of a god and immortal of Olympus in chronological order is presented before the Last Son of Sparta. Along with the calamities that followed the demise of each one. The events that led to the destruction of Greece surround him, replay in perfect, gruesome, vivid detail.
Again, the knowledge of Kratos's past begins cramming into Atreus's mind, without his say. Even as he tries to block it out and ignore it, the information forces its way into his head. The voices and words of the gods that the Ghost of Sparta slaughters play out during this. All of them speaking together, jumbled, and challenging to decipher them coherently.
"Stop this! Make it stop!" Atreus cries out.
The death of Zeus means the death of us all!
Your soul is mine!
Feel the wrath of the sun!
Lazy mortal!
Hello, brother...
You look terrible, dear.
The Murderer of Gaia!
Here is your retribution!
Finally, with discord consuming the mindscape, the cries of anger, outrage, and the voices of Greece cease. Instead, a familiar sound that he'd not heard in years is revised. The chants that Atreus heard long ago when he first wielded the Blades of Chaos return. An adrenaline-inducing banging of drums and singing can be heard. Along with them, a quote that he has long wished not to revisit plays out.
"It is time, my son... Look around at what you have done."
Standing before him, coursing with divine lightning and unearthly might is the King of Olympus. His grandfather, Zeus, stands at the highest peak of his kingdom, at the pinnacle of anarchy and destruction. And just in front of him, Kratos stands, the burning blades of Ares are tightly held in his hands. The world in ruin around them, despair, discord, and death consuming their world. Yet, the only thing that draws their focus is each other, a thirst to take the other's life. The two with a synched battle cry charge at the other, clashing with steel, flames, and lightning, bone and flesh, blood, and sweat. The land trembles at their unbridled might and savage prowess, none could stand between them.
Until at last, everything settles, becoming silent in an instant. Only the sound of Atreus's breathing and the beating of his heart can be heard. He pants, gasping rapidly to quell the anxiousness that now holds and constricts his chest. Darkness surrounds him once more, concealing and putting his senses to relief. Though he doesn't witness the outcome of their conflict, he already knows how this story ends.
"He doomed his home," Atreus whispers, consumed with dread. "Not just his father, but he killed his whole pantheon, his own family... I never would have thought-"
"It is over, Athena!" The Ghost of Sparta sternly states.
Atreus looks forward, the shadows of the vision clearing to show his father during the aftermath of his quest. In his hand, a massive blade of gold and shimmering steel pulses with divine energy. In front, an emerald, astral visage of the woman he killed earlier opposes him. Despite their conversation, Loki is drawn to the greatsword in the Ghost of Sparta's grasp. Many times he's witnessed it during this experience, but never so clearly. Its craftsmanship doesn't match anything that he's ever seen or could possibly imagine.
"You would dare strike me down, again?" Athena asks.
"My vengeance ends now..." Kratos states coldly.
Instead of striking down the goddess once more, the Ghost of Sparta plunges the storming blade into his own abdomen. A splash of blood spews in all directions before a burst of light consumes the area around them. Without context, Atreus understood why his father attempted to end his life. The Light was a force that he had never felt before, something that not even a god could control. This was a power Kratos chose to give up as a last effort to make amends.
But Loki knew that this would not be his father's conclusion. As the vision fades, he finds himself surrounded by snow. A calm winter sky sprinkles flakes of ice upon him and the land around him. The forest that stretches far as the eye can see are also icy and lay dormant for spring. However, this peaceful scenery would quickly become frigid with concern. Sounds of deep, unnatural growling emit from all directions.
From the shadows of dusk and the forest, three giant wolves circle Atreus, their glowing eyes locked directly onto him. But these were no ordinary beasts, these canines were more massive than any wild animal. Two of which were twice the size of any stallion or elk. But it was the third that truly left Atreus in awe, speechless with astonishment. The pack leader stood taller than even a troll, and could probably kill one with ease. Not even the trees could entirely obscure the black wolf, whose eyes burned red along with the mark across its left eye.
It was only when the sound of wet, gut-wrenching coughs was heard, does Atreus realize they were not looking at him. Down at his feet, his father, bloodied, wounded, and helpless spews blood onto the snow-coated earth. His wounds from Olympus are bandaged, and he's too weak to bring himself to stand. Among all the oddities of this moment, Atreus quickly notices the hooded woman in front of them.
"Not yet, Ghost of Sparta," she claims haughty. "Only when the Herald of Ragnarök has come, will you be allowed to die."
"Herald of Ragnarök?" Atreus asks, never before hearing the title nor understanding its meaning.
Immediately following the woman's omen, the three wolves act up. All three turned their heads to a single direction, before snarling and backing away defensively. In turn, this prompts the hooded figure to turn to the same location as well. Panic instantly fills the woman's body, she rapidly paces back almost prepared to flee.
"Wait, please!" She begs frantically. "You can't, I beg you, no-"
"Bannað til dauðadags!" Another person invokes.
A burst of gold and magenta energy blasts forth, smiting the hooded woman in a yellow radiance. Atreus and even the wolves all flinch at the brightness of the spell. A loud cry from the concealed maiden echoes throughout the snowy valley. In a split second, the woman has vanished, leaving behind a golden ring of leaves and petals in her place. Even the snow has melted away in that specific spot.
With no one to guide or charge them, the wolves begin growling at the spell weaver who disposed of the hooded stranger. From the dead brush and lifeless trunks and branches of the forest, a redhead woman emerges. Though her skin doesn't have much saturation, it is mildly tan with several runic tattoos. Fur clothing covers most of her body, discluding her arms and head. A thick, hairy cloak protects her from the winters frosty touch. The moment her face is revealed, and with her frozen axe in full view, Atreus's heart sinks.
"Mother?" Atreus says with a chilled stutter.
Faye shows herself, every step she takes, the pack of giant wolves back away gradually. Even the largest one shows defensive hesitance, despite being ten times bigger than her in every way. Instead, they keep their distance, prowling and lowering themselves to her out of intimidation.
"Begone, börn Loka!" Faye commands, waving her axe to them.
Without hesitation, the canines flee, their fast sprinting paws tremble the earth beneath them. Their howls fill the night, shaking the forests and hurling torrent winds in all directions. The winters cold more frozen to the wolves' roars. Kratos, during this exchange, has remained idle on the ground. He's still fatigued from blood loss and in pain from the wounds of Olympus. Overall, absent-minded to the entirety of the event and omen. As he lays on the frozen earth, Faye approaches him. Atreus watches silently, emotionally distraught by seeing his mother again, but unable to express his sorrow correctly.
With her axe sheathed, she lowers herself to him. Alarmed by her sudden presence looming over him, Kratos surges himself up, extending a harsh hand at her. Atreus panics, rushing toward them despite this all still a vision. Instead, Faye's gentle hand stops him, holding his wrist and locking eyes with him. Baffled, ashamed, and entirely halted in place by disbelief, Kratos stares. In so many years, he hasn't felt such peace and serenity. The winters cold, the tranquil environment, and Faye's looks put his anger to rest.
"Lysandra?" The Ghost of Sparta asks, confusing her with his past love. "Is this another trick of the gods?"
Faye stares down at the Spartan, curious about his appearance, attire, and even the crimson mark that stains his snow-white flesh. No doubt was he a foreigner to Midgard, but like many of this land, he bears the traits of a veteran warrior. His many scars, current wounds, and his peculiar chained weapons attest to this quality. Despite his skepticism, the giantess is as soothing and calm with her tone as she is with her touch.
"My name is Faye," she tells him. "And I assure you, I have no love for the gods."
Atreus steps forward, his hand hovering over his mother's shoulder. Time and time, his mind tricks and loosens his hold on reality. He draws himself back, stepping away the moment he recalls the world around him is fake. Instead, he observes as his mother lifts the bloodied Spartan from the frosty gravel and dirt.
"This was how they met," he says in awe.
The vision fades to brief darkness, his parents drift and become one with it as a new event unfolds. In the distance, the weeping and cries of an infant reach out to Atreus. Gazing forward, his old home stands, the oak just as bleak and wilted as he remembers. Although this entire time, his only wish was to leave this dream, now curiosity drives him to learn more. Even though gods only know how long he's actually been here, he can't ignore this calling.
Stepping inside the nostalgiac cabin, Atreus looks to the firepit, which currently cinders to grant some illumination. Everything's the same, from the runes carved into the woodwork, to the wooden totems and decor on the walls and counters. His toys are already sculpted and made for when he comes of age. Resting on a table stand is his old-styled bow, freshly crafted. He runs his fingers along the string as he ventures into the home. His mother rests upon a bed, debilitated beside Kratos for her hard work through the winter's night. As for his father, he rests up, cradling the prodigy of their labors.
"That's me," Atreus steps to his father's side, looking down at himself as a newborn.
The baby is small, just barely able to fit in Kratos's broad, muscular palms. The child's eyes are closed, but he is restless, letting out the smallest cries and noises. Sleepless in his dad's hands, wanting to move and grasp anything that he can reach. As for Kratos, his expression is gentle, warming to this experience of being a father once more. Even through his thick beard, a teary-eyed smile can pierce through the black bush on his face.
"He's so small," the Ghost of Sparta mentions, protective and worried of his newborn.
"All the more reason to be protected," Faye states restful, her hand caressing on Kratos's arm.
"All I can do is destroy, what if I can't keep him safe?" Rarely has Kratos ever shown such a soft side of himself. Doubt still plagues him of his mistakes in Greece, dragging down his spirit and confidence. In his time of assurance, despite her condition, Faye raises herself up to sit beside him.
"You are not that man anymore, not that god," she says, laying her head on his shoulder. "You are his father, and that is what he'll need more than anything. You're strong in more ways than one, it won't be easy, but I know you'll prevail."
As the dream returns to a blanket of darkness, Atreus watches his parents nuzzle their heads before becoming consumed by obscurity. This false reality becomes black once more, even the floor cannot be seen. Atreus glances and swiftly directs himself to different directions, trying to find a new path to follow. Lost, alone in silence, he's helpless to find an escape. That is until a spark of a glow blinks off into the distance.
Without any other route to be guided on, Atreus rushes toward the flicker. The further he travels, a distant song can be heard. The same as the one his mother would sing, but this time, a broader male pitch is blended with it. A duet of his favorite song lures him through the darkness. Ever closer, he sees the visage of his parents, their arms held out to him. Ecstatic, with bliss at being reunited with his parents, cease all other cares in the world.
"Mother, father!" He calls out, reaching out to them.
The volume of their singing raises higher and louder, their features becoming clear as Atreus nears them. As though a choir calls out to him, several voices atop his parents beckon him to come home. They stand patiently, their son sprinting toward them, tears flowing like a tranquil stream down his face. He's soo close, many years have passed since such joy pounded in his chest. His thoughts so clear and lifted out of turmoil and rage. With mere feet dividing him from his parent, Atreus smiles brightly.
Yet, just as his fingers extend to them, their forms are spewed and cast away in blood-red smoke. A roar of thunder shatters the radiance of cheerfulness that drew him in. He pulls his hand away, with reality crashing down on him in an instant his body tenses. The ground beneath his feet quakes violently, dropping him to his knees. One final vision is presented to him. Is it the present, or is it the oncoming future?
Atreus stands in Midgard, the heart of Tyr's temple rumbles, rocking furiously back and forth. He resides outside its gates, watching Midgard unravel. The sky is Black, coursing with relentless lightning and casting flashes of fury in all corners of the realm. Each blast of thunder strikes at his heart, making him flinch and shake uncontrollably. His courage dwindles from the violence of nature's wrath. After standing, his legs wobble and tremor dreadfully. This event feels all too real, it matches that of a traumatic incident in his past. One that he's buried under his guilt, his denial, and his fear. Which only means one thing...
A current of lightning crashes in front of Loki, bolts of electricity course across the metal bridge, illuminating the one responsible. The same dark cloak, the Cyan glowing eyes beneath the dark cowl, and the exact smile of bloodthirsty malice. Thor, the God of Thunder, rises, meeting Atreus eye to eye. The Aesir beckons the storm, electricity, the howling winds, and even the snow dances and weaves at his silent command. Standing before the Son of Odin once more weakens Atreus to the core of his being. Despite his words of confidence when seeking the dwarves, there's nothing that terrifies him more than the man who killed his father. If the Ghost of Sparta couldn't best him in combat, how can he?
"No, you can't be here!" He mutters under the commotion of the chaos.
No response slips from the Aesir's hairy lips, but his actions answer for him. Thor takes up his hammer, Mjölnir, directing the onslaught of natures boon into it. Lightning scorches and bleeds from the massive mace, the glow displays more of the murderous expression from the God of Thunder. Locked in place by winters terror, Atreus doesn't acknowledge the hands of his salvation. From behind him, a pair of white garbed hands reach for him, yanking him back. The vision becomes blinding with the Light, dismissing the horror of the charging Aesir.
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