Torn from the Light that blinded him to reality, Atreus emerges from the divine pillar. His armaments are returned to him, along with the burdening knowledge of his father's past. Despite his sudden rescue, his thoughts cling to what he had witnessed, harrowing panic chokes and binds to him like thorned vines. His hyperventilation and trembling legs prevent him from standing. He's bound to the floor, groveling in trauma from the obscene, graphic visions. Mustering what little composure remains, he reluctantly brings himself to his knees. But he breathes heavily while cringing on the floor. His hand immediately clenches his heart, pounding chest that brings pain to his ribcage. The seconds that had felt like minutes to hours gradually regain sense to him.
Little to his knowledge, while he regains his grasp on the real world, the Dark and Light Elves surround him. Each one waiting and watching curiously and with disbelieving awe. No longer are they behaving violently towards the other, but standing side by side. With Atreus free from the divine beam, the Dark Elves rally, and cheer. Their voices boom from every corner of the chamber, a choir of rejoicing that's sung throughout the sanctum. Bǫjnir hovers above, his spear held high while shouting to his soldiers.
Their air rumbling voices alert the Son of Kratos to their presence. His eyes rapidly glance to each distracted bystander, dumbfounded by the two factions sharing one space. The longer he watches at their behavior, his gasping pattern steadies and mellows. Especially when he looks to the side of him, where his savior is.
"Sigyn," he whispers, with little breath in his lungs.
"Atreus," Sigyn lowers herself to his level. Her jaw hangs as she locks her sights onto his tear pouring eyes.
As his hyperventilation quells, he clamps his eyelids shut, averting his face from her. While dismissive towards his heartache, the sorceress lends him her aid. Her hands hold his trembling bicep as she gradually elevates him back to his feet. Even when standing, a severe glare of shame pierces from his gaze. Hands shaking without any hold or control, Atreus wipes the tears with his fingers, clenching them with great force. Even with the crowd of anxious Elves watching him, he breathes tiresomely into his iron-clad fist.
"Are you okay?" Sigyn questions.
"How long was I gone?" He asks, blowing off her concerned approach.
"Days, half a week," Sigyn answers, finding disbelief in the possibility. "I had just returned, and didn't know until moments ago."
Tremors of dismay course through Atreus' arm, he too becomes riddled with disbelief at the notion. Yet, he grasps hard on his past experience here. How his father professed only experiencing moments while in the Light. His heart aches in pain from the fast rhythm of his exhilarated heartbeats. Still, his mind and body cling to the discord of Kratos' past. Moments and visions that shall now haunt him, like his father before him. Amidst his turmoil, Sigyn looks closely at him. This is the first instance of him displaying such distraught.
"Days," he repeats, guilt-ridden that so much time was spent there. Leaving the Elves and Sigyn vulnerable to the Aesirs armies. The spontaneous thought of the looming threat over Alfheim directs his focus back to the sorceress. "What of the Aesir and Odin's army?"
"I led the other gods away," Sigyn claims, to quell his worries. "Given the difference in the flow of time between realms, it took me some time to return."
Though it should be a relief that the Aesir will not intervene again, Atreus remains plagued with grief. He should have tried to escape, even when so desperately wanting to. Seeing his father in such a way has forever altered his view of him. He was always stern, distrusting of others, and aggressive. But never in Atreus' heart could he believe that Kratos could commit such atrocities. Skulking in the aroma of his father's dark history, Sigyn leans closer, examining his grim expression.
"I'd heard stories of special few receiving visions from the Light of Alfheim," she notes, suspecting his behavior to have relation to the rumor. "What did you see?"
Repeating in his head like a broken recording, the voices, screams, and cries are trapped in his psyche. The color red stains his imagination, the smell of fire and blood in his nostrils, and breaking bones and clashing steel bangs in his ears. As of now, such an experience can't be summarized with such ease. He shakes his head, a small attempt to bury away the insanity of such a sordid past.
"Knowledge, that I wish I could forget," he replies, running his finger along the blue mark passed onto him.
Atreus' turmoil stands out like a diamond among coal, rendering him silent. The stress and strain of the experience bleed off him, even afflicting Sigyn to his traumatic aura. Though her hand extends to him, their reunion is brought to an abrupt halt.
"What treachery befalls my eyes!" Svartǫljánir, the Dark Elven King's voice, ceases all others.
Crashing down upon the platform of the Light, the King of the Dark Elves asserts his dominance. He adorns golden armor, and black cloth shielding most of his flesh, his multihorned crown dawned, and ruby gem tipped trident in hand. From his mere distasteful scowl, the other Elves of both clans back away, lowering submissively to his presence.
"We stand amongst the enemy, yet you cheer alongside them?" The Dark Elven lord questions in disdain. "The Light is in our grasp! Let us butcher our subjugators, and usurp what's rightfully ours!"
Among the masses that cower and dwindle in courage, Atreus stands. The truth of Alfheims history returns to his mind, for the moment, cleansing him of his sorrow. Along with his bitterness towards the haughty King of the Dark Elves. Though Svartǫljánir has left the entire chamber quivering, Loki brazenly steps forward, openly opposing the lord's will.
"No!" Atreus shouts, marching toward the towering Dark Elf.
The call that reverberates beyond the crowd alerts Svartǫljánir, who instinctively jerks his crowned head to face the God of Mischief's location. With each head that turns back, the Elves begin to divide, giving Atreus a clear path to approach. The moment their eyes lock onto the other, a shared glare of resentment is passed between them.
"You..." The King says, meeting the Son of Kratos halfway. "I had wondered why I'd not received any news these passing days... Why my power was temporarily stripped, why so many of my kin had become defiant of my will! You've turned them against me!"
"You've reaped the deceit that you've sown!" Atreus claims. They halt within a foot away from the other, their hate-filled scowls continue to remain firm on the other. "You've forced your people to repeat the mistakes of the past! Out of hatred, even you are unsure of how it caught ablaze! Spilling blood and sacrificing others for reasons that you don't understand."
"And you believe you know..." Svartǫljánir lowers himself, even with bent knees, he still stands at eye level with the Wolf of Midgard.
"I've learned the truth..." Atreus claims, turning his back to the Dark Elf King.
A growl of disgust rattles from the fangs of Svartǫljánir when ignored. Yet, tethered to curiosity by Loki's findings, he abstains from retaliation. His passive stance grants the surrounding Elves enough courage to stand tall. Bǫjnir lands himself on the platform, taking a stand among the crowd to hear what Atreus has learned. Finally, the anticipation of learning their ancient, forgotten history can be put to rest. With countless eyes set on him, the Last Son of Sparta calls out to the masses. Sigyn approaches, translating the historical lesson to the Light.
"Odin deceived you all!" Atreus claims boldly, the sorceress follows with her own words. "Once, in an age long past, you all were kin, of the same flesh and blood! Until the Allfather came to you, taught you forbidden magics that would sow your hatred!"
Mutters and whispers fill the entranced air of the Elves. Both sides isolating their concerns and thoughts to their respected clans. All except for Bǫjnir and Svartǫljánir, who remain absent from the conversations as their forgotten history is explained.
"The so-called King of the Gods manipulated the original Elves of Light!" Atreus claims. "Giving them false hope of ascension, only for it to lead to a divide and the birth of both the Light and the Dark Elves! Creating the endless cycle of bloodshed, that's persisted to this day!"
The commotion grows periodically, the whispers becoming unmuffled discussions and concerning comments. Many voices in the chamber sound bewildered by what's being told to them, afflicting Atreus with worry. How will they react when the full truth is revealed? Will they begin to just senselessly slaughter one another? Will panic break out among them, creating a greater divide than before?
"All of it, from blindsided lies. Which led to the oldest ancestors of the Light enslaving, and creating the first of the Dark..!" Atreus states with ill confidence.
An uproar of discord erupts among the swarm of Light and Dark Elves. Banter and outrage invoke hostility in the atmosphere, reawakening a distant divide among both factions. Some of the Dark choose to take up arms but stay their hands defensively, instead of outright attacking. Expelling the truth was likely to cause such turmoil among them.
"As expected," Svartǫljánir says pompously. "You've heard it yourselves, the Light is no saint! Behind their harmless exterior, they're more savage and cruel than any beast or warrior of Odin's!"
However, even with this revelation exposed to them, a sliver of hesitance lingers. With all that has occurred over these past days, an unsteady alliance had been forged. Both sides had been brought together through desperation and a will to survive, conjoining into a well complimenting pair. The forces of Light and Dark weaved together to hold off the tide of chaos at their front door. Atreus can detect the indifference to slash out between them. For the first time in many centuries, both sides don't wish to fight.
"You're wrong!" Atreus spouts defiantly. "It was the ancestors that started this! No one here is at fault for what happened all those centuries ago!"
"The Light Enslaved us, you said so yourself!" Svartǫljánir states, attempting to sway his people to his side. "Should they not be punished for their crimes?" He calls out to the swarm around him, fueling the indecisiveness of his warriors, including Bǫjnir. The lieutenant darts his vision between Atreus and his king. His loyalty to his people and to Loki clash and pull at his mind.
"Crimes that you didn't know of until moments ago?" Atreus shouts back. "Has the senseless slaughter that you and your predecessors ordered not enough? Even when those of the Light pleaded and groveled before you, would you have your troops kill them without mercy?" He projects, recalling such a sight when he and his father first came to Alfheim.
The dispute between the Elven lord and Atreus continues to conflict with the minds of those who listen. Silence breaks out among them like a toxic fume, ceasing their chatter and filling them with doubt. Questions linger, corroding the morality of the Dark Elves with an answer they may already know. Yet among the unsettling taciturnity, a deep chuckle bleeds from Svartǫljánir's fangs. He stands above the Son of Kratos, attempting to invoking his imposing will upon Loki and those around him.
"From the moment I laid my eyes upon you, I knew you to be familiar," the king speaks boldly. "You were the runt all those years ago, traveling with the marked warrior, laying waste to everything in your path!"
Chatter breaks out among them, questions and gasping shocks ripples through the room. In rapid succession, one by one, the realization is revealed and realized. Bǫjnir trembles at the revelation, eyes dilated and broadly open in shock. The damage Atreus and his father caused all those years ago still holds weight, even in the present.
"This foreigner is not our savior, he is our destroyer!" The Dark Elven lord claims. "He claims to seek our salvation, yet how much has he wrought since coming here?"
Again, the commotion grows, the disarray blinding many from reason. The Light Elves begins to shrivel and shiver before the ruckus and loud banter. Atreus and Sigyn are drenched in the worry from both factions. They, too, can barely tolerate the melancholy and strife.
"I've made mistakes!" Atreus interjects, speaking above the Dark Elf. His cry of resentment and regret, his continued speech of confession, gradually dwindles the voices around him. "I took sides when I didn't know the story behind it... Followed blindly when I should have questioned more... A mistake that I wish to rectify, by straying you from the same path!"
Confusion, denial, and mild frustration remain, even with Atreus' tone of guilt. However, at least now, he has their ears and focus back on him. Svartǫljánir smirks, arrogantly believing he has sway over his people. And the submission of the Light Elves.
"Would you truly continue to repeat your mistakes, even when you know that a greater threat is at fault?" Atreus calls out to the crowd.
"You have "aided" us enough with that," the king spews antagonistically. "Killing our kin, letting the realm fall into discord, and the golden warriors still march through our realm!"
Slamming the blunt end of his spear to the metal ground, the other Elves flinch in submission. Even with such a short distance between them, Atreus remains firm. No action that the king takes will divert his conviction.
"As your king, I command you all to slay this outsider, along with our true enemy!" Svartǫljánir calls out.
His hostile, prideful tone silences the voices in the audience. Instead, looks of indifference, struggle plague the expressions of the elves. Those of the dark clan stick their sights to the Last Son of Sparta. Their hands trembling from the distraught of executing betrayal, tightening their holds on their spears and blades. Yet, their distance between them and their decreed enemies doesn't decrease. They hold firm to where they stand, battling the urge for defiance. However, even Atreus does not show worry to their numbers. His knuckles cracking and grasping into a fist, he prepares for the possible assault.
"No," Bǫjnir calls out, descending from the sky. Placing himself between his king and Loki.
Immediately, the swarm of Dark Elves reluctantly yield to his command. Atreus, bewildered by this sudden interference, also settles his tension to fight.
"What?" Svartǫljánir asks with a deep growl reverberating from his clenching fangs.
"If it wasn't for him, we'd have all died to the armies of Odin long ago!" Bǫjnir claims angrily. "Would you have us behave like those savages, to turn our backs on the one who had risked his life for ours?"
Voices begin tossing around, Bǫjnir's lone defiance has already sparked questions among the swarm. Atreus and Sigyn lookout to the chamber. Like a kindling flame just beginning to spread, the Dark Elf's retaliation peaks the others' courage.
"I saw it for myself!" Bǫjnir states, crying out to his kin. "As the Great Light flickered, and reach out for aid, it beckoned not just us, but to all the children of Alfheim! Though our flesh is different, our connection remains! We are all Elves of the Light! This war can end, here and now, with no more bloodshed!"
The complimenting voices of the countless Elves raise in pitch and sound. Though the Light Faction has remained silent for most of this debate, even they muster the courage to rise themselves into the air once more. Taking flight alongside those of the opposite clan. Atreus and Sigyn observe as the interactions occur, a smile on her face, and a grin upon his fuzzy jaw. Svartǫljánir watches it all, gradually growing in anger, primal with his growls and heated breaths.
"You would dare to defy me?" He questions the smaller Dark Elf.
"All that I stand against is senseless bloodshed that could have been averted all this time-"
Before Bǫjnir can finish his answer, the dark king swings his crystalized spear at him. A splash of milk-white blood spills across the floor, as the Dark Elf is thrown across the podium. A loud gasp of shock from the dark and light elves echoes from every corner of the chamber. An outburst of ringing clings into Loki's ears, eyes widened by what's transpired.
"Our lord attacks his own!" One of the Dark Elves shouts.
"Scoundrel!" Another shouts.
"Traitor!"
Their words fall on the ears of hubris, Svartǫljánir marches swiftly to the gasping and bloodied Bǫjnir. Two massive slash marks across his chest leak blood, staining his attire. Even from his mouth, his life juices flow uncontrollably, forcing him to gag and cough profusely. A single blow from the King, and he is unable to bring himself up in time. His lord's blinded by the urge to inflict his royal wrath upon the deceiving, his eyes burn and glow white with rage.
"Anywho disobey my right, my command has no place in Alfheim!" Svartǫljánir states, towering above his lieutenant. Bǫjnir, with what little strength he can muster, attempts to lift himself up. Only for his king's heel to dig into his stomach, pushing him back down. "I am king, what I say will not be denied!"
The king, without an ounce of mercy, brings down his crystal sharded spear at Bǫjnir. A bang, followed by a loud exhale from the crowd rumbles, as all noise silences. Yet, this strike proves futile, thwarted with ease by the Dark Elf's savior. The king's arms tremble and struggle as he locks eyes with a rage-filled Atreus. The Last Son of Sparta holds the spear's front end, just an inch away from piercing the wounded Elf.
"You're words have no weight behind them," Atreus claims. "Without action, they mean nothing!"
A furious shove against the king's trident and the Large Dark Elf is flung back. Despite the size difference, the levels of strength cannot be distinguished by their stature. Their nature and heritage is the deciding factor in who will walk away alive. Svartǫljánir, realizing the foe he's angered, holds his ground. His feet locked to the floor beneath him, his spear directed at Loki, the two stare the other down.
"You like to give so many commands, if you want me dead, come take my life yourself," Atreus challenges, slamming his chest with his steel-clad hands.
The podium that contains the Light, a sacred place to the denizens of Alfheim, now stands as an arena. The sky above becomes blotted by those of the dark and light faction fluttering away. With all the surrounding elves clearing the vicinity, taking and nurturing the injured Bǫjnir, only Atreus, the king, and Sigyn remain. Hundreds of eyes are set on them, anticipation guiltily fills the hearts of the audience. Though the stakes are high and the Realm continues to bath in turmoil, this was a rare event for even the warlike elves.
"Atreus?" Sigyn calls his name.
"Leave him to me," he answers, nodding to her for assurance. "If you can, please tend to my friend..."
"Okay," she replies, reluctant to leave him behind.
"Besides, I've been dying to kill this bastard for some time..."
Though reluctant to leave his side, she inevitably leaves to aid the injured Dark Elf. With her enchanting speed, she vacates the podium, leaving behind her emerald stream.
Even as Atreus steps ever closer to him, Svartǫljánir stands in place. Defensive, and anxiously waiting for the Son of Kratos to come within range. Yet, the karma of his actions, his boastful claims and words now return to haunt him. Though he has not witnessed the feats of Atreus, his second-guessing intuition blinds him. Clouding him with delusion and uncertainty that what he's heard was real or false. At the same time, this denial also prevents him from lashing out, from fear that they might be true. So instead, his unconscious thinking forces him to steadily back away.
Yet, with the limited space on the podium, the king can only keep Atreus at bay for soo long. Eventually, backed against the edge, and with the Son of Kratos daring him by standing within inches of his spear, he's forced to make the first attack. Fearfully swinging his trident like a war hammer, Svartǫljánir puts all of his raw strength into the attack.
Instead of dodging the attack, Atreus chooses to intercept it. Absorbing most of the hit with Trolls Bane, he reflects and utilizes the Elf's momentum. Pulling in the direction of the swing, and the king is thrown aside. His hulking body tumbles and rolls across the metal platform, flooring and leaving him prone and unbalanced. Yet, even with this advantage, the window of opportunity closes before Atreus can land a blow.
Right as the Last Son of Sparta hurls his fist downward, Svartǫljánir rolls himself away. The fierce punch rattles the floor but ultimately misses. The indent from his brass fist permanently embeds a knuckle shaped dent into the golden steel floor. Still, the battle persists. Almost one-sided, with Atreus on the relentless assault, while Svartǫljánir remains defensive. Utilizing the length of his trident to launch swift jabs and long swings to keep the Wolf of Midgard at a distance. Yet, the savage and wide swung strikes are thwarted and blocked by Atreus's barricades. Each blow booming by the clashing metal and gemstone.
Desperation builds, driving the shallow king to take to the air and assault in spurts. Delivering harsh, momentum built blows before darting passed the Last Son of Sparta. Rinsing and repeating, all Loki does is brace the impact and predict where the swift Dark Elf charges. After several harsh hits, armaments thrashed, and his body knocked in several directions, the opening presents itself.
Just as the crystalized spear is brought down at him, Atreus hurls the back of his hand at it. The trident is bashed away, with a follow-up fist being thrust directly into Svartǫljánir's gut. The bladed knuckles of Trolls Bane pierce the dense hide of the Elf. A splash of white blood from the wound and from the king's mouth spews onto Atreus. The force of the blow pushes the large Elf back, a few feet away from falling into the endless pit that surrounds them.
Yet, this critical blow only fuels more desperation in Atreus' foe. Even as the king gags and chokes on his own life essence, he rushes him from the air. Another built up swing and Atreus effortlessly catches the spear. The massive trident is locked in his grasp, a heated glare is shared between them. But, the look of disdain in the Elf's face coverts to a haughty grin within seconds. Before the Last Son of Sparta can deduce the reason, a wave of crimson energy blasts from the jagged crystal edges.
Blasted away, Atreus swiftly tumbles himself back to his feet. However, his sight dwindles into darkness in mere seconds, the king's hubris cackle echoes in his mind. No matter what direction he faces, the world around him obscures itself into a grey and black tinted fog. Not even color can be made out. Every mild noise intensifies, rippling, and stretching to every corner of this mist. This illusion shows no sign of relent. The laughing and the very winds blot Atreus' senses, blinding him not just by sight but also in mind.
In the shroud of disarray, the Dark Elf King makes his counter-assault. Slipping in and out of the fogs, the large Elf swings and jabs with his spear. Blow after blow, slash after slash, Atreus cannot anticipate Svartǫljánir's movements. Though he can slip passed and block a handful of the hits, his several wounds make it apparent that he's underestimated his foe. With time already running thin, Loki must end this fight.
A single moment is all he's given to recollect his thoughts, to take hold, and to correct his senses. With intense concentration, he turns the once overwhelming sounds and ruckus to his advantage. Every step, gentle breeze, and even the wild chuckles are gradually becoming limited, honed, and narrowed down to location. From the spell's effects, even the tightening of his muscles can be discerned. Even so, right as the Dark Elf king lunges at him, his cloak of stealth is compromised.
"There you are!" Atreus states, drawing his Seax as he meets the Dark Elf face to face.
An unconscious swerve grants Atreus aversion from the downward attack. With a complete spin, he rams his runic blade into the Elfs forearm. The veil placed over Loki crumbles, as more clear white blood spills, and a pain girdling scream rumbles. Svartǫljánir is forced to drop his spear as the seax tears and rips through his tendons. Even when he's dropped to one knee in agony, his will to survive forces him to lash out like a wild animal. Though he slashes Atreus with the black claws of his uninjured arm, Loki restrains his second limb with ease.
With all his godly might and Jötunn strength, Atreus hurls the Dark Elf into the Divine Beam. The immense and lethal energy from the Light sear and scorch the King's back. A cloud of instant smoke spews from him as he cries out to the heavens. Though heavily wounded, Svartǫljánir could still free himself. Rushing to gain the deciding hand in this fight, Atreus, with a flick of his foot, flings the King's spear into his hands. A pent up burst of rage, and he lets out a furious battle cry when running the Dark Elf through. The crystal trident rips through the Dark Elf King's torso, pinning him to the Light of Alfheim. A hiss bleeds from his clenched teeth along with his blood, his hand trembles as he attempts to reach Atreus.
"Your reign ends!" The Last Son of Sparta decrees.
Atreus, with a strike of his palm to the hilt and the spear, shatters in two. The jagged crystal end remains imbedded to the dying king. Yet, before the impaled king can be dropped to his knees, his life is silenced. The broken hilt rammed into his throat, piercing through his skull. The might behind the harsh stab forces the horned crown to fly from his head. As the bloody helm falls, so too does the reign of the King of Disdain.
The audience is silent, deathly quiet in the wake of the Svartǫljánir's demise. Even his own people have nothing to say, nothing to cheer for. Once more, they are left without a leader, with no one to guide them. Atreus detects this unnerving dread in them. Looking out to the masses surrounding him, he spots Bǫjnir. The now partially mended and bandaged Dark Elf glides down to him, held at both arms by his comrades. Sigyn, with her magic, reappears beside them. She rushes to Atreus' side but keeps a vigilant eye on the wounded Dark Elf.
A look of worry is shared between them. Atreus looks past the marks on Bǫjnir, more concerned about the hole that's been torn in their culture. The stare that Atreus receives is that of skepticism. Although Bǫjnir defended the Son of Kratos, the apparent show of mistrust weighs on him. Yet, even with this indifference, Atreus makes his intentions clear.
"We all have a choice," Atreus claims, keeping his distance to assure he's no threat. "I have countless ones to atone for, to make amends, and to set right... Which is why I've come to you, to this Realm... To set things right... I understand if you don't wish to forgive me for my actions... As long as you know that I regret them, and if you allow me, I'll fight to fix the mistakes of my past..."
Atreus is idle, still, yet has a weightless look to his posture. An unnatural acceptance for however Bǫjnir may react or behave towards his confession. The dimly lit eyes of Bǫjnir are directed to his people, all of them bearing the same bleak expression. A look of uncertainty about what should be done next. All of their eyes are focused on him, granting him the burden to decide their fate. In doing so, the Dark Elf takes one last action before deciding.
Steady, yet sharp with his grasp, Bǫjnir takes up the helmet of his previous lord. Though his predecessor was larger in size, the horned helm fits his head. Piece after piece, he dawns the armor of royalty, taking up the mantle of king. As he stands, his comrades bow to him without question.
"Svartálbǫjnir," they whisper as they relent to his will, accepting him as their new lord.
Their loyalty unwavering, even when making the silent request to be armed, one of the other Dark Elves gives him a similar spear like the previous king's. With his crystalized trident, Bǫjnir steps forward. The two stare at one another, dead with emotion and expression. They have been through much since they've met, despite the limited time. Many secrets have been uncovered, and perhaps too much turmoil for one lifetime. Yet here they stand, the fate of the Alfheim in their hands, and Atreus' in the Dark Elf. Bǫjnir lifts his spear to the air, aiming it down at a steady, still locked in place Atreus. The Last Son of Sparta does not move, not even a flinch or a light flex of his muscles. Whatever was about to happen, he'd embrace whatever fate would deliver.
Instead, the new King slams the bottom end of his spear into the ground between them. A cold sigh of relief escapes Atreus' fuzzy jaws. However, this unfathomable response still deters him, leaves him conflicted.
"If you truly wished us harm, we would not be here now," Bǫjnir says, lowering himself to a single knee. "You have done a service that no king could have ever granted us... The Dark Elves are at your command, Wolf of Midgard... If you fight for us, we will join you in your war..."
Both Atreus and Sigyn are speechless at Bǫjnir's wish to lend his aid. As their eyes turn to the other, a grin of astonishment and awe is passed between them. Sigyn stares at him, speechlessly impressed with his resolve and the rewards reaped from his aptitude. Only a soft, brief laugh can escape her lips. However, their shock only grows as a few others approach. The Light Elves grace them with their illuminating presence, and what they do next stuns them to the core of their beings.
"Though much blood has been spilled, regrettably," the group speaks in feminine unison. Atreus, at last, hearing their words directly. As they talk, they direct their sights to the crouched king, both with a look of guilt for the centuries of pointless war. "We will lend our aid, but we cannot join you without the say of our own lord..."
"Freyr..." Atreus speaks the Vanir god's name. "I will happily accept your aid."
"Then, on this day, we stand as one!" Bǫjnir claims. "The war is over!"
A cheer of glee and pride bursts among the denizens of Alfheim, booming in rumbling unison. One by one, Atreus and Sigyn watch as the entirety of the Elven race brings themselves to the podium. To those who can place themselves on the platform, they lower themselves to them. Their heads hang down, willing, and acquiring his leadership to end this conflict once and for all. Spears and blades are impaled onto the ground as the Dark Elves kneel. From the sidelines, the air, and surrounding the Light of Alfheim, the Realm stands together and offers their allegiance to Atreus' crusade.
The deep outskirts of Alfheim, where the last of Odin's soldiers remain, their encampment bleak with shame. Such a defeat has lowered their spirits, to be held back and unable to push forward has broken them with disgrace. All that can be done until reinforcements arrive is to defend the line and protect the final gate, with their lives. In the meantime, they have set up a barricade around the war camp, sharpened logs of wood point to the forests beyond. The Vallhalian's grind and freshly sharpen their blades, axes, and spears. Hammer and reinforce their armaments. Yet overall, all is calm, too calm.
In the trees beyond their sight, spine-tingling melodies play in the distance. Musical chimes, voices, and cold winds reach out to the warriors of the camp. With the strain of these past days, many are weak-minded to the songs and become charmed. Droopy, tipsy grins and smiles leave these specific Asgardian's dazed and entranced. As for others, it's not long before the remaining troops take up arms and prepare for something to breach the jungles. Yet, as they enforce their defenses for one direction, the tunes and other tones emit from the other ends of the Realm. Different pitches and sounds intensify from the other corners of their base.
"What's going on?" One of the warriors questions.
"It's everywhere!" Another shouts, wary by the growing volume of the melodies. "It's playing tricks on our men's minds!"
Accompanying the looming tunes, above in the skies is a flock of familiar beasts. Hippogriffs that had been freed prior approach from above, cawing and screeching in the heavens. As the volume of the music raises, the local wildlife begins to flee. Wild birds escape into the air, clouding the bright sky. Smaller animals dart and dash from the jungle into the encampment, causing even more panic in the warriors of Valhalla.
"What in the Hel is happening?" A Valhallian asks in annoyance.
In an instant, Odin's army finds the answer. In countless numbers, from above and below, the warriors are bombarded by a mass and varied amount of magic. The Dark Elves with the rampant Hippogriff's blast and attack from the sky. The large birdlike mounts scooping and clawing soldiers, while the Elves unleashing surging and explosive energy across the encampment. The Elves of Light conjure tendrils of pure energy and bolts, darting through the air to avoid counter attacks. Even as the Warriors of Valhalla attempt to counter and defend themselves, the hysteria, panic, and widespread discord leaves them too divided to properly countermeasure the invasion.
Atop one of the Hippogriffs, Atreus and Sigyn, join the invading forces of Alfheim. Loki, with his remaining bolts, strikes from above. His arrows scorched in wild flame, sporadic lightning, or glowing immensely, he lays waste to the unwelcomed Champions of Asgard. Accompanying him is the new Dark Elf King, Bǫjnir. He too unleashes his devastating magic to dwindle their enemies' numbers.
"The gate is too fortified to be destroyed with brute force!" Sigyn informs them.
"We need your forces to hold them off," Atreus tells the Dark Elf. "Sigyn and I will deactivate the gate, once that's done, victory will be ours!"
"Understood!" Bǫjnir acknowledges. "Warriors, show them no mercy, continue the assault!"
With their landing spot open, Atreus and Sigyn leap from the Hippogriff as it sours away. A rough landing, to say the least, but one that causes no harm to the immortal duo. Loki touches down first, instinctively catching the Blonde maiden immediately after. Initially, she's taken aback by his sudden grasp around her, bashful, in fact. Unconsciously, he holds onto her as he examines his surroundings, unaware that she can't move while in his hold. A moment passes, with no enemies within the vicinity, and still, his arms keep her close to him. His heated breath warms her, his firm chest offers support for her hand to rest and press against.
"A-Atreus?" She says his name.
Snapping himself back to the moment, the realization of what he's doing makes him timid. Without a second thought, he gently lets Sigyn go. Even so, her hold is nearly glued to him as she stands close. Eventually, she too breaks the connection with him.
"Forgive me," he says, looking back to the battlefield.
"It's fine," she replies, doing the same.
The path to the gateway is clear to them. None stand in the way, prompting them to rush to it. As before, Sigyn calls upon her Emerald powers to siphon energy from the towering doorway. This time, the portal becomes rapidly transparent, given that she has experience doing this before. Atreus remains close, ready to cut down the impending forces of Asgard. The Blades of Chaos scorch and burst into blue flames in his grasp. As straggling warriors charge to thwart their plans, the Last Son of Sparta unleashing hell upon them. Fighting by his side, Bǫjnir takes a stand with him.
Together, blades in hand, the two make quick and well-paired work of the incoming forces. Atreus' range and swift strikes accompany and synch with the Dark Elf's hard swings and jabs. Their combined magic's hold off Odin's soldiers, none can come close, and those that do are cut down with ease. Not to mention the neighboring aid from the two factions handling the majority of the opposing army. Chaos spreads, allowing a swift conquer and divide over what remains of the dwindling warriors.
Eventually, after mere minutes of battle, the encampment is overrun. The enemy crumbles as their numbers drastically plummet from the overwhelming numbers and might of the powers of Light and Darkness. As the final gate shatters into ruin, so too does the Allfather's plot to conquer another realm. The denizens of Alfheim cheer and rejoice. Their cries of joy and accomplishment reach the highest and furthest reaches of the world.
Among the ruins of the last war camp, Atreus and Sigyn reunite after their victory. They look out to the sea of Elves of both white and dark. The battle is won, and for the first time in gods only knows how long, there is peace. Yet, while Sigyn is relieved, uplifted by the celebration, Atreus stares out into the destroyed valley. His eyes cold, his face stern and focused. So much weighs on his thoughts, too much to rummage and think through. His emotional state twisted, warped, and leaving him drained physically and mentally.
"Are you alright?" Sigyn questions, standing close to his side.
"Though I'm glad that I was able to rectify my mistakes in these lands, there's just so much to deal with beyond this Realm," Atreus claims. With the settling peace, the memories of his father's past return to plague him. Along with the mission that he's still on. Ragnarök is still coming, and he has yet to find a way to stop it. "This day, victory is ours, but the true war hasn't even started yet. This is only the beginning, and what's to come will threaten us all..."
"But today, we've shown the nine realms something that many considered impossible." She rests her hand upon his shoulder, gaining Atreus's focus on her. "We've proven that Odin's influence is not inevitable, that if we stand together, there's hope."
Though his father had said that hope was never a reliable ideal to cling towards, this moment proves otherwise. All the odds were against this peace between the Elves coming to fruition, and for victory to be impossible. Still, as impossible as it seemed, here they stand. Defiant and victorious towards odds that shouldn't have been won. He smirks lightly at her, even nodding at the notion. A deep breath of free serenity lightens his spirits, if only for the moment.
"Sometimes, hope is what makes us strong," he says. "It's what we fight with when all else is lost."
(God of War Ragnarök has been teased, I'm so excited)