Urgency drives Atreus to reach the Valkyries, now more than ever. His body trembles in dread from the earthquake only moments ago. As though with every passing moment, Ragnarök draws ever closer, looming like a hurricane on an already chaotic shore. The Last Son of Sparta has questions that desperately require answers. Only Freya and her Valkyries can grant them, but who knows what has transpired since he left the realm. Could they have also fallen victim to the Aesir, or worse? Arriving at the Throne of their Counsel will give him his desired results.
Yet, even as the streams surrounding the seats are mellow, the wind is but a soothing breeze. Something is off. Such serenity, the elegant atmosphere can only spell misfortune in Midgard. Leaping into the circle, Atreus cautiously enters the ring. Hands ready to draw his blades, the silent seconds only drive his heart to race faster to compensate for the idle scenery. The passing of each moment drags on with anticipation, weighing Atreus's patience.
"Hello!" Loki calls out. "It's me, Atreus! I'm here to have an audience with the Valkyries!"
Even to his call, the echoes of his voice fade into the hollow landscape. No reply, no repercussion of his words, not even the sound of wind persists. He persistently scans the area but to no avail. Nothing about this arena has changed in the last decade. No trace of the winged vanguard remains. But as he continues his search, the graceful descent of spectral feathers breeze around him. It's not long before he pays notice, attempting to grasp at one falling before his eyes.
In the time his heart pulsates with a single beat, the source of the feathers plummets behind him. The seat of Sigrun shatters, hurling debris in all directions, driving Atreus to leap away. His warrior instincts push him to wield the Blades of Chaos, the searing blue flames already alight in his grasp. To his eyes, the sight before him stuns his bones and halts him in place. Sigrun, the Valkyrie Queen, is locked in a spiritual battle with another winged entity. Unlike the Valkyrie, this humanoid figure possesses wings made of bone and tattered, transparent black cloth. A thick cloud of dark mist continuously pours from her disfigured wings. And although she is tangible, she still possesses the prowess to harm a spirit.
"Atreus, run!" Sigrun calls out.
Before either her or Atreus could react, the cloaked, angelic figure hurls the Valkyrie Queen across the landscape. Stone and rubble fly and crumble by the force of her crashing into a far-off landmass. Now, only the winged figure and Atreus stand, facing off. This black hooded woman turns her attention to the Last Son of Sparta. Even with her eyes shielded by a black sash, she can spot him. Her flesh is pale, draped with torn black clothing and glimmering silver metal armor. Now that Atreus can see her beneath her cowl, her face resembles that of a porcelain mask. Dispassionate, white, and with nordic war paint across each eye and black lipstick.
"Loki," she whispers with a hiss in her voice. "Son of Faurbati and Lafaye, God of Chaos, Mischief, and War..." With each sway of her movements, the black, rusty chains that decorate her body rattle.
The distinct appearance, the dire aura, and the dreadful weight of its presence all point to one possibility. Loki's only heard of such a being by the stories his mother told him. Primordial entities as old as Yggdrasil itself. Both peaceful and vicious, kind and cruel, gentle and violent. Yet, never had he thought that he would see one, let alone be facing off against one in combat. Even the gods would tread lightly when facing these spirits that govern and protect Fate itself.
"The Disir..." Atreus mutters, worrisome.
The primordial spirit advances toward him, each step clattering her rusty chains and darkening the ground beneath her. Despite the intimidating display, the Last Son of Sparta remains vigilant.
"The path you walk threatens the Balance... You will abandon this course!" She proclaims harshly.
The gods, the giants, and so many others have tried to dictate Atreus's goals. How many more will try to steer him towards a fate that he wishes to deny? Each obstacle to prevent Ragnarök incites more challenges for him to face. His patience runs thin with each barricade that drags on his quest. If the Aesir cannot put him down, then neither will the spirits of Fate.
"The ones threatened are the ones who stand against me!" Atreus states coldly, with his searing blades in hand.
The weight from the severity at this moment drives Atreus to rush forward, knowing this is no ordinary foe. Granting no chance for the cloaked maiden to counter, he hurls the Blades of Chaos down onto her. Roaring flames heat the air in a slashing fury. However, upon connecting with the figure, the divine armaments phase through her angelic form. The erupting fires of Ares do little to nothing to faze her. Instead, a hubris cackle echoes from her lips as she dissipates from sight. Spectral feathers fly in all directions as she vanishes.
Instinctively, Loki's eyes glance to the peaks of the hill where the maiden has reemerged. This time, however, she stands beside four similar entities of equal peculiarity. Each one of these angelic figures bears different weapons and designs. However, the distance and blackening world obscures most of their features. Only an emerald green aura reveals their visage below the shadowed heavens.
"You're quest is in vain!" The nordic spirit proclaims with a gasped tone. "The Fates have already deemed it! All that you have wrought will only lead to ruin!"
Yearning to silence her doubts and egotistical assumption, Atreus dawns his bow. Already in his fingertips rests a blazing arrow. Yet, before he can act, one of the tattered figures vanishes. As sudden as a flash of lightning, Loki finds himself in its grasp, choking in the air by the entity's clad grip around his throat. Though he's taken aback by the preemptive assault, Atreus quickly counters. Surging with adrenaline, he hurls his razor, brass knuckles against the spirit. In rapid succession, the two exchange swings and blocks in mid-flight. Yet, neither one can initially land a decisive blow against the other, resulting in a short reach brawl and tussle.
Amid their mid-air grapple, the two simultaneously deal a concussive strike against the other. Both Atreus and the Spirit fling across the sanctum, now heated to battle against the other. The Disir lands firmly on the stone pavement, while Loki relies on the blades to land and cease his airborne dilemma. Hooking them into the earth, he pulls himself back to the ground, ready to usher in their battle.
Without relent to the challenge, the Last Son of Sparta and Spirit of Fate engage each other. Atreus makes the first move, unleashing a barrage of flaming slashes against the spirit. The battle has begun, with both sides relying on speed and cunning to counter and maneuver the others' attacks. Wild blue flames, a flurry of feathers, and chains flash across the air in a dazzling array. Yet, it rapidly becomes evident that this conflict between them won't easily conclude. Despite its broad-shaped wings and size, the Disir retaliates with equal prowess in agility. Most of Loki's strikes are averted or outright countered by its cunning and spectral reflexes.
Although Atreus keeps the spirit at bay with his chain blades' reach, the Disir can still reach him with its attacks. Drawing from the powers between the realms, the Disir animates a set of large, spectral sickles. With a swing of its arms, the curved scythes spiral violently at the Wolf of Midgard. A stream of emerald light follows the ethereal blades as they hone in on Atreus. In the nick of time, he leaps into the air, twirling between the sickles with only an inch to spare. In that brief second, his stunned expression reflects at him from the twin scythes. Once more, they engage each other, now with spiritual fury and godly wrath clashing and evening the playing field.
With the opening presenting itself, Atreus hurls his shackles blades like a chained whip. A streak of azure flame scorches across the arena, igniting the area with intense heat. However, despite the impeccable timing, the Disir is capable of averting the viper swift strike. Effortlessly, the spirit grasps the searing chainlinks, unfazed by the hellish heat emitting from them. However, at this moment, Atreus shifts the odds in his favor. With a whip of his wrists, he entangles the chains upon her wrist. With a hard yank, he hurls his body toward the Disir. Before the spirit can react, Atreus rams his fist at her, landing a critical blow and flinging her body across the arena. Though he successfully lands the first hit, he also leaves himself vulnerable.
From behind, another Disir lunges out at him. Grabbing him by the nape of his neck, the spirit slides and crashes his body into the ground. However, it only takes Atreus a moment to break from the swift hold. Not only escaping but plunging his blades into the spirit's abdomen. Utilizing the momentum, he tumbles back onto his feet, yanking and swinging the second Disir into the one he was already engaging. With a rage-filled roar, he slams both primordial entities into each other. Both flung into the mountainside, a cloud of rubble and debris smothers them in the impact.
Yet, this counter only delays the hardship. Not even a moment later, a third spirit intervenes. This time, in a blinding ray of black and blue light, Atreus is thrown across the ring. The only break to halt his flight is crashing into one of the Valkyrie seats, which shatters from the impact. The brief seconds following after is spent regaining the wind knocked out of him. Invigorated, he rises himself back to his feet. Even as his enemies outnumber him, he holds his ground vigilant.
In his stalwart stance, his focus fixates on the Disir that gradually advances toward him. Even as his eyes hone on the spirits before him, Atreus predicts their next tactic. The fifth enemy emerges, attempting to assault the Last Son of Sparta from behind. However, having fallen for that trick repetitively, he gains the upper hand. Swerving his body to the side, he intuitively drives his blades into the Disir. However, blinded by a hint of fiery fury, his forearms emit dim flames ever so briefly. Having his father's Spartan Rage guide his assault, he hurls the Disir towards its comrades. Immediately, he draws his longbow, unleashing magnified arrows of hellish fire towards the group.
Following the erupting inferno that halts the Disir, Atreus acknowledges the searing rage in his veins. For this brief moment away from combat, he fights the sturring anger that curses his bloodline. Though he may gain power from it, his father's teachings are of greater importance to him. His humility in this conflict may keep him alive longer than brash, raw power. With his wrath subsided, he turns his focus back to the threat before him.
Despite the devastating counter-strike, the Disir stand, unharmed by the combustion of arrows. A synched flap of their wings, and the spirits cast away the charred air and smoldering embers around them. With silents, subtle steps, the guardians of Fate make their advance. Atreus reciprocates, the Blades of Chaos twirl in his grasp, igniting the air with azure, cyan flames. Even as he becomes surrounded, outnumbered, he stances defiant against their imposing position. No matter what the threads of Fate tell, he will not die this day.
Low and behold, in his time of need, a divine intervention unfolds before them. Freya, the Vanir Goddess, descends from the heavens in a beam of light. The radiance of her glow burns and sears the Disir, driving them back to the shadows. Her mystical wings spread outward, glimmering in the rays.
"I can't leave you alone for a minute, can I?" Freya questions with a sarcastic tone.
"Freya!" Atreus states with a chuckle of relief. "You can, but I'll always find trouble!"
Immediately following, the Valkyrie, Sigrun, returns to the fray. Though appearing fatigued, the current queen plants her heels beside them. A flick of her wrists and a transparent longsword manifests. The three stand side to side, armed and ready to resume the battle. It's not long that Freya deduces who stands before them. Her eyes widen in disarray, even shaking her head to correct her possibly misguided vision. But, still, her perception is correct.
"The Disir?" The Vanir Goddess questions. "They have not walked Midgard in centuries. Why now?"
With both sides achieving equilibrium, the primordial spirits take to the sky. Carrying themselves upon a swift gust of winds, the Disir hurl themselves away. Two of which lift one of their defeated comrades to safety. Just as before, they stand atop the nearby peaks, the sun's decent radiating their form.
"You meddle that which you don't understand, Vanir!" One of them speaks with a projected hiss.
"Go back to Ginnungagap from whence you came! You do not belong in Midgard, Ancient Spirits!" Freya commands, her blades directed at them.
"Know this, Wife of Odin, your allegiance with the God of Mischief will only lead to further suffering!" They all spout in unison.
Veiling themselves under their wings, they fade into a cloud of ethereal feathers and mist. Just as the solar orb submits beneath the hills and out of the sky, they vanish altogether. With no trace, not even a whisper of their presence, Atreus and Freya can lower their armaments. It's not even a moment after that Freya tends to Sigrun. Her hands illuminate, granting her the power to interact with the Valkyrie physically. Lifting the wounded queen, she aids her to a seat with Atreus trailing behind them.
"I'm sorry that I could not aid you, my queen," Sigrun says with exhaustion in her tone.
"I'm not your queen," Freya says gently, attempting to heal her. "Nor am I the wife of Odin no longer."
Atreus stands beside them, consistently peaking around for the Disir. Yet, no matter where his eyes lead his sight, there's no sign of the spirits that assaulted them.
"I had only heard of them. I never imagined I'd see one," Atreus comments dumbfounded. "Let alone anger them enough to try and kill me."
"It doesn't make sense for them to be here," Freya informs, just as confused. "The Disir rarely if ever take part in the affairs of the Nine Realms, especially for them to actively seek out someone specifically." The Vanir tends to the Valkyrie before speaking with her. "Why would they come for you?"
"Not for me," Sigrun replies, tiresomely. "I had been waiting for Atreus when they arrived. Though we Valkyries tried to fend them off, their primordial power exceeded our expectations. My sisters made their escape while I stayed behind."
As swift as an arrow, a sense of guilt pierces Atreus at this information. A heavy sigh bleeds from his throat while placing a hand over his eyes.
"Forgive me for putting you in danger, Sigrun," he comments. "I knew I should have come sooner... What was it that you wanted to speak about?"
"What I wish to ask can wait, for I fear something far more grave is upon us..." Sigrun dreadfully answers. There's hesitance in her tone, a piece of her holding her back from acknowledging the truth. "The twin wolves, Skoll and Hati, are drawing close to their prey... Any moment, they will consume the primordial's Sol and Mani, plunging Midgard into darkness and turmoil, invoking the beginning of Ragnarök... The Twilight of the Gods..."
Finally, a flash of realization ignites in Atreus's mind. Angrboða's warnings, the rapid shift from day to night all conclude on Sigrun's suspicions. Loki gazes to the sky with eyes full of despair. His heart pounds anxiously at the discord that unfolds in the heavens. The beginning of the end is upon them, and he's powerless to thwart it.
"What can we do?" Atreus asks. "There's got to be a way to stop it!"
"You can't stop the wolves," Sigrun claims, regaining her vigor. "Their pursuit is relentless, unwavering with determination for the kill."
"Then it looks like we have to give them new prey to hunt in that case!" After everything Atreus has accomplished to prevent Ragnarök from coming, he will not allow Fate to best him now. Impatient, driven by the dire circumstances to act, he places a firm hand on Freya. "How do I reach the wolves?"
Conflicted to answer by her maternal instincts to protect Atreus, she stands silently. Yet, with the dreaded era of The Twilight of the Gods eclipsing, she too falls victim to horror. Never has she witnessed Skoll and Hati's caliber as beasts, nor can she predict the extent of their savagery. Would Loki be a match for them? As one of the last of the Jotnar, can he change the destiny that his very people foresaw?
"Sol and Mani, along with the wolves, travel across a plain between Yggdrassil and Midgard," Freya says with fear in her voice. "By your methods, even with the temple, you cannot reach them..." Sacrificing a brief moment, Freya expels a sliver of darkness from her heart with an exhale of cold air. Even taking the time to place a warm hand on Atreus's knuckles to ease his concerns. "But I can take you there..."
"What?" Atreus questions, only knowing the Bifrosts to be able to make such travels.
Freya creates a distance for Sigrun to recuperate, while also allowing herself to extend her wings in full display. Atreus follows behind, encouraged by her resolve to aid him to this extent. He observes, with a gap between them.
"My wings can serve as a Bifrost, allowing me to traverse beyond Midgard," Freya explains. "It is how the Valkyries can claim souls from every realm."
On a closer examination, Atreus does detect the same crystal-like material that matches his Bifrost. It runs along with the metallic plating, like veins, emitting a soft glow.
"But Freya, you're still bound to Midgard," Atreus recalls. "Will you be able to make it?"
Though the doubt is visible upon her expression, a lingering essence of hope is in her eyes. Still not at her peak, warrior prowess, she tenses her body to test its resistance. Briefly, that worrisome piece in her chest arises, her hands tremble with uncertainty.
"I should have the strength," she assures him. "But, you'll have to find another way back."
"Getting back won't be the hard part," Atreus replies with the same encouraging confidence. "But, before we set off..."
Before becoming sidetracked, the Last Son of Sparta pulls out the dragon's blood canister and clasps it into her hands.
"When I make it back, wait for me at the temple," Atreus instructs cautiously. "And be on alert. Odin is making his move. Even sending out other Aesir to do his dirty work."
"Aesir?" Freya asks, concerned.
"Yes, one of which is supposedly his son, Höðr..." He tells her, hoping to uncover any other information.
Yet, the moment the name is muttered, an unsettling absence of sound takes hold of the Vanir. Though it has familiarity, she has to ponder who the God of Darkness is. Her hand unconsciously rests over her chest, just above her now fast-beating heart. What was this sensation, she wondered, but could not decipher the answer. Were her own emotions playing with her mindset?
"I don't know this, Höðr," she replies, part of her rejecting her notion. "But, I will be on my guard." Prepared to ascend to the heavens, Freya and Atreus tightly grasp hands while gazing up. "Hold on for your life."
With a single swing of her wings, she lifts both her and Atreus into the air. With such high and mighty force, a wild flurry of wind blasts in all directions. As the Bifrost crystals in her wings soothingly glow, both her and Atreus become dimly coated in it. In mere seconds they radiate with blue energy before fading out of sight altogether.
"Be well, my queen," Sigrun says in high hopes before vanishing from her seat.