Mounds and stacks of rubble smother the remains of Svartr Djúpr and ravage the twin peak's natural beauty. Embers and gaseous clouds of devastation choke the air of the neighboring hills and forests. Among what lingers are the splattered and brutalized corpses of the Drakes that swarmed this valley. Their once searing and infernal forms paint the land black from their hardened magma blood and charcoal skeletons. No sign of life nor semblance of Dwarven influence endures and decorates the mines. After the desecration and chaos, all that remains is the smoldering ash-coated hope that the beasts shall no longer terrorize Niðavellir.
In the moments of subdued but stifled silence, all is stagnant in the embrace of the dusty mist. Whatever blazes born from the influence of Musphelheim have withered just as the life ceased by it. Yet, little is required to shatter the void of sound. In the distance, two figures breach the avalanche of debris beneath stone, wood, and ash. Atreus and Sigyn arise in hardly perfect condition, both smothered by the remains of their anarchy-fueled plan. Although the sorceress bares mere scrapes from the outcome, the Wolf of Midgard has his fair share of wounds from the catastrophe moments before. But, adjusted to enduring physical trauma and strain, he shows little consideration for his injuries.
"We're alive," Sigyn comments, both in mind-twisted shock and disbelief.
"Did you doubt us already?" Atreus remarks in a tease while coughing, holding his slashed torso. She can only briefly chuckle at his haughty reply. But not long into her laugh does she pay mind to his wounds.
"Will you be okay?" She questions, strolling beside him worryingly.
"I'd hope so," he replies jokingly, driving himself forward. "This won't be the last time I get myself bloody."
The duo traverses the catastrophic field of rubble, stone, and cindered dust with skeptical interest. Had such an endeavor gone accomplished with only minor scathes from the execution? The question carries with them as they study the rubble and cindered dust landscape. Yet, moments pass like the wind in the trees, and not even a whisper slips past their senses. Just like the suffocated flames beneath their heels, the threat, for now, has diminished. The last spark that breathes is that of a still-beating heart protruding from a beast's chest. And with each rhythmic pound, a seething, dim fire still reaches out from its veins with spews of heat and hissing sounds.
"I wonder if Brok and Sindri could use this for something?" Atreus questions, brazenly clenching the fiery organ in his bare palm.
"Doesn't that hurt?" Sigyn asks with a narrow squint of discomfort.
"Believe me. I know things that burn far hotter." The comparison between the vibrant heart, and chains that sear his flesh, is equivalent to an itch and a stab.
Atreus and Sigyn stare out into the valley of clutter and dismay, blindly unable to determine their next move from their unsteady thoughts. Still, their quest won't thwart them with such ease. With passages sealed, and the gaseous debris lifted beyond the reach of their lungs, little choice of path beckons them. They carry themselves with feet steady as birds on a thin branch atop the stacks of rock and obsidian. His blistered but delicate hand and hers, smooth yet firm, are intertwined to aid each other over the unbalanced terrain. However, their attempts are fruitless due to the repercussions of their prior actions.
Just as glass beneath stone, the ground under them creaks and cracks under the weight of the rubble. Tremors erupt beneath them as the structural integrity of the mines crumbles below. The catastrophe beckons with such haste the duo has such minuscule time to react efficiently. What window of scarce moments slip from their grasp is spent with their hearts in disquietude for the other's safety. And just as the narrow blackness of their pupils peer into the other's irises, the world beneath them caves. A shriek escapes Sigyn's lungs amidst her plummet, while the strained Atreus yells with protective urgency.
Despite their drastic-paced drop, the Wolf of Midgard hurls his body toward the mind-frozen, panicked sorceress. Only by his soul-clenching embrace does her thoughts come to the frantic present. Yet, the only action available is to observe their violent descent among the avalanche from above. Unconsciously, her arms were already locked hand to hand around his torso. Even Atreus, with few options, tumbles among the crashing debris while shielding Sigyn from the countless tumbles and pellets of stone. Time and time, enduring each blow of rock, he falls in the direction of the remnant, sturdy foundations of the mines.
In his only available palm, grasping the hellish armament of his father, he drives the Blade of Chaos into the stalactite wall in his reach. The prominent crack of his shoulder beats in their ears, and the high pitch noise of metal and stone rings beyond them. Atreus, with jaws clenched, growls from the yanked tendons and muscles. But, from the abrupt action without thought, their swift plunge decreases equally hasty as their initial fall. In their heavily focused mindset on survival, they relinquish their focus on the boulders and obsidian that drop below them. The brittle cave system rumbles from the relentless crash of rubble, and the impact obscures the mine's depths with fumes and dust.
At last, hands trembling with the catacombs of the realm, the duo hangs like chandeliers far above the destruction. The Last Son of Sparta, still nagged with the discomfort of his injuries, draws his attention to the easing calamity. Sigyn, however, can only cling to him, unable to alleviate the shock of their near death. In need of relief, she has her limbs wrapped around him like knots of rope, yet unsteady as drapes in the wind. Her face rests in his neck, one arm draped around his nape and nails from the other into his shoulder. Her breathing, warm and running down his chest, is sporadic and comes in spurts.
"Are you okay?" He asks, soft as a breeze with his tone.
The sorceress gives no reply, her mind distant by her thoughts.
"Sigyn?" He speaks with the same mannerism but with a gentle shake while holding her.
By name, action, or with time, the weight of Sigyn's chest halting shock is lifted. But, while her shift is gradual, the tremors in her body linger while loosening her hold to meet his gaze. A shared look of exasperation veils over their faces as the discord settles in the chamber. The fog of dirt subsides during their stare, and the countless droppings of pebbles and stone cease.
"That was too many close calls all at once," she replies, winded and bashfully breaking the visual connection. "I-I think I j-just need a moment to catch my breath..."
"Uh, yeah... Take your time..." His soft-spoken response bleeds from his lips in a blushing whisper.
With her hold remaining firm, and his gentle yet secure, he declines them to the deeper recesses of the mines. While much of the system of tunnels is indistinguishable, there's still an otherworldy marvel to the architect and design. The disrepair may have little effect on their functions. Even with the gapping pit down the middle, the unimaginable beauty of the realm above these caverns. And with the unfathomable craftsmanship of the dwarves, Atreus smirks at the possibility of the potentially improved mines. Immediately following the thought of being berated by the dwarves for destroying their workspace, sudden unease shivers over his skin.
Touching down to solid stone, the duo hesitates to depart from the other's embrace. Riddled to the bones in shock, the sorceress trembles while being alleviated of the danger. But, in moderation for her unbalanced sense of security, he remains firm with his one-armed embrace. As the passing seconds come and go, and a sigh deeper than the pit they stand in, Sigyn shakes away her startlement.
"Will you be alright?" Atreus questions with care.
"At this rate, I may lose count of the favors I owe you for saving me," she replies with a winded laugh.
In that brief second of humor, the laws of irony unfold above them. A dwelling-sized boulder tumbles down to their location, of such magnitude that the mines rattle by its descent. Unconsciously driven to act, and perhaps, hardened by the countless days of facing death, Sigyn hurls her hands above. The glyphs inked to her flesh burst into emerald light, beckoning the primal Seiðr magic to aid them. Oak thick vines and roots shred from the earth around them, barring the trajectory of the plummeting stone. Once more, the aversion to Valhalla or Helheim is accomplished by swift action. Though the sorceress stands baffled by her unhesitant resolve to act, a surge of pride takes hold of her heart. Even Atreus, dumbfounded by her knack for extraordinary magic, is wide-eyed in disbelief.
"We'll call it even..." He replies, dumbfounded, with a light chuckle leaving his chest.
From the security of Sigyn's effortless fortified shelter, the Wolf of Midgard advances from underneath. The full grasp of their predicament is taken into his mind when utilizing his keen focus. Atreus scans the chamber thoroughly. Ideas and notions come and depart as salmon to rivers while deducing their next move. Sigyn joins him promptly, also trying to aid in his search for a solution.
"Getting back up won't be easy for both of us," he points out, thwarted by the confines of their situation. "And I can only hope that the Niðavellir Steel we need isn't buried beneath the results of my poor actions."
"So the only option is treasure hunting through the tunnels until we get out or find the metal for the dwarves?" She asks, withholding her sense of wonder.
Atreus chuckles, an amused grin at Sigyns drastically shifted, and upbringing demeanor for their challenge.
"Ladies first," he says with a slight bow and open hand.
An Intrigued pause over his behavior binds her momentarily, followed by a smirk of amused delight that rivals his. Yet, when Atreus takes a playful step toward her, her heels carry her off to the caves forward. She paces ahead, the Wolf of Midgard casually following in pursuit. The misleading fog dwindles from their path, averting their sense of the danger looming, approaching danger above. Far above, where their eyes sway from, distant storm clouds form, and a hiss and crackle of thunder across the vast distance beckons.
The minutes that follow, the countless steps they've already marked behind them, lead them into steam-filled caverns long since abandoned by the dwarves. Neither are deterred by the tight-fit tunnels of humidity. Atreus now leads, with just his seax in hand. With every corner turned, he prepares to strike at whatever may preemptively strike. Yet, time and time, all that lies beyond is more scolding steam.
"Do you think more of those beasts are still around?" Sigyn questions, pointing out Atreus's skeptical approach.
"I wouldn't be surprised," he replies with a steady tone. "But if we're fortunate enough to be rid of them, it's safer to assume something worse is not far ahead."
"And there is definitely worse..." Sigyn's last sentence drags through ill-confident worry, ending in a hush.
"You mean Höðr..."
Despite no words being exchanged by the notion, the silence presents the loudest answer to Atreus. His pace steadily lessens, directing his care toward her bleak aura. Again, he catches her hands, gripping her cloth-concealed wrists as they press deeper into the mines. Though he withholds his temperament, even the Wolf of Midgard finds himself wary of another potential altercation with the blind Aesir.
"What else do you know of the God of Darkness?" He asks, trying to put his own worries to ease.
"He's the polar opposite of his deceased brother, Baldr," she notes, thinking back to the history of her past experiences. "He was born blind, unable to do most things a warrior could desire to accomplish. Because of this, he was glued to his mother and brothers for most of his early years. And, as fitting of the Allfather's warmongering ways, he saw no use for his offspring and denounced him..."
As she enriches his mind with this knowledge, the Last Son of Sparta can only find displeasure in her recalling. With all the stories told, the legends spoken, and the tales sung, Atreus finds irritable dislike with a common link between them.
"It must be a common tradition for fathers to be harsh towards their children," Atreus remarks in disappointment. Brief recollections of Kratos's own sternness towards him flash in his mind. Yet, even he knows that comparing the Ghost of Sparta and the other father figures he's heard of is equal to ponds next to oceans.
"It's ironic as well, that the Allfather is the worst parent of all," Sigyn remarks in distaste. "But all that changed when a Vanir blessed the Aesir of shadows. To compensate for his sight, all of his other senses were heightened to a godly caliber. He could hear hummingbird wings flap across any vast forest or sea. Smell blood drop even from the highest reaches of the realms. Even without sight, he was revered as the most skilled archer of Valhalla... However, his sense of touch was also magnified beyond imagining. What would be minor to others would be overstimulating to him. But instead of becoming overwhelmed by it, he delved into it wholeheartedly. Pain, food, mead... And sex was all he lived for..."
The memories of the fallen Aesir resurface, chilling his thoughts and running an icy tingle down his spine. Baldur's lifeless husk, and blank crimson stare in his final moments, above all else, troubles his nerves. He fought and killed to cast out his curse, only for his reckless pursuit to lead to his downfall. The cruel irony of his sibling suffering the opposite brings out a drop of pity, only to be buried under the memories of the Aesir's cruelty.
"Behind that sash and mellow temperament is just another battle-craving butcher," Sigyn states coldly. "What do you think will happen if we face him again?"
"I can't say," Atreus replies, equally bleak. "When I fought him, he had me forced into the defensive. His speed rivaled Baldur-"
In his reminiscent rambling, Atreus lets slip his history with the deceased Aesir. Just as he locks his jaw in silence, a perturbed squint from Sigyn is already directed at him. The two halt in check, the hissing of steam filling the absence of their conversation. An unnerved sigh escapes him in immediate regret for spilling one of his secrets.
"You've encountered Baldur?" She asks in withheld denial.
"Uh, yeah," he expresses his drawn-out answer. "A few years ago... Before he died..."
The revelation continues to steal the breath from Sigyn's lungs, preventing her from responding accordingly. Yet, in her brief daze, thoughts burst into a wild flurry of memories and recollections of knowledge about the Aesir. All that she has been taught, every detail she eavesdropped on, all laid bare in her thoughts.
"B-but, how could you have survived such an encounter so long ago?" She questions, nagged by disbelief. "Especially when he was said to be unkillable, incapable of enduring injury..."
"My father would call it an unyielding resolve, an unwavering will that ensured our survival that day," Atreus answers, opposing the notion. "But in truth, I would say that pure luck was at play... A mistletoe was all that spared me from Helheim, or worse..."
"Why didn't you tell me?" She questions, laying a gentle hand on his shoulder.
The Wolf of Midgard shrugs, jerking himself away from her touch. Trying to keep soo many secrets has created an unintentional barrier around his heart. Though he desires to confess his mistakes in time, he cannot do so here. Not to one he's just recently grasped the trust of and one with her own troubles.
"It doesn't matter," he replies bluntly to avoid the topic. "We have important things to do..."
With the brief time spent together, the battles fought side by side, and the challenges bested together, a thorn of doubt now barbs in those memories. Although distrust is not so easily formed by his safeguarded secrets, his blatant refusal to her questions plants the first seeds of indifference. Unfortunately, Sigyn again falls short of adequately responding to such a crucial detail being guarded. The tales of the infamous Aesir are as vast as the halls of Asgard. How could a son of Odin, who didn't know fear, whose ruthlessness matched his maniacal resolve, fail at besting a child and unnamed man? Though Atreus has spoken upfront of his heritage, there are pieces she suspects are clouded behind his tongue.
None of these thoughts are spoken openly but screamed in her mind. Yet, Atreus, unveiling a curious discovery, dismisses her newly sprouted suspicions momentarily. The two vacate the narrow tunnel, reaching the depths of the caverns that they had burrowed beyond the realm's crust. With the air-thin tension of emotional difference corroding the air, a dire mystery is horribly revealed. Though an upright tower of glistening, metallic silver ore is in their sight, what's rooted beneath thwarts an initial beat of their hearts.
Several, if not dozens, of Soul Eaters form a stone graveyard that decorates these abandoned caverns. Their razor, obsidian exteriors reflect the scorching pits' infernal light while also remaining shaded by the lunar beam from above. Many are positioned militarily, lined symmetrically perfectly for unifying a blockade. Many deceased drakes lie lifeless at their side in the dreaded display, revealing the terribly coordinated beasts' intentions. Many died, still gnawing and clawing to free this small army of stone juggernauts.
"Soul Eaters..." Atreus can only say, with his chest gaining weight of his aversion to the sight.
"What are they?" Sigyn asks, stunned that even she has no recollection.
"Monsters that consume the souls of those they destroy," Atreus responds in a bleak tone. "Born out of soul and spirit bound to stone and steal. These are distinct, resembling the ones found within the primal realm of fire. But I've never seen them amassed in such numbers... If they had awoken these..."
"Musphelheim has been planning for this war for a long time," Sigyn adds, sharing in the exact grim depiction of what could have happened. "I'm starting to wonder if the Allfather is the worse threat to the nine realms."
"Let us hope we don't have to find out," Atreus shakes his head, distasteful at the comment. The fibers that make up his being are divided by her statement. Though his anger and resentment of the Aesir instinctively deny it, the sliver of civility within him ponders the possibility.
"Then, let's not linger," she says, forcibly distracting herself from the airborne tension. "If that's the metal we need, we should snag it before-"
Despite her desire to expedite their mission, the Last Son of Sparta is consciously taken away from her haste. In the air, above and basking them is a familiar presence. It catches him by smell, by moisture that coats his previously sweating flesh. A sensation that he hadn't experienced in years, since the days he traveled the temple of Tyr with his father. In a flash, like thunder, he recognizes the dreaded omen.
"Wait!" Atreus projects skeptically, his hand latched to her wrist.
Instant as the sudden grasp, Sigyn reacts in a panic, flinching and jerking herself away from him. Her unconscious action divides them, with the Wolf of Midgard all too puzzled in silence. It's not long before he recollects her defensive attitude toward her forearms and ankles. A concealed part of herself that he had just mistakenly grasped with fierce urgency. The weight of his immediate guilt from her trembling reaction also reverberates and tremors through his hands.
"S-Sigyn, I'm sorry," he refrains from causing her more significant distress in his tone. "You need to listen to-"
"D-don't touch me," she defensively requests.
His pleads of remorse hold no significance in lowering her resurfaced trauma. The sorceress is already imbalanced in her thoughts. Now drastically overwhelmed by the many negative questions and by Atreus's actions. The motion of her eyes flickers with an unknown resurfaced trauma from her past. Like a scared child, she envelopes herself in a self-protected embrace to quell the internal panic in her soul. Yet, this mentally scarred veil is gradually parted away by an unexpected sensation.
"W-wait," Sigyn mutters, uncollected in thought. "T-that smell..." As curiosity hooks her attention to their surroundings, her prior frantic motioned sight is settled as she scans the chamber. With balanced, cautiously slow motion carrying his movements, his senses are deadlocked onto this moment to prevent escalating their predicament. His sight may fail him, his ears deceiving, but his smell whiffs a stir in the air. "It smells like-"
"Rain..." Atreus recalls dreadfully.
Imminently expecting history to repeat before his eyes, Atreus takes action. Without thought or time to guide him, he shoves the sorceress from the blast radius. But, the moment he forms the gap between them, the wrath of the heavens smites him with thunderous fury. Sigyn watches, puzzled, eyes squinted from the bright flash of lightning as Atreus is hurled across the chamber. Yet, even after impact, a flicker of static pulses through his flesh and metal-cladding body. The Wolf of Midgard can scarcely bring himself to his knees before an armored figure bearing majestic wings crashes between them.
Daughter of Thor, the child of thunder and eventual inheritor of the infamous Mjölnir, Thrúd descends upon them. Her runic seax pulsates with the same plasma that fades from Atreus's body. Even her eyes briefly spark with a rivaling hue of her lightning before meeting the eyes of Sigyn. The sorceress, briefly impaired and rendered frozen, cannot brave herself to move in the presence of one of her captors.
"Sigyn," Thrúd calls out with a fierce tone. "You've caused an uproar in the halls of Valhalla. The keg-bellied old man wouldn't stop yapping his cheeks about you. And grandfather has been nipping at our heels long enough for your return home."
Sigyn's past stands before her, merciless as the forces of nature itself. Static lightning ripples and flows from Thrúd's blade, flickering in her scolding eyes. Despite this being a child that threatens her, Sigyn cannot initially bring herself to stand while locked in her gaze. Yet, a simple glimpse of Atreus standing her ground against the Aesir offers a breath of reprieve to her. The Wolf of Midgard swings his arms, dispersing the electricity from his body, the repelling noise catching the Aesir's attention.
"Perhaps you should direct your attention to your real enemy," Atreus spouts irritably.
Regardless of the hostility in his tone, Thrúd is the furthest from intimidated. Instead, eyes bright open and mouth hanging in awe, an excitement takes hold of her. The distraction of anticipation is enough for Sigyn to slip to Atreus's side. Both, now arm in arm, watch the childlike Aesir quickly withhold her adrenaline-surged cheer.
"You're really him, aren't you?" Thrúd questions with snotty high hopes. "The infamous Wolf of Midgard, Loki!"
The mere utterance of the dreaded title sinks Sigyn's hopes, stunned by her torn disbelief and loyalty to Atreus. The stories she's been told, the omens she's learned and uncovered, could not refer to the man beside her. Or could they? Though the imminent threat before them still clings her soul focus to the Aesir, the ominous possibility now festers in the back of Sigyn's thoughts. Is her ally the bane of the gods and those of the nine realms? Questions arise as the steam protrudes from the stone floor around them. How long has his opposition to the Allfather been lit? What other secrets could he be leaving buried beneath his battle-hardened exterior? The silence of her discontent renders her unable to solve these mysteries.
The Last Son of Sparta scuffs in dissatisfaction with the moniker, soiled by Angrboða's praise of its dreaded legend. Despite his exposed identity and their cornered position, the Wolf of Midgard plants himself as a barricade between Thrúd and the sorceress. His arm's already placed in Sigyn's path to the Aesir, and his sights narrow and stern towards the fiery maiden.
"At last, a worthy trial, an opponent that might actually prove worthwhile," Thrúd exclaims with ecstatic relief.
"Stand down, girl," Atreus addresses. A remnant of Kratos's demeanor emerges, resting upon his son's mantle in that brief statement. The Last Son of Sparta scolds her. Though he knows her name, he refuses to address her as such, the same way his father never did him until he earned it. "You don't know what you're up against!"
"And I can't wait to find out!" The Aesir states relishing the challenging claim.
Thrúd twirls her runic sparking blade in hand, and her overly large shield is already implanted in front of her for the upcoming clash. However, Atreus doesn't shy from his defensive position, continuing to serve as Sigyn's Bulwark. His conviction, fueled by his unwavering fearlessness, keeps his stance and soul-focused glare from shifting in the slightest. On the other hand, the sorceress's mental state remains disturbed by the events and revelations of this day. Yet, she, too, cannot bring herself to shift her position out of ill confidence and her daze.
To the Aesir's dismay, her one-on-one trial would be impeded by a single arrow. Narrowly grazed by the razor tip of the unsuspecting projectile, Atreus swerving both plated arm and bare head, averts the attack. Simultaneously, the three look to the skies, meeting sight with a rapidly descending shadow atop a winged beast. Before the hippogriff can reach the cavern's depths, the figure with his bow strapped to his back, and two duel axes in hand, leaps from his mount. Now crouched to them, rising to meet the Wolf of Midgard's sight, is the God of Winter and Sport, Ullr.
"Now, this is what I call a prized catch," he remarks in high spirits. As swift as his arrival, it's not long before he chooses to assert his authority. With an open hand to stay his sister, and with a calm stroll, he bars their path from one another. "Stand aside, dear sister. This is between the grown-ups." From his anticipation, his curved, runic axes of icy cold spin freely in his hands.
"Don't think you can order me around!" Thrúd projects with distaste. "I found him first! He's mine to fight!"
"It is my place to do so," he replies playfully. "Uncle insisted I don't let you embarrass our clan by getting yourself killed... Unfortunately..."
Their brief quarrel grants Atreus an equally sized window to devise a strategy. Already, his mind races to scramble an immediate plan of action but cannot remove a factor from the equation. Although his presence directly threatens the Aesir, Sigyn is still their priority target, as far as his memory serves. Taking a quick glance at her, basic common sense is all that's required to acknowledge her emotional struggle due to the Aesir. In her mental state, she would be hindered, and it would be indirectly cruel to involve her in this conflict. It may be brash, but he made a promise and tends to keep it despite the consequences.
"Sigyn," Atreus whispers, his head only tilted to keep his sights vigilant on the Aesir. "Run..."
The sorceress squints, baffled at his request. Though she may feel indifferent at the moment, his courtesy has never felt fake or based on a lie. Even so, while admirable, her understanding of these gods is vastly knowledgeable compared to him. A sliver of guilt tugs at her heart at the prospect of leaving him to fend for himself.
"B-but," she tries to interject.
"This fight is mine, just as I swore it would," he replies in hushed words. "Go!"
In his urgency, Ullr catches the wind of their intentions. Yet, before he can act, Atreus arms himself with his father's blades once more. The charming Aesir of frost charges the duo, while the Wolf of Midgard retorts with a swing of his chained armaments. Following up with a flick of his arms, he conjures a crossed path of hellish blue flames impeding the Aesirs' sight of them. Sigyn, with this limited time, shows little hesitation to act. With her magic invoked, she leaves them all behind, with only her iconic emerald stream to mark her presence. As the fiery barrier fades, only Atreus stands against them. Instead of resentment for the trick, Ullr expresses amusement across his handsome face. A light chuckle slips past his white teeth.
"You should have listened to your uncle, Ullr," Atreus states with a growl in his voice. Already his blades radiate divine heat and burn a shade of cyan blue in his hard-clenched grasp. Atreus flips them, arms crossed with the relics directed at his foes. The yellow hue of a primal animal radiates from his battle-ready focus. "This wolf's fangs are ready to spill more blood!"