The welcoming and humble introduction Skrýmir addresses earns him little assurance from Atreus's defensive stance. The Wolf of Midgard sternly upholds his position, remaining firm with his projectiles directed at the giant. Everything he's experienced due to these presumed "tests" has left a bitter, distrustful taste in his mouth. His reliance on his senses has wavered from the many tricks and trials that defied the logic of reality he's continuously familiarized with. And even as each second passes, he cannot drop the prospect of this being another ploy to meddle with his grasp of what's genuine and false.
"A-are you Skrýmir?" Atreus questions skeptically.
"That is one name I go by," the giant replies with a booming chuckle. "But you and I both can relate to having multiple titles, eh?"
The Jötunn's benevolence dwindles none, even as lethal arrows are directed towards him. His carefree modesty prompts him to even move closer to the Wolf of Midgard, lowering himself to the closest eye level he can manage. It had not been notable before. But as Skrýmir makes adjustments to make the conversation more comfortable, the wobbling of his shifts and unsteady eyes and head make his intoxication evident.
"My creativity is as boundless as the sky, and even I couldn't imagine that the infamous "Wolf of Midgard" would be just a little pup!"
The giant, in his tipsy stupor, boldly and playfully pokes Atreus. The latter of which is nearly pushed over by the incidental amount of force behind the heavy finger. But, due to being overly puzzled by both the mannerisms of this Skrýmir, his lightly drunken state, and the absence of any oddities as before, he refrains from any brash action.
"See!" The Jötunn speaks in a poorly attempted whisper. "I'm as real as a naked bottom!"
"What do you mean by real?" Atreus asks, finally lowering his weapon.
"I'll explain, but first!" Skrýmir rushes himself back to his feet, rumbling the entire chamber unbalanced in his attempt. "This calls for a drink. Come with me!"
Reckless with his steps, the giant stumbles with a cheery surge of energy toward the doorway. Atreus, with a quick reaction, narrowly avoids his stomping heels. The understandably safe gap between them allows him to watch, without showing any exertion of strength, Skrýmir parting the gates open for them. Upon the opposite side of the archway is another open space. This one, on the other hand, bears no semblance of cleanliness. Much wood-carved furniture, and metal and clay utensils that accommodate the Jötunn's size reside within. However, many such chairs, chalices, and dishware clutter the floor. Even some old, moldy, long-expired food and crumbs also sully the ground, directly and indirectly within Skrýmir's path.
"Be sure to wipe your feet," he advises Atreus. "I don't like mud on my floor."
"I'm pretty sure mud is the last thing to be concerned with," Atreus mutters disgustingly. But obliges regardless before calmly following after.
Skrýmir pays no mind to the cluster of disorganization and messy condition of his living quarters. Instead, unconsciously he maneuvers through and over the untidy room, rummaging in search of more beverages and mugs to share. Random items, nick knacks, wood carvings, and other assorted junk are thrown around the room, creating an incidental hazard for the much smaller Loki. The giant mutters to himself in his wild chase, unaware of the further disarray he's causing.
"Here we are-" Skrýmir remarks in temporary fondness, holding up a drinking horn that fills his grip. Yet, when he approaches the Wolf of Midgard to offer a drink, the distinguishable detail of the horn rivaling Atreus in height becomes apparent even to the drunk. Even Loki raises an eyebrow of confusion when standing beside the massive container. "Oh ya, that's right... Tiny..." Once more, the giant returns to his scavenger hunt.
"Look, as much as this is flattering," Atreus begins to protest the offer. "You said we had to talk, talk about what?"
"Ah ha! Here we go!" The giant cheers, lifting a large bucket in his fingers and an abnormally large bottle in the other hand.
Disregarding Atreus's words, he drops the makeshift cup into his arms, which is still considered too big for him to use conventionally. Yet, with his grip taken to holding the container, the giant immediately and with no finesse pours into it. As any could reasonably expect, the Wolf of Midgard is dowsed with the bitter-smelling mead. The tension that fills the air from his stagnant pause rivals the stench of the old liquor. However, the blissful Skrýmir let's loose a wild, rumbling chuckle at his mistake. Taken aback by such bold laughter at Atreus's reaction, he stumbles back, falling back atop an immense makeshift bed of hay, a hand-sewn quilt, and a stuffed pillow. But Atreus, confounded by the rapid succession of distracting acts and phrases, his patience reaches its depleted peak.
"You said we had to talk!" Atreus remarks from earlier, placing down the bucket. This should be a stupendous moment of rejoicing, finally meeting another giant. Yet, whatever prior expectations were over imagined, have now crumbled by disappointment due to the previous trials and Skrýmir's persona. "And I want answers! Why test me, and to do so by putting my life in danger?"
"Danger?" Skrýmir questions, attempting to muffle his laughs with his palm. "There was no threat to your life."
Atreus can only stare at the giant, wide-eyed in frustrated confusion by the bold claim. He knew something was amiss from several unexplainable, minor details that would elude most eyes. Yet, he could not be so delusional that his trials weren't completely disguised.
"You're telling me that the room full of fire wasn't dangerous?" Atreus asks sarcastically.
"It would have, if it was real," Skrýmir notes, tapping his temple with his finger amusingly.
Even by the giant's hinted claim, the realization is not immediately evident in Atreus's mind. His internal reflection on the last few hours is decisive, and carefully thought through before jumping to wild conclusions. A brief act of pacing unfolds from him as he does so. Eventually, the minute elements that he couldn't fathom prior, gradually stick to his mind while pondering.
"It was all a fabrication?" Atreus deduces, bias towards his own judgment.
"An illusion," Skrýmir corrects, waving his fingers as cyan-blue and gold energy pour from his knuckles. "Prestidigitation."
The subtle, somatic gesture of the Jötunn's hand invokes a familiar spell. In the passing seconds that follow, the thick, sticky liquid upon Atreus's person fizzles away. Similar to the invocation that Freya had cast upon him a long time ago. Though the visual manifestation would be mesmerizing to many, Loki has experienced enough to be passive at its unfolding. But, if only to be undermined by the topic at hand, witnessing a giant using Seiðr magic is intriguing.
"But, how could any of that have been an illusion?" Atreus questions in disbelief. "I felt and saw the heat from the flames, heard the voices in my head. I was even struck out of the sky!"
"Changing the temperature in your general area was easy," Skrýmir notes self-impressed. "As were the voices. But you being a bird, was getting annoying to manage, so I flicked you out of the air."
Atreus, dumbfounded, can only stare in response to his final statement with a raised brow. This non-discreet reaction is enough to prompt further laughter in the giant. Who smacks his leg, the loud claps echoing and ringing through the abode.
"Than, that means Logi and Hugi were-"
"As physical as your imagination," Logi replies, the duo giants appearing to interrupt Atreus's comment.
Unconsciously driven by instinct, Loki leaps back, his hands already latching the hilts of his sheathed blades. Yet, he's brought to a halt upon realizing once more he's being toyed with. Hugi, Logi, and Skrýmir laugh in perfect, unmatching-pitched unison.
"Faster than thought, especially much faster than yours," Hugi teleports beside Atreus, mocking him once more before the two vanish.
"Honestly, they're my favorite characters I've ever created," the Jötunn comments.
Even with all that has been informed to him, and all the truths finally being unveiled, Atreus is still skeptical to trust. Fatigued by the jumbling information and discouraging deception of his senses, he can only smother his face into his palms. A deeply contained sigh is breathed into his hands in a muffle before redirecting himself back to the giant.
"It couldn't have all been fake," Atreus notes. "What about the cat?"
"Oh, that," Skrýmir recalls after a prolonged pause. "That was just the World Serpent, Jörmungandr."
The bland and concise tone of his response draws out a stunned reaction from the Wolf of Midgard. Atreus, no matter how ludicrous each statement is, continues to be stumped in silence. Fathoming the concept alone leaves him speechless as he scratches his head in wonder. As he does so, the giant begins guzzling down his mead, the swishing of it going down his throat rivals a waterfall in sound.
"Are you trying to tell me I lifted the World Serpent over my head?" Atreus questions, perturbed.
"Eh, don't pat yourself on the back too hard," the Jötunn comments with an open hand. "You only lifted the back end of its tail over your head. Thor, on the other hand, could lift the whole serpent."
The mix of discouragement and flattery is both a blessing to his prowess and a hindering reminder of his limitations. A relapse into introverted quietness prevents him from further pushing that specific topic. Although his questions have been met with concrete answers, some notions continue to pester him upon reaching this location, including unlocking the knowledge of another giant's existence. Another sigh of both strain and relief is driven from his chest.
"And what was the point of it all?" Atreus asks for another time, hoping for a more precise response. "I saw the carvings outside... You knew what was going to happen, that I would come here. You're a giant, yet you live in exile, here, of all places. Where your greatest enemies have easy access. Why? What role are you playing in all of this? Who are you really?"
Despite the several deep, invasive questions, Skrýmir rumbles with a closed-mouth chuckle. A daze occurs in his actions, staring at his drink with an amused ponder. His fingers do not leave the bottle, circling the tips around the top, the tiniest sound emanating from the container. As the booming laugh dwindles like a dying flame, a gentle smirk fueled by nostalgia peeks upon his face.
"I was once many things," Skrýmir replies with a chest-expanding sigh. "A teacher, trickster, prankster, jester... But above all, I was once a great man, revered among our people... And the foul Skrýmir who could fool even the Allfather and Thor with his acts... But most favorably, to my brothers and sisters of Jotenheim, I was Útgarða! The King of Jotenheim!"
The giant lifts his arms, relishing the memories of his days of praise and exaltation, almost expecting a cheer or clap for his revelation. And indeed, Atreus was baffled, consumed by dumbfounded denial at such a claim. He stares blankly, eyes widened with a single brow lifted and reaching for his hairline. This is not what he could fathom as a king, especially for the giants from the stories he's heard of them and their marvelous feats. This Útgarða, though immensely talented with his magic, is far too playful and mischievous to be a king. Or so Atreus believed until this moment.
"You're the King of Jotenheim?" Atreus questions with a tilt of his head.
A wordless answer is given in the form of a raised horn from the giant. The smile that's paired with the action, is that of humble but self-pride in his own title.
"You've got to be fucking kidding me?" Atreus replies, baffled.
Once more, instead of being offended by the reaction, he breaks into a delightfully humored chuckle.
"Aye, I know what you're thinking," Útgarða answers, leaning with a snort. "No one this drunk or "well-rounded" could be a competent king." The giant claps his hands upon his belly, shaking it in a broad laugh.
A direct shot of guilt is dealt to Atreus's chest at the self-deprecating comment. As though his own throat turns against him in the frantic urge to reply with an apology, he is without breath when waving his hands and head.
"I-I didn't mean t-to make you think that," He finally musters with a winded tone to his words.
"I know, I jest," the Jötunn speaks with a minor chuckle. "Those days of ruling our people are long faded into history... My place is here, where Gróa had said would be best before her passing. I serve our people from afar, where my enemies would least suspect me to hide."
Útgarða's response of assurance only cements the distraught that roots in Loki's heart. The memories and knowledge of the giant's unknown demise resurface. The explicit image of their bodies and corpses littering the mountains and plains stains his thoughts. And given the comment of humility and duty preached by Skrýmir, the giant seems unaware of what has unfolded in the realm of the Jötnar. Atreus is far from leniently willing to give this information out of courtesy to not harm his moral and uplifted spirits. But as he's already experienced not long ago, secrets can cut deeper than the apparent blade.
"About, our people," Atreus begins to profess, dragging out the truth hesitantly. "I went to Jotenheim, years ago... And, the giants there, were gone... Útgarða, they died out, a long time ago."
Every syllable, and every word as a whole is pried painfully out of Atreus's chest and even leaves a poor taste coating his tongue to confess. He can't even look the giant in his broad eyes when conveying this news to him. However, the moment he bolsters his courage to glance up, what he spots returns his sensation of confusion. Útgarða, has no bold or transparent reaction to this knowledge. Though he appears mildly distraught, it's an understating look for one who's just learned about such a terrible ordeal. Instead, his own eyes remained glued to his makeshift mug.
"I see," the giant passively replies.
"That's all you have to say?" Atreus questions with a shake of his head.
"Of course," Útgarða answers with the same tone. He shifts himself upright, now slouching over above the Wolf of Midgard. "Because our people are not gone... Scattered, lost, maybe. But we're still here, you, me, Jörmungandr... Our people live on in us, and beyond a veil, where no one, not even the Allfather, can see them."
The Jötunn's optimistic and symbolic claim offers no solid solace to Atreus. The Last Son of Sparta can only stare sorrowfully, relinquished of such hope for his race. This sensation is only bolstered as his mother becomes intertangled in his depressing thoughts, and the speculation of her involvement in these events. And as he correlates her to the topic, much of what Útgarða has positively spoken of, Faye would sympathize with.
"My mother would probably agree with you," Atreus speaks with a heavy heart.
The following second as his comment concludes, is the exact moment that he is stricken with a weight of gloom. Skrýmir, in his vast wisdom and intuition, can see the subtle signs of bleakness emitting from the Wolf of Midgard. Although Atreus no longer looks towards the giant, a sympathetic expression still slips from beneath the hulking figure's beard.
"I, I take it that Laufey has passed as well," the giant deduces from Atreus's mannerisms.
"You knew my mother?" Atreus questions, his curiosity sparking anew when looking up at the giant.
"Aye, like brother and sister, me and her," Útgarða replies, displaying the first hints of sorrow beneath his intoxicated guise. "It's been many winters since I last read her words from a missive..." Skrýmir is yet again in a trance, recalling his history with the giantess. However, whatever joy those past moments were meant to bring, only surges water within his eyelids. He lifts his fingers and rubs away the liquid before it can escape his sockets. "How did she pass, if you don't mind me asking?"
Atreus as well thinks back to the oldest moments of his childhood. Faye was a gentle parent, always patient with an open ear to everything he had to say or wanted to do. Even if his childlike innocence, his antics were not easy to follow seriously. Her cooking was the best food he had ever indulged in, and she was the anchor of peace he could always rely on. Especially whenever his rugged, emotionally hardened father only met his behavior with contempt or sternness. But, prominently, was her unsteady health during his upbringing. Like him, she too was prone to sickness, in several cases far more severe than he had endured.
"When I was little, I fell ill often," Atreus recalls, dreading looking back to his past. "I didn't learn until later that it was because my body was at war with itself. The nature of my mother and father's blood within me was at odds due to me not knowing of my heritage..." Delving back into his childhood continues to gnaw at his spirits, plunging him back to the sorrows of a saddened past. "But my mother, she too was afflicted by it... Over the years, it only became worse until one day, she couldn't even bring herself out of bed... And inevitably, never woke up altogether..."
Útgarða soaks in the heartwrenching aura, acting upon only a sliver of the grief of Faye's passing. The nodding of his head is subtle, dismissable, and easy to overlook despite his gigantic size. Yet, the entirety of his acknowledging reaction points to him discerning the meaning behind his old friend's death.
"I don't understand how it could be possible," Atreus comments, craving the elusive answer as he holds back his depression.
"To the Jötnar, our people can do many things others would consider unfathomable," Skrýmir reiterates. "But this, speaks a language all can understand, that of a mother's love... Of Laufey's love for you."
The giant's poetic preaches dry away Atreus's grief, redirecting his sights to the Jötunn king. But also exchange it with pondering towards the enigmatic notion.
"Based on the mystical gifts you've received from the twin wolves, you must be familiar with our people's magic?" Skrýmir assumes, pointing to the Trolls Bane armaments. Loki is in disarray by the comment, speechless by the giant's intuition. Yet, before he can deduce how he knows, Útgarða lifts a finger to halt the question. "We can share a portion of our spirit, our magics, to one another. A gift in itself from Ymir himself to all of his Jötunn children. This extends to our life force as well." There's a pause in the giant's explanation, a speed bump in his teaching that prevents him from blurting every bit of information. A second or so carries on, allowing him to filter and rewrite his thoughts more gently. "You may not have known it, but your mother may have given you her own living essence. She could have done so in her cooking you ate, in every hug she gave, or even through the toys and items you would directly use after receiving them... That would explain why she, too, fell victim to your sickness..."
The revelation is fierce in its blow to Loki's mind and soul, stumbling and almost dropping him to his knees. Even the unconscious act of breathing briefly proves difficult as he takes in this hypothesis. His chest pounds in pain from the expedited beating of his heart. No matter how the Jötunn king would have addressed it, there was no way of preventing the guilt that now binds his emotions.
"So, you're telling me that my mother is dead, because of me?" Atreus questions, attempting to quell his destabilized remorse.
"She "lived" because of you," Útgarða states firmly. "When we had chosen to remain in Midgard, contact with one another was scarce. Me, her, Jörmungandr, our connection was thin as a string. We could only converse with one another every few winters, out of worry over Asgard finding us... You gave her compassion, comfort, and love to cherish. And when one goes years without it, any sensible person will do their damndest to keep it... Even at the expense of their own life."
With every series of professions and statements that unobscure the looming mysteries, Atreus only finds his heart and thoughts unraveled too fiercely. His perception and views are more transparent, almost blinding with immense clarity. The love that Útgarða unveils is genuine, undeniably truthful, easy to believe, and yet no less sharp to take in. But he does not allow his rattled spirit to crumble before the eyes of the giant. Forcing himself to lock his anguish-bleeding heart from expression, and tighten his eyelids to hold back the streams of sorrow. Despite the emotional turmoil that strikes him, he presses the subject further.
"Did she know everything that was going to happen?" Atreus asks, painfully craving to know.
"Only the snippets that we could unlock on our own, and that of what Gróa has passed onto us," the Jötunn king answers, taking another sip of his mead.
"Did my mother know how she'd die? How my father was going to die?" Regardless of his experience and his findings back in Jotenheim, a flickering spark of hope flashes in the void of sorrow. A wishful thought that not everything Faye had done was because it was preordained.
"Your father?" Skrýmir questions, displaying his limited foresight.
"The giant's called him Fárbauti," Atreus clarifies. "But his name was Kratos. He was the marked warrior who fought Thor ten years ago!"
A burst of successive coughs and hacks erupt from the giant at the comment, choking on his beverage. The several slams of his fist upon his chest rumble the air and eardrums of the Wolf of Midgard like war drums. Still, Atreus is unfazed and more concerned now if the Jötunn might die of asphyxiation. However, the several lung-compressing gasps for air eventually clear away the alcoholic muck from his chest.
"You're father was the marked warrior?" Skrýmir asks, sniffling and baffled. "Well, that answers a few questions... That was a day I could vividly remember to the core of my heart, no matter how drunk I could have been... Your father and Thor shook the foundations of Midgard. I bet even Asgard felt the quake of their clash. I even heard that the God of Thunder left that fight in pretty poor shape."
No matter how fondly he regales the story of Thor receiving a fatal beating from the Ghost of Sparta, Atreus shows visible discomfort. His fists are clenched, brows sharply faced down into a scowl that he directs to the ground.
"Did she know?" Atreus asks with trembling grips.
"It is very likely, yes," Útgarða begrudgingly answers.
"Then why?" A spark of his internal anger peaks in Loki's tone. Yet again, he marches restlessly around the chamber, futilely attempting to expel the frustration that courses his veins like searing magma. "Why would she not say anything? She could have prevented soo much, stopped soo much suffering! She could have warned him! MY FATHER WOULD STILL BE ALIVE IF SHE HAD TOLD HIM!"
As his thoughts become a furious rant burning from his jaws, his rage also manifests. The veins in his arms swell, stretching to every corner of his flesh with steaming outrage. Even his eyes flare with a yellow light rivaling a bonfire on a dark winter night. Rippling from his chest and throat is the most savage, primal growl that only the blood-thirstiest beast could produce. In his pursuit of answers, he is only met with resolutions that invoke his disdain for fate once more. And still, all it takes is a single word to quell the beast within Atreus's pain-scarred heart.
"No..." The Jötunn king answers pithily to his outburst.
The rage passed down from Kratos steadily subsides as wonder tempers and washes over him. Finally, he is stopped to an intrigued stare halt as he shifts his gaze back to the giant. Skrýmir returns this look with that of his own guilt-ridden one. Now with an empty drink, he gracefully settles his cup upon the ground.
"It wouldn't have made a difference," Útgarða claims, saddened for Atreus. "I'd suspect your father was a good man... Not perfect, as there's no such thing. But decent enough to leap into any fray, especially if it meant protecting his child..." The melancholy that takes hold of the giant's facial structure and body language speaks of his sympathy for the Wolf of Midgard. Unsettling shivers lift the hairs on his arms and unsteady his posture. And his tone is gentle as falling snowflakes, and even he bears a similar sorrow of familiarity. "Maybe Faye's plea would have postponed it, but fate is never one to outright allow misdirection for prophecies. Any good father is ready to put their life on the line, especially if it's their children that they must shield. And I believe your father, this Kratos, would have done the same thing no matter if he knew or not the consequences that would befall him."
Atreus stubbornly persists in keeping his eyelids clear from the building water, threatening to drench his face. The unsteady sighs, the wiping of his face, and the quivering of his lip continue through the drawn-out seconds of gloom.
"I-I am sorry," Skrýmir expresses. "For everything you've had to endure... I truly am sorry for it all..."
The giant's sympathies fair little to wash away the emotional hardships resurfacing for the Wolf of Midgard. Instead, impatient with enduring the trauma of his past, he is adamant about setting it aside for the matters at hand.
"You speak of fate," Atreus replies, shaking his head while driving himself away from the topic. "And over and over again, I am told to have significance in everything happening. Ragnarök is here! I need answers on what I'm supposed to do!"
Útgarða, in his drunken state, is preemptively stumped by the request. Both startled by Atreus's eagerness to ignore his problems, including how to explain the intricacies of the answers. He attempts to chug more of his brew, only to catch drops from his glass. And in his sloshing state of mind, he tries to acquire a new beverage, but stumbles with every reach and motion of his hand to grab a new bottle.
"Fate, is a story that cannot be read directly," Skrýmir explains with a slur. "It's no singular path, but countless, interconnecting and shifting in currents based on the decision of every living thing. As every choice is made, new streams are made, and some run dry..." Finally, with another bottle of dirt brown liquor in hand, he clumsily yanks a large cork from it. "When Gróa peered into the currents of destiny, she did not see one climactic apocalypse... She saw all of them..."
"All of them?" Atreus, baffled, questions approaching closer to the intoxicated giant. "What does that mean?"
Several more swigs of his mead delay the Jötunn king's response. Even some of its contents escape his lips, drenching his black beard in alcohol. Atreus can only stare, resisting the inner instinct to yell out of annoyance at the giant's careless demeanor.
"The visions, soo prominent that even the Allfather sensed them," Útgarða recollects his thoughts to continue. "These depictions within our sage's mind were not of one Ragnarök, but every variation that could happen."
"You're telling me that there are multiple ways the world could end?" Atreus questions with a tightened chest of disbelief.
"Aye..." Skrýmir replies, dowsing his throat with another chug of his mead. "Gróa told Odin of only one, the Twilight of the Gods. Where Asgard is destroyed, Aesir, Vanir, and all giants are wiped out, and Midgard is left to ruin in the crossfire... Inevitably to be reborn in time. The finale to the grand cycle... But this is but one form that Ragnarök could take."
If Atreus had not felt inconceivably tiny compared to the world around him, this sensation had now overshadowed his perception at this realization. All this time, he had been fighting a battle that he knew little to bare nothing of. And all of his actions could have been in vain if fate was as formless and boundless as he's been informed of. All that he believed he knew, had now become warped and contorted to an unrecognizable extent, and it coursed anger and terror in his veins. What could he have genuinely accomplished when he cannot foretell the long-term effects of his actions?
"And your trials, were they meant to single out which path would be paved?" Atreus asks, wary of the answer.
"Not just my tests," the Jötunn king begins. "But you as a whole would be the determining factor. Your upbringing, history, age, personality, physique, temperament, and how you solve a problem. All of it would deduce which Loki would be standing before me, and which would leave this room this day."
"And do you have your answer?" Atreus straightens his posture, holding himself high in anticipation of the giant's reply. But, instead of being granted clarity in words, a sluggish nod is all he's given. The shameful look on Skrýmir's face is also a bold hint of what he knows. "Then tell me! Who am I? What does my future hold for me?"
Despite his eager, beseeching request to know, the giant rivals a corpse in silence to his desire. Barely managing to remain upright, swaying side to side like waves on a beach, Útgarða stares grievingly at his mug. He persistently but gently caresses his drink, hypnotized by his own internal morality and dissatisfaction with himself.
"I-I cannot tell you," Skrýmir answers begrudgingly.
"What?" Atreus questions, with a spark of anger coursing through his tone. "After everything I've gone through, you would have me just continue on my path blindly?"
"Your destiny is your own to uncover," Útgarða responds, gentle regardless of the counteractive attitude from Atreus. "It is not my place to give you these answers."
Despite his attempts to settle the discussion with his calm reply, Loki displays his displeasure with an unnaturally firm stomp. The ground cracks beneath his heels as he plants himself beneath the disconnected giant.
"Then whose place is it?" Atreus asks in a roar. "Who has the right to continue to toy with me, my LIFE, and the decisions I make! What gives you the freedom to withhold this knowledge of my destiny from me!"
The fury reemerges in the Wolf of Midgard yet again, guiding every minor and significant action. Every step taken, an earth-breaking stomp, every word spoken, a blast of lunge rumbling outrage. His body instinctively tenses to hold back the blaze that ignites his soul and sears his spirit. Even so, the Jötunn king is unfazed, sensible, and cold as winter. Though his guilt dwindles and remains in his eyes, he cannot submit to the heat of Atreus's frustration.
"To tell you of your possible future may deter it into a fate far worse than what it may or may not already be," Útgarða claims gingerly. "All we have tested and learned of up to this point will have been fruitless, lad... You must be patient, as the answers will come in time."
Patient? Atreus questions in his mind, his ire scorching ever further at the notion. How much longer does he need to wait? How much time is left to spend as the world's end fast approaches, now unintentionally expedited by his and his father's actions? For every encounter he's met, and with each ambiguous and anonymous statement, he contends with an undermining sensation. As though he is being treated like a child, an immature soul that couldn't know better. And now, due to being devoid of innocence because of his hardships, this treatment pisses him off to no end. To such an intense degree that some of his rationality has shriveled by the heat of his anger.
"Patience has held me back long enough!" Atreus shouts.
Brashness dictates his actions as he draws his seax blade, throwing it towards the giant. But, instead of striking the Jötunn king, he uses his armament to shatter the bottle of mead in his plump grasp. What remains of the brew splatters upon the floor, and soaks the left side of the giant. The latter of which is startled by the act, flinching and bouncing back from the abrupt scattering of glass and mead. In that brief moment of averted focus, Útgarða glances at the sticky event unfolding. And in doing so, when he redirects his attention back to Atreus, the Wolf of Midgard already stands atop his padded chest. His beard in his hold, and one of his father's ignited blades in the other hand. While the flames remain primarily blue, a few flickers of crimson red occasionally blend and appear in the blaze.
The two set their eyes upon one another, one filled with rage, the other in worry and wonder. Yet, even as Atreus's eyes singe with an unsettling glow, a dwindling presence of his humility and composure holds his primal instincts at bay. If only by a small margin, but enough to prevent further escalation. And with the giant shocked to soberness, he does take advantage of this scare tactic he blindly invoked.
"You will tell me what I want to know, or the last thing you'll see is your headless body after I've severed your skull from it!" Atreus threatens with a growl emitting from his throat.
Though he struggles with his rage, trembling by the force of its internal fury, Atreus holds his ground strictly. Nothing the giant has done warrants harm, but the desperation to know where his actions will lead him, obscures his sense of rationality. However, even in this crude and offensive act, the Wolf of Midgard only stirs an awkward titter from the Jötunn.
"Oh boy, Gróa did warn me you might be violent," Útgarða comments, his hands lifted helplessly.
"You haven't seen violent..." Atreus replies, his teeth clenched into a snarl.
"But I have..." Skrýmir quells himself, reverting his thoughts to a different time. As he recollects, speaking of his own history, a bleak look shapes his face and tone. Whatever concern that Atreus struck into his heart, was drowning beneath the waves of tragedy. "I saw violence incarnate, when the God of Thunder unleashed his storm of hate upon Midgard. With every crackle of lighting that scorched the sky, one by one, my kin fell to his wrath... And I had to watch it all unfold, unable to thwart his onslaught. All I could do was shepherd those few who I could find to safety, while not allowing myself to mourn until the storm had settled."
Though vastly different in scale from the feeling of loss, Atreus is gradually deterred from his savagery by his empathy towards the Jötunn king. The fierce illumination of his glare dwindles into a soft light, and even his stance loosens. His indifference towards the giant was misguided, and this shift in his attitude grants the Wolf of Midgard clarity to this opinion.
"Funny," Útgarða mutters with a half-breathed chuckle. "I'd imagine Thor might find amusement seeing that fury in your eyes."
The sharp comment pierces deep enough to dismiss the rage in Atreus, who finally and fully reflects upon his behavior. The moment he glances at his father's relic, the flames subside and fade into the searing metal of the sword. He reverses his grip upon it, directing its lethal end downward. Though he is greatly tempered by the several sighs that gust from his jaws, he is unable to fully move past being refused yet again. However, in his calming state, he recalls his initial purpose for venturing to the giant's dwelling.
"If you won't give me answers about my well-being, then at least tell me what you've done with Sigyn," Atreus demands, lightly yanking the bushy beard in his hold.
"Sigyn? The Aesir?" Skrýmir restates, perturbed, briefly forgetting about the sorceress and her involvement in his plans. "I haven't done anything to the lass, just a ruse to get you here quicker... But rest assured, one of her Aesir comrades was not too far behind her."
What had bound Atreus in frustration was now swept away by the looming clouds of dread. His heart no longer rumbled with anger, by now a grave concern at the notion. Even his unconscious breathing increases in rhythm as he takes in this information.
"What Aesir?" Atreus questions, urging the answer with another tug of the facial hair.
"Eh, weird fella," Útgarða slurs as he slowly recollects his thoughts. "Older looking guy, a spear, bow, and a thick sash across his eyes... Even if he couldn't see, it seemed he knew where he was going, and was he sure as hell fast at it."
"Höðr..." Atreus's suspicions strike quick as his own arrows, and harsher than any truths. With the abundance of time expended in his wild chase constructed by the Jötunn, even he can't anticipate if she's safe. Disregarding all that he's experienced, and despite whatever further knowledge Útgarða could pass down to him, Atreus makes haste to exit the chamber. His weapons are already sheathed, and he has turned a blind eye to the giant, who suddenly shows insistence on speaking further.
"Loki, wait!" Skrýmir calls out, prompting the Wolf of Midgard to stop in his tracks. "What do you intend on doing?"
"What is necessary to protect Sigyn!" Atreus replies vaguely.
A different side to the drunk giant unveils itself for the first time since their initial meeting. How Útgarða had portrayed himself as a nonchalant, sympathetic, and tame individual, now acts according to a different tune. He lifts himself as best he can, still stumbling with each lean and sway of his motions. But motivated by grim knowledge, a worrying consideration for the Last Son of Sparta.
"I warn you, Loki of the Jötnar, that you must not kill the one named Höðr!" The giant urges with distraught in his voice.
"You know who he is?" Atreus questions, baffled that someone other than Sigyn may know his history.
"I know the name, but not the one who holds it." After a few moments of swaying and wobbly adjusting, Skrýmir is finally atop his feet in a slouched stance. "And I know that dire consequences will befall you if you end his life."
"You had your chance to help me with my decisions, and now you choose to intervene?" The giant persists in his unpredictable antics, even without his illusions to aid him. This meddling only serves to fuel his ire more, and the wasted seconds after are the kindling that keeps it aflame. "Whatever comes from my actions, I will deal with them when the time comes... I've endured this far and can do so in far worse circumstances!"
Doubt was an absent feeling in Atreus's heart, and the conviction of his thoughts to save Sigyn silenced any worry over the possible encounter ahead. He knows not if he can defeat the God of Darkness, but nothing in the nine realms would prevent him from trying. He would face the shadows with the flames of his wrath. And this was all readable to the ancient lord of Jotenheim. Útgarða will not risk playing with this fire, but cannot let it snuff out with the one burdened to carry such a torch.
"If that is what you wish," Skrýmir claims, barely managing to stand properly and straight. "I cannot stop you, Loki... But I can let you carry one of my many blessings."
With the last aspect of curiosity toward the giant, Atreus stares with a perplexed squit. Only grows more bewildered as the giant twirls and sways his fingers and hands in identical unison. At his corporal command, black and violet smoke and clouds pour and seep from the appendages. In mere seconds, his arms and the surrounding area below his padded feet are blanketed in the enchanted veil. Only to swiftly divert the fog towards the Wolf of Midgard with a high-winded blow of his lips into his flicked wrists. As rushing gusts surge through the chamber, Atreus is clouded by this indistinguishable magic. As he unconsciously reacts, shielding himself from the burst of black air, he does not initially realize what's unfolding around him. The dark fumes begin to inject and invade his Nordic markings, flaring them into a vibrant purple as they consume the gases. In those few seconds, Loki can only glimpse this enchantment in work, before the display fades back into his traditional black inked marks.
"Move like the shadows, always one step ahead of the light," Útgarða comments boldly.
But his gifts do not end with the mysterious blessing. Reaching into his shaggy beard, the giant reveals a singular, glowing rod of unknown oak. Unrecognizable energy bleeds from the bark, of feint lines of magenta and ash grey. With a flick of his fingers, the extensive root is sent flying toward the Last Son of Sparta, who miraculously can catch it despite its speed. Even when grasping it, whatever forces course through this branch sends a tingling, cool sensation through his skin.
"What is this? Atreus questions, intrigued by the stem.
"Your dwarf friends will be able to tell you more about it than I could," Skrýmir replies. "But if you seek to learn more, in your path, you will meet someone named Sinmara... She will be able to give you more answers than I."
Even as time is of little essence, Atreus cannot shake this sense that his and the giant's paths are steering apart. His pondering stare slows his efforts to pack away his possessions for the next chapter of his story. Their sour, gloomy first meeting leaves the two dry in their throats to speak further.
"Will we ever meet again?" Atreus asks, needing one final answer before he can peacefully depart.
"If your fate permits it," Útgarða answers, slumping back to his empty, symbolic throne of dust.
As was anticipated, yet another vague response is offered in his confusion. Though, more oddly than expected, it still gives Atreus a margin of comfort to know there's a possibility. However, such ease of mind may only fade as he approaches the threat ahead. He turns his back once more to the elusive Jötunn, who has aided him more than he knows. Skrýmir can only observe as the gradual distance grows between them as the Wolf of Midgard marches onward. For the giants, the old king has done his part. Many secrets have been withheld, filling him with self-hate for biting his tongue to the boy's pleas. The one above all is the outcome of Atreus's next tests.
(Authors Notes)
This was a very long chapter, thank you for being patient. We're finally reaching the parts of the story I'm most excited about, and have been looking forward to writing. A lot is about to happen, and it's been a long wait, which I'm grateful for everyone continuing to read and give their feedback on.