Go for It!
God of War and all associated characters and interpretations are property of Sony Santa Monica. Kingdom Hearts and all associated characters are property of Disney and Square Enix.
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Atreus had fun watching Sora show off his cooking skills with Angrboda. While the Flambe fire show was certainly flashy—and was Angrboda's favorite—Atreus was more impressed by his egg 'trick'. Somehow, he could always pick out the eggs that held two yolks. A lot of cake vouchers swapped hands until people caught on.
But then, a horn sounded. Three short blasts followed by a long one.
Atreus looked up at the sky. "Woah! Is it time already?" As he said so, Sora called out to the crowd.
"Looks like I have to cut the show short." When people started to jeer—good-naturedly—he replied, "Don't worry! You'll get to see me duke it out with Kratos soon enough!" That got people cheering, albeit in a light-hearted, teasing disbelief.
Angrboda snorted. "Bit cocky, isn't he?" Atreus said nothing. "…Isn't he?"
"I've gotta go too." Atreus gave her a quick peck on the cheek. "I'll see you later."
"…I should find out where people are making bets," he heard her mutter as he walked towards the tournament grounds.
Other participants slipped free from the crowds too. He saw Sora and Thrúd, as expected, come in with the contingent of Midgardians, along with Sigrún, Hildr, and Geirdriful. Birgir and Beyla wordlessly attached themselves to Atreus's hips. Forseti, of all the Aesir, led a small handful of Aesir and Vanir. If not for the fact that said god had personally thanked Atreus and his father for putting Baldur out of his misery a few years back, he would have thought the man sought some sort of revenge of his father's behalf. And in a rather surprising move, both Light and Dark elves strode together as a mixed unit, no one even attempting to sneer at each other for getting too close. And yet, not a dwarf in sight. It would seem that the first part of this insane plan was going off without a hitch. And yet, there was he couldn't helpt but notice there was not a dwarf in sight.
He wasn't entirely surprised. His mother and Durlin's failed rebellion years ago had done a lot to quash the dwarves' martial spirit. Who knew, maybe this tournament would reignite that fire?
The tournament grounds were a fair bit away from the rest of the festival, closer to the Lake of the Nine. Tyr had told him that he had chosen it because the sun reflecting off the lake at sunset gave it an ethereal glow that he felt would be fitting for a fight with a God of War.
When he asked Tyr what Father thought about it, the god had just rolled his eyes and said he had no eye for aesthetic, and as such his opinion was invalid.
The assembled challengers—dozens of them—found themselves before Tyr and Father. Father looked as stoic as ever, but Tyr wore a wide smile on his face, his golden eyes alight with excitement.
"Welcome challengers!" Tyr called out. "To an event unlike any the Realms have ever seen." He waved his left hand, and a large wooden board with brackets carved into it appeared behind him and Father in a shower of golden sparks, a small bucket hanging from the bottom.
Atreus could see his father heavily resist the urge to roll his eyes at the theatrics. He held on and stepped forward to address them all. "As a reminder, there is no prize for this competition beyond the chance to face me in battle. The only glory to be won here is of the personal kind. Any who wish for more may leave now." No one moved. "Good," Father said as he and Tyr reached into the bucket. They pulled out wooden lots with names and placed them on the outer brackets. Atreus blinked as he saw Mimir swinging silently from his father's hips, shocked that the talking head was keeping quiet. But then, this was his father and Tyr's show.
"As you can see," Tyr began, "the bracket is being randomly determined. Simply come over and see who your opponent is, and which field you shall face each other on—they are marked." He and father finished putting up the names and turned to face the crowd once more. "As the sign-up sheets stated, the fights shall be performed until you either yield, are knocked off your feet and are unable to rise before the count of ten, or are simply knocked out. As written, the initial matches shall be fought without any sort of magical weaponry or techniques. To that end, we shall provide you specially crafted and enchanted wooden weapons."
A Light Elf raised her hand. "What about flying?"
Father grunted. "So long as you fly without the use of magic."
"That's not really fair to the majority of us, is it?" An Aesir spoke up, after which a host of others did, looking askance at the elves and shield-maidens. Even Atreus arched a brow; it was an unfair advantage.
Father grunted. "If you cannot fight—and win—under such a disadvantage, you shall have no hope to even attempt to face me." And that was that. Though a Dark Elf did say that flying during combat was taxing and not something they overused—which fit with what he'd seen of the other Dark and Light Elves he'd…killed.
He readily pushed that thought aside.
Father continued. "You shall have ten minutes to ready yourselves before your first match, which shall all be held at the same time. Once all combatants have faced each other, the second round shall begin after another ten-minute break. And so on until only eight competitors remain."
Tyr took over. "The final matches shall proceed one after the other, and those eight will have earned the right to use the full breadth of their abilities—personal weapons and magics—in the final rounds."
"All our weapons and magic?" a Vanir woman asked, her unasked question of 'even the lethal kind?' rumbling through the crowd.
"Should you reach that point. We ask that you try not to kill each other—and if you do, be warned that Kratos and I shall be upon you faster than you can blink," Tyr emphasized that statement with a harsh glow of golden eyes. "But we will have healers standing by."
"Are there any other questions?" Father asked.
"What if the wooden weapons break?" someone called out from behind Atreus.
"Then you may yield or attempt to fight with your bare hands. Anything else?" No else one spoke up. "Good. I expect nothing less than the best." And with that, he turned on his heel, heading for the center of the field, where he could carefully observe all the matches. Tyr fondly rolled his eyes and snapped his fingers. Multiple weapon racks holding wooden weapons appeared in a shimmer of golden light.
At his welcoming wave, the entrants surged forward as one. Atreus quickly spied his name and sighed in relief when he saw Sora's and Thrúd's names on the opposite bracket. Good.
Atreus knew he was a capable fighter, but he could never beat Thrúd in a fair fight. The only time he came close was when he got frustrated enough and inadvertently transformed into a bear—after which she just blasted him with lightning from Mjolnir until he calmed down. And knowing that Sora could go toe-to-toe with Tyr…yeah. The longer he went without facing either of them, the better.
With that happy thought in mind, he read the name of his first opponent—someone called Svartálvargr. Something about the name sounded familiar. Almost distressingly so.
He felt a sturdy hand clap him on his shoulder and looked over to see Birgir smiling down at him. "Well, good luck, Atreus!"
"Should we face each other, know that I won't hold back," Beyla added warmly.
Atreus smirked back. "Back at ya!" He waved them off and headed towards the weapon racks. There weren't any bows, to his slight displeasure. And looking around, he saw that there were a handful of other contestants frowning at the assortment of axes, swords, clubs, and spears. He should have a talk with Tyr and his father after the tournament, see about expanding the available weapons for the next one. Still, he was able to find a decent axe. It wasn't like the ones his father had made for personal training—to say nothing of his mother's axe—but it was well-crafted and felt good in his hands. After giving it a few experimental swings, he nodded, and hefted it over his shoulder as he moved to his field.
His opponent was already there; a large Dark Elf wielding a spear, his stature and horns denoting him as someone of authority. Atreus was in no way an expert in Elf physiology—it seemed rude, but he honestly could not tell any apart aside from gender and the clear Light and Dark divide—but like the name, his face was eerily familiar. Stray sparks lit up in the corner of Atreus's mind, an old memory trying to breach to the surface.
"Hey there!" Atreus greeted, holding out a hand. Svartálvargr grunted and shook the hand, giving Atreus the chance to get a closer look at him. Something about that face…Once again, he was struck with the notion that the elf before him was eerily familiar.
"See something you like?" the Dark Elf asked with an arched brow.
Atreus chuckled awkwardly and pulled back his hand. "Uh, sorry. Don't mean to stare just…Have we met before?"
"No." Svartálvargr hesitated, before saying, "But I do bear a remarkable resemblance to someone you have met. My father, Svartáljǫfurr."
The name burst through Atreus's mind like lightning. "Oh!" Atreus blinked, unease worming around in his gut. "He was…uh…"
"The previous king of the Dark Elves," Svartálvargr said. "You and your father killed him after slaughtering our forces within the Temple of Light, putting it back into the Light Elves' hands."
Atreus looked away and pulled at his collar. "Right…Sorry, your majesty."
"I'm not the current king, that's my eldest brother's burden. And don't be sorry." Svartálvargr shook his head. "It was…a different time. I do not blame you, or your father. Not anymore." He sighed and leaned his spear against his shoulder. "Perhaps, had Lord Freyr not returned to us, because of you and your father, in part, and forced us to shed blood with our Light Elf kin—as opposed to simply spilling it as always—to free us all from Asgard's grasp, I would still be bitter." He smiled softly at Atreus. "But for the first time in…forever, elven children will not be raised to fight in an unending war. My own daughter can pursue avenues I and my forefathers have long been denied." He pressed a hand against his chest and bowed his head. "So, for that, from the bottom of my heart, thank you."
Now Atreus was uncomfortable for an entirely different reason. "Uh, you're welcome, I guess." He cleared his throat. "So, you've got a daughter?"
"Yes. Her mother should be bringing her by soon." He smirked down at Atreus. "Let's give them a good show, hm?"
"As long as you don't beat me up too much."
Svartálvargr chuckled. "Says the man who, as a child, tore apart skilled Dark Elves warriors by the dozen for hours."
Atreus grimaced at the reminder of that dreadful day in Alfheim, when his father had disappeared into the Light of Alfheim and, purely by accident, left him alone to deal with an overwhelming number of angry Dark Elves. "That was…" he trailed off, not knowing what to say.
"It was impressive," Svartálvargr replied. "Survivors of that day still speak of it, of you, in awe." Atreus had no idea what to say to that, so he just nodded, and walked to the other end of their field.
The judge—a large, scarred, elderly Midgardian who might have once been one of Odin's Travelers—came by soon after, and quickly relayed the rules once again. As he did so, non-competitors finally started coming down. Atreus spied Angrboda meandering towards him, looking mightily pleased with herself—she probably found the betting stands. He hoped she put at least some money on him. Svartálvargr's wife and daughter reached them soon after, the young girl—barely older than three, if Atreus had to guess—waving excitedly and calling out in the elvish tongue for her father to win.
Most fighters seemed to have family or close friends that wanted to cheer them on, but there were far more unattached observers, content to wander through the fields and stopping to watch whoever caught their eyes. It sent a strangely pleasant thrill down Atreus's spine when he and Svartálvargr gathered a sizable crowd.
"Are you ready?" the judge asked them. Atreus and Svartálvargr nodded, settling into battle stances. "On my mark…3…2…1…Begin!"
Svartálvargr moved first, wings buzzing as he hopped into the air and stabbed down at Atreus. He dodged to the side and swung his axe upward to slash at Svartálvargr's arm. But the elf shifted his spear, shoving the axe aside while smacking Atreus in the ribs.
Atreus grit his teeth as he stumbled back from the force of the hit, before darting forward with a flurry of blows. Svartálvargr was able to block or divert most of them, but Atreus landed solid blows against the elf's right arm and left leg.
They disengaged, Svartálvargr grimacing as he tried to shift and bring a little relief to his bruising leg and arm. Atreus didn't give him a chance. He darted forward and ducked under a wide swipe aimed at his chest. He swung low, the hook of his axe catching Svartálvargr by his ankle, and he wrenched his weapon upward. Svartálvargr's wings buzzed as he tried to right himself in the air, but Atreus landed a solid blow right between his wings, sending him flat on his face into the dirt.
Atreus kicked the spear away and pressed his axe against Svartálvargr's neck. "Give up?"
Svartálvargr lifted his head up, looking over his shoulder with a pained smile. "I yield." Atreus stepped away and held out a hand. "Nice to see you've only gotten deadlier with age." Atreus managed an awkward smile at the reminder of his one-time slaughter—did all Dark Elves admire him so, or was Svartálvargr a weird exception?
"Atreus of Midgard wins his match!" the judge called out, and it was at that moment Atreus became truly aware of the crowd surrounding them. There were cheers from people that supported him, or simply loved the idea of watching teo people beat on each other in public. There were grumbled from those that supported Svartálvargr instead, or even just lost money on the bets. But the general mood through the crowd—all of them across the grounds—was one of joy.
It was an infectious feeling. He could see why Sora was so taken with tournaments.
"That was a good fight." Svartálvargr said as he picked up his spear. He winced and shook his left leg.
"Didn't hit you too hard, did I?"
"No harder than I hit your ribs." Atreus pat his torso at the reminder. Nothing broken, but he could tell a bruise was starting to form. He grunted and called on his divine nature to heal the injury. His torso shimmered, and he let out a content sigh as the injury healed, as though it had never existed in the first place.
Svartálvargr snorted. "That's some useful magic."
"Pays to be a god."
"Right." Svartálvargr shook his head. "It's easy to forget that, just looking at you. No offense, but you don't exude the same…presence as other gods."
"None taken," Atreus replied. He'd noticed it too, after regular contact with gods outside his father and Mimir. He'd asked Mimir about it once; the best the talking head could infer, there was still a part of his soul that tried to at least play the part of a mortal. He'd spent most of his life believing he was one, after all.
Svartálvargr raised a hand. "In any case, I wish you luck, Atreus."
"Thanks." Atreus shook his hand.
"And promise me you'll at least make it to the final eight. It'd be embarrassing to if the guy the beat me couldn't even make it past the second round." Atreus rolled his eyes with a smirk, before pulling back and waving goodbye. Svartálvargr hurried over to his family, smiling widely as his daughter reached out to be held by him.
Atreus watched the Dark Elf family for a moment. He felt a little awkward when Svartálvargr and his wife pressed their heads together, their wings briefly buzzing in a short harmony. But it was over as quickly as it began, and Svartálvargr quickly diverted his attention to his daughter. She babbled something in Elvish, pouting lightly, but Svartálvargr just laughed, poked her belly, and responded in a soft, warm tone.
"Makes you think, huh?"
Atreus jolted at the voice, turning to find Angrboda at his side, head tilted in thought as she too observed Svartálvargr and his family.
Atreus cleared his throat. "Kind of." He plastered a grin on his face, "So, what you think of the match?"
"Watching two grown men beat each other with carved wood?" Angrboda drawled. "It was riveting."
Atreus snorted, and wrapped an arm around her waist as they meandered the fighting grounds. Some matches were still going, so they had a bit of time. "I win you any money?"
She looked away guiltily. "I…Kinda put everything down on Sora." He arched a brow. "Hey, you're the one who said he stood his ground against Tyr! I can count the number of people that can do that on one hand." Atreus could concede that point. "But yeah, I'm already making a profit."
"Already? How?"
"For one, with the likes of you, Sigrún, and Thrúd on the roster, the people in charge of the betting pools consider him a longshot. And there's extra bets made for how long matches last, and whether or not someone will win without getting hit."
"How'd you place your bets?"
"I bet that Sora would win his matches, take longer than a minute, and not get hit. Until the final eight, at least."
"Longer than a minute, but not getting hit? How's that work?"
"Have you met the guy?" Angrboda snorted in amusement. "He wants to have as much fun as possible; I was thinking that he'd give his opponents a chance to show off too. Not embarrass them too badly." She smiled widely, showing off her teeth. "And considering the brief fight I from here, I'm right! Wonder if I can alter some of the bets, add in how many times Sora will dodge versus blocking. Ooh, and when he gets to the final matches, what types of magic he'll use, and what order he'll use them in!"
Atreus laughed. "I didn't think you of all people would have a gambling problem."
"It's only a problem if you lose," she snarked, leaning her head against his own.
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A/N: I've rewritten this tournament so many times. I'm still rewriting the last fights.