Atreus twinges with sharp pain in his skull, and his vision burns by the flash of radiance as he lifts himself to his fours. The ringing pain in his ears invades the recesses of his mind, piercing the columns down his spine in sharp pain. Only the passage of the indistinguishable seconds offers alleviation, quelling his blinded eyesight and toning down the ache of his hearing. As his vision settles to normalcy and the world around him clears, the realization of what had occurred also comes to his thoughts.
Lifting his head from his daze, slightly imbalanced from the blast, what's unfolded afflicts his heart with turmoil, disturbed lung-gripping horror. Freya, motionless and stained red with her blood, hangs limp in a panicked Sigyn's arms. The sorceress shouts with all the strength in her lungs, but the words cannot reach the disoriented Wolf of Midgard. His focus solely fixates on his friend, whose veins swell black before his eyes from the Aesir's magic. Her life flickers as a dying flame, and even with Sigyn's panicked aid, conjuring seiðr streams from her palms, only fruitless results come of it. What began as aches and sores, instantly subsides into a cold numbness in the Last Son of Sparta. This emptiness only consumes him further as his eyes shit toward another heart-tearing sight.
His bow, crafted by his mother and carried for his lifetime, is as fractured as his heart. The splintered wood decorates the floor in numerous pieces, with the string shriveled from the heat of the detonation, rendering it unrecognizable as a bow to other eyes. The last memento of Lafaye the Just, and all it represented, is forever lost instantly.
"Atreus!" Sigyn calls out to him in a panic, incapable of aiding the unconscious Vanir in her arms.
Yet her pleads reach warded ears due to his narrowed focus on the perpetrator of this anguish. Höðr, groveled and winded with no further resolve to fight, lies across from them. However, unlike his prior deplorable actions, there is no satisfaction. There is no chuckle, a smirk, or even a cheer of victory that surges from the Aesir in his final hour. Instead, he expresses a solemn acceptance for what he has done, and for the consequences that will inevitably follow.
"For my Allfather," the Aesir mutters with a cough of blood trickling after his words and into his beard.
There is a steady growth of heat within every part of the Last Son of Sparta, in taste, sound, touch, smell, and obscuring his sight. Every muscle in Atreus's body tenses, his body quivering and hardening from the intensity of his internal fury. Yet again, his actions and efforts persist in coming at a heavy price. His rapidly growing rage becomes evident with the steam and sparks of fiery red flames that flash from his flesh. Along with them, as he had once heard all those years ago when he took up his father's blades, a familiar ambiance pounds in his mind. The chanting of innumerable voices, deep in pitch, all beckon him to heed the call of his rage. The pounding of his heart matches the beat of their chants, pulling the beast within him to the surface. At the daunting sight of Atreus's rising anger, Sigyn's pleads wither away as she stares. The Aesir, still helpless upon the gravel, is shaken by the aura of wrath he's invoked. Yet, Höðr would not know the full gravity of his mistake until the cry of fury invades his ears.
As the burden of his losses finally snaps his patience, so does he fully submit to the flame in his heart. With irises enflamed in a bright yellow hue and primal fangs elongated with a hint of his canine transformation, Atreus lets loose a lung-tearing roar no mortal being could expel from their chest. This outburst triggers a startling flinch from the Aesir, who hadn't expressed concern at any events prior. Such caution and alarm urge Höðr to his feet, his hands raised, but a tackle denies any attempt to request mercy. Atreus, tightly gripping the Son of Odin, hurls them against the closest stone mass. The might carried in the collision sunders the wall of rock and rubble, the duo crashing through and into another chasm.
"Atreus!" Sigyn cries with grave concern about what he may do.
Her screams deafen the deeper into the pit Atreus and the Aesir descend, a scattered echo. As the two plummet, The Wolf of Midgard does not relent from his hunger for savagery, batter-ramming every surface and wall with Höðr's body. Devoid of any vigor and stamina, the Son of Odin is helpless to defend himself from the violent thrashing. Even as they reached the bottom of the crevice, tumbling against a slope to slow the fall, Atreus could not resist utilizing the momentum of their roll into a harsh, one-handed throw of the Aesir. The impact cracks the wall, casting out further gore and oxygen from the God of Shadow's body. Yet, the Son of Odin would not know reprieve without understanding torment.
The assault continues, beginning with a harsh kick from Atreus to his foe's skull that splatters blood across the surfaces below and to his side. The Wolf of Midgard follows this act by gripping him as a battering ram, bashing him with extreme bludgeoning force into the closest walls and surfaces. Pure ruthlessness determines the flailing and hurling of Loki's fists onto his broken enemy, further fracturing his Höðr's will with this brutality. The Aesir's minimal ability to retaliate is in vain as he pries and tussles against his assailant, baring empty results due to his condition. All the while, every blow strikes with a harsh sharpness that Höðr's never experienced before. The shattering of his bones beneath the blows of Atrue's knuckles, the spilling of his blood leaving the tears in his ripping flesh, each sensation invades his soul twice over. It's a torment never before endured, and the Aesir can only beg in his mind for it to end, as his words drown beneath the liquid from his veins and are devoid of sufficient air to fuel them.
His only respite comes when, once more, the wrath-blinded Wolf of Midgard casts him aside with another brazen throw. The Aesir impacts with a stalactite, landing beside a dark abyss, his arm helplessly hanging over it. There is no prospect of victory; even the statistical chance of survival is minimal to nonexistent for the Son of Odin. This dreaded realization sows itself to every thought in his mind, and his remaining spirit. Without thinking, solely acting out of necessity to preserve his life, Höðr begins to drag himself away in any convenient direction. Even as he starts leaning over the edge of a perilous pit as dark as his vision, he does not hesitate to press onward, taking the chances of a harsh plummet over what lies behind him. Yet, in spite of his last efforts, he would not find salvation.
Dragged by his heels, elevated to his knees, and his skull bound by enflamed hands, Höðr suspects that his sightless eyes lock upon Atreus's menacing scowl. Fueled by sound and imagination alone, the Aesir fabricates the monster that binds him in place. A demon, engulfed with flames of ire, that will usher in the twilight of the gods. He is to be the first divine victim of Ragnarök, kindling upon the fire that will scorch the worlds of Asgard and Midgard. In this metaphorical pyre, he resides, helplessly bound by this beast that even the Allfather perceived as a threat. His sight, in this dire moment, fails him once more, as he's incapable of witnessing the pair of thumbs that Atreus drives into his eyes.
An anguishing, harrowing wail blasts from Höðr's throat, as he frantically claws at the Wolf of Midgard in desperation. A spew of blood and gore sprays from his skull, coating Atreus as he continues prying deeper into his enemy's head. A hint of coral-colored steam from his rage and the juices of life radiates from him, the liquids evaporating off his body with an iron odor. He's met with silence only when the Last Son of Sparta achieves it in an identical method to his father. With a harsh, swift jerk of his hands, the Aesir's neck breaks. The fracturing of Höðr's bones ceases his outcry, his motions and actions, breathing, and that of his supposed everlasting life. All that remains is a husk, with barren eye sockets, and a lifeless, jaw-hanging expression. Atreus's sense of humanity only resurfaces to observe the corpse of his enemy plummet, crashing and tumbling down into the abyss below.
The heat of his anger rapidly subsides, turning into a startling tremor in his hands as he acknowledges the blood staining his body. Disbelief pounds in his heart, denial in his quivering breath, and he unconsciously shakes his head in refusal for what he's done. An unsettling shiver invades his scarlet-covered flesh, a coldness of shock. This action, devoid of sanity and unbound by his conviction, renders him dreaded and disgusted with himself. Despite having killed before, this extreme execution he committed exceeds what was necessary and beyond the cruelty his father would approve of. Worse, this chilling sensation intensifies as one final omen of his deeds manifests.
A torrent of shadow and smoke erupts from the pit below, where the Aesir's corpse had descended. The surge of darkness blasts upward, beyond Atreus and leaving whatever crevice within the mountain. As he's smothered by this energy, behaving with equal invasiveness, voices begin to prod into the deepest recesses of his mind. Loud, painfully merciless, Atreus, driven by such torment, his knees rattle and cave to the whispers. Knowledge, forbidden and forgotten, concealed with cursed magic, ravages his mind. The flurry of shadows muffles his groans and growls. He digs his fingers into the earth beneath him, cracking and shattering stones with his grip. Yet, as the seconds pass, and the shades along with them, the horrible revelation grips his soul in cold binds.
"Höðr," Atreus mutters his name in the silence. "God of Darkness, of the hunt... The Son of Odin... And Freya. The Twin brother of Baldur, cursed to be forgotten by the Allfather. All to make the perfect assassin, one that no one would know exists... Even by his own mother..."
As Atreus caves in on his arms and legs, the fatigue, guilt, and despair of what he's done and what he took have become unbearable. The desecration, damage, and red stains on rock and earth already haunt his consciousness. This relapse was not a loss of control, but a compromise of his vows and promises that he clung to desperately. Yet, only to let them go to sate a brief hunger for revenge, that shall not grant him remedy. At this moment, memories of what his father had done in Greece resurface. And never before had he felt so similar to Kratos, and it disturbed him to find relations with the worst aspect of his parent.
"What have I become?" Atreus questions, his mind fixating on the child he took from Freya.