Victor's Pride
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.
/+/+/+/+/
Atreus could have listened to his father talk for hours. However, Tyr eventually announced that Sigrún had fully recovered, and the final match would begin shortly.
"I'm gonna go find Thrúd," Atreus said as he stood. The least he could do is try and console her—if she and Skjöldr hadn't found a shadowed corner, that is.
"Give her our regards and condolences," Mimir called out as Father replaced him and his cushion on the stool. "Ooh! Nice and warm. I should ask you to sit on my stools more often." Atreus and his father exchanged fond rolls of their eyes.
He found Thrúd near the Vanir-Aesir stands, sitting beside Angrboda and in front of Skjöldr. Thrúd was leaning back into Skjöldr's chest, the young mortal carding his fingers through her hair.
Atreus eyed the duo, before shifting his gaze to Sif, who was in conversation with Freya and Geirdriful, and then back. "So is…this"—he gestured to the pair—"just out in the open now?"
"Fuck off," Thrúd groused without any real heat. "I got literally beaten into the ground. I deserve to be comforted by my boyfriend at any time of my choosing." Atreus looked up at Skjöldr, who just shrugged, continuing his ministrations.
Atreus sat beside Angrboda, who leaned her head against his shoulder. "You doing okay?" she asked. "Sigrún made you eat a lot of dirt."
He hummed and wrapped an arm around her waist. "I'm fine. Didn't really expect to win."
"Was this before or after you tried to blow her, and the rest of us, up?" Skjöldr asked off-handedly.
"Honestly blowing her up was a longshot."
Skjöldr scoffed. "Then why'd you do it?"
"Well, I still wanted to win, even if I doubted I could."
"That's the dumbest reason I've ever heard for trying to blow someone up," Thrúd snarked.
Before Atreus could counter her statement, Angrboda pressed a finger to his lips. "Shh! It's about to start."
Sigrún—armor repaired to a spotless shine—and Sora approached the field from opposite ends. Their movements were too synchronized to be spontaneous. And given the pleased grin on Tyr's face, Atreus had a pretty good guess who was responsible for that.
The god stepped forward as Sigrún and Sora stopped before each other. "My friends!" He addressed the crowd. "We have witnessed a great many challengers. Grand combatants, one and all! And yet, two have stood above the rest." He gestured to his left. "Sigrún, the beloved leader of Vanaheim's shield-maidens!" The Vanir-Aesir stands exploded in applause. Tyr waited for the applause to quiet, before gesturing to his right. "And Sora, a…chef possessing fantastic abilities." Now the Midgardians erupted in cheer.
Thrúd glowered. "Great. A simple chef kicked my ass.
Atreus clicked his tongue. "C'mon, you know that's not true."
"Does anyone else?"
Skojldr huffed and transitioned from manually combing Thrúd's hair to massaging her scalp. "Sora sleeps in Kratos's house and calls him a good friend. And I think the feeling's mutual?" He stared incredulously at Atreus, who nodded. "Yeah. Whatever anyone else says, we all know he's not a 'simple chef'."
"Your words mean nothing." Thrúd sighed and leaned into his touch. "What you're doing with those fingers, on the other hand, is very meaningful. Keep doing it."
Atreus scoffed and returned his attention to Tyr's grandstanding.
"…shall earn the right to face Kratos in single combat." Father leaned back in his throne. "And they shall begin." Tyr turned around; hands clasped behind his back as he walked to the edge of the field. "In ten…Nine…Eight…"
Sigrún, much like her match with Vidar, simply held her arms out and flexed her wings in anticipation. Sora, in contrast to his previous matches, set his face into a steady frown. He stared hard at Sigrún, before settling into his battle stance. His Keyblade formed out of a series of golden yellow blobs and…bees?
This Keyblade was, in a word, haphazard. The guard and handle were literally a bunch of wooden boards tied together. The blade was comprised of a series of off-center jars of, to Atreus's best guess, honey. The tip of the blade was a beehive—complete with three exaggerated bees—with a large stream of honey arcing out to form the teeth of the Keyblade. The token at the end was another honeypot.
Skjöldr leaned forward with a skeptical hum. "Are all Keyblades so…"
"Stupid looking?" Thrúd finished with a sneer.
"Anger's not a good look on you," Angrboda snarked. Thrúd huffed at her while Atreus shrugged at Skjöldr because, yeah, most of the Keyblades he'd seen looked weird.
Tyr turned around once he reached the edge of the field. "…Two…One…" He took a deep breath and bellowed. "BEGIN!"
Sigrún dashed forward like lightning, her left wing coated with magical energy as she stabbed it forward at Sora. The young man blocked the blow, but the force of it lifted him into the air. He wasn't deterred, however, leaning back with the hit. He flipped in the air, bracing on nothing before he shot forward with a bust of wind. Sora shifted into an upright position and shot his right foot forward in a kick as he let his Keyblade go. His Keyblade swirled around his foot telekinetically, light magic forming a drill around his body as he propelled towards Sigrún.
The shield-maiden leapt into the air to avoid the attack, flapping her winds to gain extra height. Sora landed on the ground after his counterattack missed, his Keyblade returning to his hand as the light magic faded away. Using his outstretched leg, he sprung up into the air, chasing Sigrún with an uppercut aimed at her torso. She dodged the blow, twirling around and landing a solid kick on his right shoulder.
Sora twirled in the air with a grunt, before righting himself and holding his Keyblade above him, the tip glowing green. A green-tinted whirlwind burst to life right in front of Sigrún. She tried to resist but was caught up in the force of the wind magic. Sora flew into the whirlwind, his body glowing with Flowmotion as it lifted him higher into the sky. He gripped his Keyblade in both hands, arcing down and hitting Sigrún across the body twice with two powerful Flowmotion enhanced blows. The energy faded seconds after, but Sora kept up his assault, bashing Sigrún relentlessly until she closed her wings around her body and summoned a wave of magic to shove him away.
"He's very good at that," Thrúd said with a grunt as Sigrún began to chase Sora through the air.
"Good at what?" Angrboda asked.
"Shifting the flow of a battle. Watch." She gestured to the fight. Sigrún had summoned her scythe, moving more like a tornado as she twirled it around to attack Sora. The Keyblade Wielder danced around the magic weapon, only getting caught by its blade twice before dashing under a sharp swing and landing a series of blistering blows against Sigrún's back before she was able to disengage.
"He doesn't bother with feints or trying to power through someone's offense," Thrúd explained. "He waits for the right moment before slipping past your defenses and striking hard and fast." She grimaced and rubbed the back of her head. "And you're shit outta luck if you can't find a way to get free before he's done with you. And that doesn't mean he won't sneak past your defenses again."
Atreus considered her statement. He supposed that was true, given how he'd seen Sora fight. Of course, most of the things they'd fought were of far lesser caliber than Sigrún, so Sora was free to just barrel through all of them and not struggle to control the flow of combat.
Sora and Sigrún fell back to the ground after the former blocked a heel strike from the latter. As Sora steadied himself, Sigrún dashed forward, her scythe pulled back for a wide swing. Instead of moving to block or dodge the strike, however, Sora just grinned.
He held his Keyblade in front of him with both hands, and when Sigrún was scant feet away from slashing at him, his furs flashed white, and his Keyblade expanded at least three times its size, just in time to catch Sigrún square in the gut and force her up in the air.
The honey-teeth of Sora's Keyblade jiggled like jelly, globs of golden honey spraying out from the beehive on the top. The exaggerated bees flew in circles around Sora as the Keyblade broke apart, the pots and beehive bouncing along the ground and splashing golden honey in their wake. Sora flipped in the air—his furs changing to the rich honey-gold color and diamond-patterned outfit Atreus had once seen in the Lyngbakr's dream—as two objects appeared in his hands. They were a pair of oblong cylinders colored black and yellow like a bee, that even came to a black-tipped point like a bee's, with a similar slapdash wooden hilt as the Keyblade proper. Based on the way Sora held them, Atreus presumed that they were similar to the arrowguns he'd previously used.
Sora spun the weapons in the air, before catching them and thrusting them to his sides. The weapons flashed white, and expanded to at least triple their size, beehives spewing fours pairs of solid, arcing honey spinning in place. He pulled the guns back, the weapons and honey shrinking until the beehives locked in place with the guns, the honey stuck in such a way that it appeared as if the weapons were overflowing with it. The bees around Sora landed atop the guns, solidifying until they looked like they had been carved from stone.
Everyone, even Sigrún and Father, gaped at the transformation.
And then Sora aimed both guns forward, solid arcs of honey stretching out as the beehive tips spun in place. Within a blink, the guns fired off dozens of globs of, well, honey at Sigrún, who rightfully flew into the air to avoid getting hit.
"Okay, Atreus, level with me," Skjöldr began slowly. "What in all the Realms am I looking at?"
Atreus, though far more used to Sora's shenanigans, shrugged helplessly. "Some kind of…honey guns, I guess."
"The fuck's a gun?" Thrúd queried.
"I don't know!" Atreus huffed. "You'd have to ask Sora. Or Father."
"Whatever a gun is, it's giving Sigrún a hard time," Angrboda chimed in. Atreus returned his attention to the fight. Sora had tagged Sigrún with a few shots, blobs of honey stuck on her body—her wings, especially, forcing her to lilt to the right side where more honey had accumulated. Her magic aura slowly burned them to nothing, but she was far less agile than she could be.
Eventually, with a frustrated shout, Sigrún flexed her wings, thick gray smoke exploding from her body and blocking the field and the surrounding stands from the sun.
Sora ceased firing, glaring up at the sky. He raised one gun and fired three wide shots into the smoke. In response, four shards of ice shot down towards him from the smoke. Sora dashed away, holding both guns up as he and Sigrún exchanged shots through the smoke.
Sigrún decided to up the ante, however. Bright red lights slowly shone from within the smoke, before fireballs rained down on the field. Sora abandoned his assault, leaping away from the fireball and gliding through air to dodge the rest. That's when Sigrún struck.
She dove right down for Sora, her scythe pulled back for a devastating slash. Sora managed to dodge it by a hair, but she braced against the ground and launched up at him just as he righted himself. Too soon for him to dodge again. It was the kind of situation that would create a sense of panic and fear within a person—even Father would wince in preparation of the blow.
Sora, however, proving himself to be as proudly abnormal as always, merely grinned. He held out his left-hand gun in front of him, and just before Sigrún's scythe could cut through him, a magical sphere made up of translucent hexagons formed around him, blocking the blow. Sigrún staggered as her attack bounced off the barrier, her scythe vanishing. With a triumphant, cheeky laugh, Sora held his right-hand gun over his head. The barrier flashed, before breaking apart, the individual hexagons cutting into Sigrún and forcing her back to the ground as the gray smoke hanging above the field finally dissipated.
As Sigrún recovered Sora landed a few feet away from her. His grin still in place—no, growing even wider—he spun in the air before lifting his right-hand gun over his head, the left-hand gun held out slightly behind him. The exaggerated bees dethatched from the guns and flew around Sora as two streams of honey from the guns' beehives solidified and grew, hanging parallel off the gun as they spun in place. Four more large, swirled globs of honey appeared around Sora, twirling around him before attaching to his right-hand gun.
Sora pulled his right hand back and shoved his left-hand gun forward, the strands of honey growing larger and twisting with gravity as they spun around. Sora brought the right-hand gun and pressed it against the back of the left-hand gun. The guns flashed white, and the honey strands on the left-hand gun coalesced and expanded into a soft of honey cogwheel. He pulled the new, bigger, singular honey gun back, the cogwheel shrinking down and opening in the center, a large, curled piece of honey springing out from the end of the weapon.
While everyone in the stands gaped at Sora once more, Sigrún merely dashed forward as Sora readjusted his grip on the new weapon. No doubt, she expected that Sora would be unable to fire it if she got too close. With that in mind, it really shouldn't have come as a shock that Sora just swung it straight into her—trails of liquid honey following his strikes—twice and knocked her up in the air. As she fell through the air, struggling to right herself, he lined up a point-blank shot. The front of the gun doubled in size as the cogwheel spun around, and Sigrún was blasted with a giant glob of golden honey.
She landed, honey stuck on her body, her wings bent as awkward angles. She tried to burn through it with magic, but Sora just shot more and more globs of honey at her. He fired and fired, until she was stuck, frozen in a giant pile of honey.
Sora lowered his weapon but didn't relax. Not until Tyr shouted out "TEN!"
Sora's weapon vanished in a series of golden liquid, his furs changing back to their normal color. At the same time, the honey around Sigrún melted away, whereupon she gasped heavily after her head was freed. Tyr took a moment to check on her as Eir and Freya rushed over.
"Holy shit," Skjöldr said in quiet awe. "He beat her with honey."
Angrboda smirked and elbowed Thrúd. "Bet that'll distract people from remembering how he kicked your ass with a hammer, huh?" Thrúd didn't answer, merely staring at Sora with wide eyes.
Eventually, she turned to Atreus. "I…Never stood a chance, did I?"
"Not a chance in hell," Atreus said with a slow shake of his head.
Once Sigrun was deemed well enough to walk on her own to the healers' tent, Tyr strolled over to Sora, who had his hands clasped behind his head, a proud smile on his face. "People, we have our champion!" That broke the stupor that fell over the crowd. Everyone—from the mortal Midgardians to the all-powerful Aesir—cheered. Sora's name became a rallying cry. The young man's mood rose with the crowds, and soon he raised his hands and cheered with them all.
Tyr clapped his hands in glee. "Indeed! But he can't rest on his laurels for too long! For come sundown, he shall face his greatest challenge of the day." He turned and held a hand out to Father. "He shall face our very own Kratos in single combat!"
As the crowd cheered once more, Father stood from his throne. He made a show of summoning his axe to his hand, the weapon twirling several times in the air, leaving frost in its wake, before landing in his hand. "I look forward to the challenge!" he declared.
"Better look forward to me wiping the floor with you!" Sora called out, bringing the crowd to a hush. Atreus openly stared at his friend—he knew he was confident, but to publicly call out Father himself?
His father, however, didn't take offense. No, he chuckled—in broad daylight!—at the vow, and said, "You may try." He turned towards the stands. "And to all who participated in this tournament, I thank you for the privilege of showing me your skills. The Realms are in good hands." Atreus was impressed by the small speech—and giving the approving smile Mimir sent Father's way, it was all his own.
/+/+/+/+/
Finally, the time had come for the final match between Father and Sora. Both disappeared after affirming their challenge to one another. Mimir had been left with Sigrún, who said that Father, at least, wanted to use the time to prepare himself.
That worried Atreus. The last time he'd wanted to 'prepare' himself was when they were about to break Odin's curse on Sigrún years ago—who they had been repeatedly warned was a deadly opponent. He knew his Father wasn't about to approach this fight with the same level of lethality, but…who knew what could happen in the heat of the moment? Especially since Sora and Father had a worryingly similar lust for battle.
Regardless, the setting sun shone off the Lake of the Nine, giving the battlegrounds that special flavor Tyr had insisted upon. Father and Sora were standing on opposite ends of the field, their faces carved into frowns. The intense look was common on Father, but disconcerting on Sora. It spoke of the otherworldly warrior he truly was, as opposed to the carefree young man he presented himself as.
Tyr, ever the dramatic, appeared from thin air in a shower of golden lights. He heard a few people start muttering about teleportation—one of the rarest skills in all the Realms, outside of the Dwarves thanks to Sindri and Brok—but Atreus knew it was just an invisibility spell with a flashy reveal.
"My friends!" he called out to the stands, arms spread wide. "We are here today to bear witness to an exciting match between two great warriors." He gestured to Father. "Kratos, who need no introduction." The stands erupted into cheers, chanting Father's name. The man himself merely raised a hand as he looked to each stand. After the noise died down, Tyr gestured to Sora. "And Sora, a young man who has proven himself the best of those gathered here today." The wild cheers returned, but unlike Father, Sora fully indulged the crowd. Smiling as he pumped his fists in the air and goaded the crowd on.
Tyr's smile widened as Father visibly resisted the urge to roll his eyes. After Sora finished, the crowd falling to a hush, Tyr clasped his hands behind his back. "Kratos. Sora." He nodded at them both. "Are you ready?" Neither warrior spoke, merely summoning their weapons to their hands—Father, his axe. Sora, the black, ship-based Keyblade he'd used in Muspelheim—and settled into their battle stances.
Tyr nodded, and turned around, strolling to the edge of the field. "Ten…Nine…"
"Hey, Atreus." Skjöldr leaned over to whisper in Atreus's ear. "Who do you think is going to win?"
Atreus pursed his lips. "I don't know. Can't really pick, if I'm being honest."
"Coward," Angrboda playfully jeered from his other side. Atreus just shrugged—he really had no idea. And honestly, thinking about which person of mass destruction was stronger terrified him. He would much rather just enjoy the ride and watch them batter each other.
"…Three…Two…One." Tyr took a deep breath and stated. "Begin."
Sora, body coated in Flowmotion energy, shot forward in an instant, the sound of glass breaking left in his wake. Father brought up his shield in an instant, blocking Sora's two strikes before countering with an upward swing of his axe. Sora blocked the blow, letting the force of it lift him up into the air as he flipped backwards.
When he righted in the air, Sora held his Keyblade high, the tip glowing yellow. "Strike!" he cried.
Father, acting more on instinct than any sort of visual indicator, darted to the side to avoid getting struck by lightning. He kept his shield up to block stray sparks, darting across the field as Sora called down lightning like a thunderstorm.
"It's weird seeing that again." Thrúd somberly remarked. Atreus hummed inquisitively, and she elaborated. "Someone just…calling down lightning from the sky. Only ever saw Dad do it." She sighed, leaning her head against Skjöldr's shoulder as he wrapped a comforting arm around her.
"You can't do that?" Atreus asked, keeping the fight in his peripherals. Sora flew through the sky, firing down various magics at Father. Father either blocked or dodged them, occasionally throwing a Draupnir Spear in retaliation.
Thrúd shook her head. "Nah. I can summon some storm clouds, but I can't actually do anything with them. Not like Dad could." She let out a breath, staring down at the legendary hammer with a troubled expression.
"You need some help?" Angrboda asked. "Loki found a bunch of Giants to teach him how to better use his magic."
"Don't think too many Giants will jump at the chance for help Thor's daughter better use Mjolnir." Thrúd deadpanned. "You know, on account of all the genocide."
"Most of them barely remembered their names when I put their souls into animal bodies," Angrboda breezily replied. "You'll be fine!"
Atreus tuned the pair out as they debated the ethics of asking the amnesiac Giants for help. Sora halted his magic assault—he'd probably run out of magical energy—giving Father some breathing room. He reared his arm back, and with a harsh bellow, hurled his ax at Sora. As the Keyblade Wielder flew through the air to avoid the axe, Father summoned a Draupnir Spear. He charged it, tip down as he dashed forward, and when he was just underneath Sora, he hopped into the air, the tip of the spear exploding and propelling him upward.
He slammed his shoulder into Sora's back, and as the young man spiraled in the air, he elbowed him in the gut and sent him crashing into the ground. He summoned his ax back into his hands, his body glowing with Flowmotion energy as he hovered in the air.
Sora recovered just in time to bring up his Keyblade to black Father's Flowmotion enhanced downward slash. His guard easily broke under the assault—the ax just barely missing his furs. Father continued his swing, smashing the ax against the ground. But just as blue-tinted spikes of ice began to sprout from the point of impact, Sora vanished in a flash of blue light. Father had just enough time to widen his eyes in shock and look over his shoulder before Sora reappeared in that same flash of blue right behind him.
"Gotcha!" he shouted in triumph as he landed two heavy downward slashes on Father's back. The first shoved him face-first into the icicles, and the last one forced him through them, scattering shards of ice across the field.
In the stands, Atreus was confident in saying that everyone, once again, gaped at Sora. On top of everything else he could, he could also just…casually teleport. Because sure, why not?
Father recovered quickly, rising to his feet and giving Sora an appraising look. Sora grinned back, before shooting a blast of fire at Father. He slashed through the fireball with his ax, before placing the weapon on his back and drawing the Blades of Chaos.
Father whipped his blades around in a furious dance, not letting Sora get close, but also preventing him from getting too far away so he could safely cast magic. Whenever Sora tried to get away, Father would quickly close the gap. For the first time in the tournament, Sora face twisted into a frustrated grimace as he was put on the backfoot.
Skjöldr hummed. "So, I'm not a fighter, but…your dad's shut Sora down, right?" He audibly winced as one of Father's Blades of Chaos left a flaming streak on Sora's torso, charring the fur.
"Looking like it," Thrúd said, a little too pleased at the current turn of events. While she would love to see Sora slowly burn until he admitted defeat, Atreus knew deep in his soul that Sora had a way out of this mess.
And he was proven right not seconds later.
Sora deflected two sharp swipes, and leapt back, spinning once as he swung his Keyblade low, the tip glowing blue. Father let out a sharp grunt, and drew both arms back, before his blades forward. But just before the Blades of Chaos could slice through Sora until they met in the middle, water sprouted up around him, forming a brief dome the blocked them both with almost contemptuous ease, steam rising from the points of impact. Father recalled his weapons just as a large sphere of water shot out from the tip of the Keyblade. He almost called up his shield to block it, but no doubt recalled how Sora's water spells summoned giant waves that washed everything they hit and decided against it. Instead, he held his blades parallel to his side. They shook, glowing molten red as a fireball formed in between them. When it grew large enough, Father shot the fireball out towards the water sphere. They impacted with a deafening hiss as steam erupted on the field.
After that, all that could be seen of Sora and Father were the occasional sparks where their weapons clashed.
"Staying in that steam can't be good for them," Angrboda said with a worried frown.
"They can tough it out," Atreus replied, patting her hand. After all, if you could last more than ten minutes in Muspelheim, you could handle a little steam. Though he had to admit, the fight was a lot more boring to look at now. Even as it started to dissipate, Sora and Father stayed in middle, where it was the thickest.
But then, there was a bright flash of light from within the steam, streams of water shooting out from the steam. Father came flying out the steam cloud, his shield held in front of him as he slid to a stop.
There was a slashing wave of wind from within the steam, blowing the rest of it away and revealing Sora. He furs had changed to the shade coloring and patterns as when he'd used the hammer. But now, instead of a hammer, Sora wielded a large black spear in both hands. Atreus was proud of himself for being able to determine what parts of Sora's Keyblade had been shifted around to form the spear.
Father lowered his shield, staring at the spear in amusement. "You would seek to match me with a spear?" he asked, speaking for the first time during the fight.
Sora's grin took up most of his face. "It'd be fun to beat you with a spear, yeah!" Father's previous amusement swiftly changed into annoyance—perhaps even indignation—as he summoned a Draupnir spear. The two waited for a brief moment, before clashing once more.
Atreus was by no means a weapons expert beyond bows and, if he was being generous, axes. But even he could see the difference in how Sora and his father wielded their weapons. Father was precise with his attacks, almost exclusively attacking with sharp stabs to get around Sora's guard. Sora, by contrast, mainly attacked with wide, sweeping slashes. Father was able to dodge or block those. The same, however, could not be said of the light magic that trailed every swing of the weapon. Whenever Father was forced to block an attack, though able to stand his ground, he was unable to hide his winces as the magical energy forced itself through through his shield and hit him directly.
Following a furious exchange of blows, Sora dashed backwards, and thrust his spear forward. As he did so, spectral copies of the weapon appeared around him. Father brought his shield up to block the physical weapon, and used the momentum to leap backwards before he could be skewered. When he landed, he let loose a harsh bellow, and hurled his spear into the air. When it reached its apex, it split apart into hundreds of copies, all soaring down right at Sora.
The Keyblade Wielder grinned in defiance and thrust his spear overhead. Hundreds of spectral copies of his own weapon shot out from the ground, clashing with Father's spears and knocking them off course. Father did not remain idle, however, and wove through the copies of Sora's weapons to close the distance between them. Sora grunted, and reengaged Father as the copies of their weapons clashed above them.
"Is this a fight or a show?" Angrboda asked in no small amount of awe.
"The best ones are usually both," Thrúd replied, to which Atreus readily agreed.
After the spear storm came to an end, Sora struck with a sharp diagonal slash. Father blocked the blow, but Sora was able to use the brief lull to back away. He shifted his grip on his weapon, which began to glow. Father dashed forward, spear primed to interrupt Sora's next weapon transformation, whatever it would be.
But the young man just laughed, his weapon vanishing in a splash of water as he curled in on himself and burst outward just before Father could reach him. The sound of shattered glass echoed from Sora as a sharp burst of air forced Father back.
A new weapon appeared in Sora's hands seconds later—if you could call a tall flagpole a weapon. Like the transformation from Keyblade to spear, Atreus could determine what bits of the spear has shifted around to form this new weapon. The flag—blood red with a black ship's wheel printed on both sides—flowed in the breeze.
Sora twirled the weapon telekinetically in his hands before swinging it forward. Father brought up his shield to block it, only to let out a shocked grunt as Sora, unlike before, powered through his guard and tossed him away.
Thrúd chuckled nervously. "And here I was about call that a stupid choice for a weapon." Atreus said nothing, eyes riveted as Father returned to using the Blades of Chaos to keep Sora away. One time, to mix things up, he threw and wrapped one of his blades around Sora's weapon. Sora quickly stabbed it into the ground and used Flowmotion to slide along the chain. He reached Father before he could slacken the chain and landed a solid kick on his face before Father slashed at him with his free blade. They recalled their weapons and clashed twice before beginning their deadly dance once more.
Skjöldr sucked in a breath through his teeth as Sora and Father became little more than blurs, even to Atreus's trained eyes. "You know, I've been rooting for Kratos, but…"
"Yeah, I know what you mean," Angrboda replied. "I've been betting on Sora all day, but I didn't think he actually would have lasted longer than a minute."
"How much money did he win you anyway?" Atreus asked.
Angrboda smirked mischievously. "Soo much! I'm the richest Jotnar to ever exist!" That didn't sound right, but Atreus wasn't about to parse through that.
Sora and Father disengaged once more, and Sora slammed the butt of his weapon against the ground. A circle of water formed around Sora, and from it spawned massive tentacles made of water. They wiggled in the air, before slamming towards Father.
Father roared, the Blades of Chaos becoming engulfed in flames, the chains attached to his arms glowing red hot. He slashed at the tentacles, steam rising as he destroyed them before they could reach him. However, like the Hydras of his homeland, for each one he cut down, two more were ready to take its place.
Eventually, the tentacles all converged into one giant limb. At the same time, Father spun his chains together, the blades clasping together at the end into one giant, molten sword. With a pair of harsh grunts, Sora and Father directed their weapons into final clash. Much like the magical clash near the beginning of the fight, there was an explosion of steam, though this one encompassed all the stands, not just the field.
Atreus winced and waved the steam away from his face. Like the last time steam obscured Father and Sora, all you could hear and see were their weapons clashing. Then, there was one final, booming crash, and the shockwave born from it banished the steam.
Father and Sora stood so close that, if Sora were taller, they would be nose-to-nose. Father's ax and Sora's Keyblade were held in a lock, the former's blade frosted over and held scant inches away from Sora's, neck, and the latter's teeth hovering just below Father's sternum, the tip glowing red. They maintained the lock, glaring at each other. Then, as if a spell had been cast, they relaxed, and stepped away.
"Draw?" Sora asked with a smile.
"A draw," Father agreed with a grin. The pair nodded at each other, sheathing and dismissing their weapons respectively.
It took a second for their words to sink in to the crowd. But when they did, they were met with thunderous applause. Sora started pump his fists into the air and cheer, while Father nodded and, as was his nature, walked off the field, his task done. At least until Tyr strolled up and stopped him, pulling on his arm and bringing him back to Sora's side. Father scowled, but let Tyr guide him.
"What an amazing match!" Tyr proclaimed above the crowd. "The power, the speed, the skill! Truly an event that shall be spoken of for ages to come!" He sighed dramatically. "I wish I could have joined in myself."
"Why don't you?" Sora asked. "Give us an hour to rest up, and we can do a free-for-all!" He hopped in place excitedly. "Ooh! Or we could two on one, me and Kratos versus you, me and you versus Kratos, or you guys against me!" Father and Tyr stared at Sora, before looking at each other. To Atreus's mounting horror, the two gods were actually considering the idea. Thankfully, they both shook their heads.
"I would love to, Sora, believe me," Tyr said. "But we have our closing ceremonies. Along with a rather popular raffle that needs to take place, no?" he said, arching a brow at Sora.
Sora gasped. "My deserts! Oh, I've gotta get back to the kitchen, get them all ready!"
"Before that." Tyr grabbed Sora's arm to keep him from dashing away. "One last round of applause! For Kratos and Sora, the Realms' finest warriors!" The crowd erupted once again, chanting their names. And soon after, the three were mobbed by well-wishers and fans. Sora and Tyr took it all in stride, and while Father didn't accept it with near the same grace, he didn't look too annoyed.
"Damn!" Skjöldr let out a breath. "I was on the edge of my seat."
"No kidding," Thrúd begrudgingly admitted. "Sora certainly knows how to fight."
"Would've thought you figured that out when he smacked your face with that hammer of his." Thrúd scowled at Skjöldr, but he quickly kissed her on the cheek, and she couldn't quite maintain her ire.
Atreus rose to his feet and helped Angrboda up. "C'mon, let's head to where they're holding the raffles."
"You don't want to congratulate them?" Angrboda asked, gesturing to the field and the throng of people.
Atreus chuckled, linking their fingers together. "They're busy. I'll see 'em later anyway. I want to be at the front of the crowd for the raffle. Even if we don't win anything, everything's going to smell amazing."
"Don't jinx us!" Angrboda sighed, leaning against him. "I'm really hoping to get that one with the burnt caramel. The…creamy brully?"
"You mean the crème brûlée," Atreus corrected her.
"Don't hold my linguistic failings against me. All I need to know is that looks good and tastes amazing."
"How do you know it'll taste amazing?" Atreus asked with a chuckle.
"C'mon. Like Sora would risk making bad deserts today of all days."
"Fair enough," Atreus said. Indeed, with the raffle and the closing ceremonies soon after, this day, already having turned out better than anyone expected, would end on a very high note.
/+/+/+/+/
Sindri let out a chilled breath as Sinmara sat down on a chair she'd formed from the ice. "Y-You're sure you want to do this?" he asked, wetting his lips. "The design isn't perfect. You could get seriously hurt."
The snow giant laughed. "Given how often you've bemoaned your current imprisonment at my hands, I'd think that's something you would pray for."
"I just want to make sure you don't try and accuse me of sabotage should the worst happen." He huffed. "Which it probably will, given the last few years of my life." Not to mention, in spite of everything, he did feel for Sinmara. Underneath all that terrifying power and mania was someone grieving for their better half.
Still, he'd been unable to talk her out of this insane plan and delaying it further would just piss her off. Thus, he set a stepstool in front of her, and grabbed the device he'd painstakingly created under threat of frostbite.
The first piece was a harness he fastened over her shoulders and covered the open hole in her chest. A simple design based on the armor he'd once crafted for Kratos so he could traverse the deadly mists of Ivaldi's workshop. But unlike that armor, this device did not use the echoes of the mist as a power source. No, this used Primordial Energy in its purest form.
It hadn't taken Sindri and Brok long to tease out the secrets of the barriers that divided the Realms once they bothered to look into it. They knew from almost the very beginning that it was all Primordial Energy, just given different forms and applications. Such as the Bifrost, in the instances of Realm travel. The problem, however, came in trying to actually use that energy. The closest they had come was filtering the Light of Alfheim through Mimr's Bifrost eyes, thus allowing Kratos and others the ability to freely travel along Yggdrasil's branches via Mystic Gateways. But it was too limited for Brok and Sindri's liking; stymied by predetermined pathways. They'd developed theories on how to allow wholly unobstructed travel, but it just wasn't possible with the tools they had at the time. Even the Light of Alfheim was just too weak for their purposes. No, what they needed was Primordial Energy straight from the source. Something which neither were in any position to collect. Even after the Spark of the World had been opened up by Surtr, thus allowing anyone access to nigh infinite amount of Primordial Energy, Sindri had been unable to create a vessel strong enough to contain even the smallest drop of energy. Though, he had lost much of his creative spark since Brok died, he was willing to admit.
But Sinmara…she could freely manipulate Primordial Energy. Did so with almost bored ease. Even when Sindri's previous designs would blow up in some fashion or another, she'd grumble, but collect more energy, and condense it into usable forms, as easily as wiping her nose.
In any case, the harness was designed to coat her in a layer of Primordial Energy attuned to the kind that divided the Realms. A layer of Primordial Energy that came from a swirling chunk of rainbow-hued ice that he slotted into an opening right in the middle of the harness. As an added, theoretical bonus, given Sinmara's own unique properties regarding her status of a Primordial Being, it—again, in theory—would grant her access to the full breadth of her abilities. As if she'd never stepped foot outside of Niflheim. An utterly terrifying thought, but even without the threat of bodily harm, Sindri didn't do things by half.
Sinmara sucked in a breath as, after Sindri cast some magic, the harness glowed bright blue. "Ooh! That's…a familiar feeling."
"Familiar?" Sindri asked as he fastened the last piece of the device—a protective covering to shield the mass of Primordial Energy source from harm.
"From when I was first born," Sinmara said, staring off into the distance. "Before the Realms had been truly defined as you know them." She smiled softly. "The days when I first met—and fought—Surtr." Despite himself, Sindri smiled at the wistfulness creeping into her voice. She was…sweet, when she was reminiscing on her deceased love.
"Even back then, I thought he was the most handsome being I'd ever seen—regardless of the fact that we were two of less than a dozen beings inhabiting Ginnungagap at the time." She sighed, the surrounding area rising several degrees in temperature. "Even back then, he was a creator. Tinkering with all sorts of trinkets and bobbles—all the first of their kind, as you can imagine." She directed her smile down at Sindri as he leaned back to ensure the device was properly attached. "He was so very fond of your people. You especially would have impressed him."
Sindri blushed awkwardly at the praise. He cleared his throat as he hopped off the stool. "Right! Well, just sit still for…I don't know how long. The device needs a lot time to charge up, but you'll be able to feel when it's ready." He turned on his heel and headed for his workbench, out of sight from Sinmara. Carefully, he pulled out his personal project from his apron pocket—a crude, misshapen cube that followed the same basic principle of the harness Sinmara currently wore.
It was far from his best work, but certainly not his worst. The only real reservation he has regarding it was that he wasn't sure it wouldn't blow up in his face. His previous experiments with the harness proved that Primordial Energy could be volatile, to put it lightly. He just hoped the sliver of ice held within was calibrated enough that he could use it to get to Svartalfheim, and from there, either Vanaheim or Midgard.
"If you're going to use that trinket of yours, do it away from me." Sindri froze in his tracks. "If that thing blows up and interferes with the creation currently strapped to my chest, I will become very cross with you."
With a sharp intake of breath, he whirled around and practically sprinted to stand in front of her. "You know about it?"
Sinmara arched a brow as she looked down her nose at him. "Niflheim is my Realm. And unlike Odin's claims of Asgard, I mean it in a very literal sense. Nothing occurs within it that I do not know."
"W-Why didn't you stop me?"
"And risk you falling into a malaise, or actively sabotaging your efforts?" She scoffed. "No. Better to let you have your little freedoms."
"Well…thanks, I guess." He fiddled with his cube. "But…You're not going to stop me?"
"I realize you don't have the highest opinion of me," she said with suitable snark. "But I'm not ungrateful. You've more than delivered on my commission. What you do after is, frankly, none of my concern."
Sindri gulped. "Uh…you know that once I get out of here, I'm going to warn Kratos and this Keyblade Wielder guy, right?"
"Are you trying to convince me to kill you instead?"
He shook his head. "I just mean….Kratos is Kratos, and you're scared of the Keyblade and the guy that's using it. Don't deny it." He added when she scowled. "You…You might not walk away from the coming fight, is all."
Sinmara's imperious glare gave way to a soft stare. "Is that concern I hear?"
"…You're not a bad person, Sinmara." And he meant it. "It's not too late to just forget about all this."
"I could say the same to you." She held her hands up in a welcoming gesture. "Let me help you, Sindri. Once I possess the Keyblade, I can return your brother to you."
Even now, the offer was tempting. Part of Sindri begged him to take it. But the rest of him, that sounded achingly like Brok, told him no. In the end, he just shook his head. "I'm sorry."
Sinmara hummed. "As am I." With nothing more to say, she closed her eyes, tilting her head up to the sky.
Sindri sadly shook his head and warped to another section of Niflheim. He looked down at the cube, twisting it until the runes on the faces flowed blue. With a grimace, took off once glove and cut his thumb on one of the corners, before smearing the top face with his blood. The runes' glow intensified tenfold, and Sindri felt a violent pull on his gut.
In the next instant, the ground beneath him vanished, and his body was pulled apart and burned to nothing as he forced himself through the barriers separating the Realms. He would have screamed, but his mouth has melted away what felt like an eternity ago. He very soul shattered as he wove around the World Tree, just out of its reach.
And then, as quickly as it began, it stopped. His body pieced itself back together bit by bit before he was unceremoniously dumped in the very place his soul called home. Svartalfheim, even after all these years.
His vision was dark and blurry, his legs felt like jelly, and his lungs had just about burst. But he couldn't stop to rest. He needed to find someone. Warn people.
"Hey, is that Sindri?!"
He didn't recognize the voice, but he turned to it and made to speak. A mistake, because his body gave out with the sudden movement, and he fell to the ground. The last thing he heard before falling unconscious was the sound of boots stomping against the cobblestone road.
/+/+/+/+/
A/N: I'm happy with how the tournament played out.