Traversing back to the surface proves more encumbering than it should due to the weight of Atreus's fatigue and consciousness. His father's blades provide minimal aid in increasing his speed up the crevice, as he pries them into the stone foundation when climbing. Despite his grievous injuries and over-exerted stamina, the one thing that plagues him most is the inevitable topic of Höðr's death. The despairing notion of Freya's reaction to her last son's death, only further drags down his mental fortitude. No matter the words spoken to himself in a muttering pitch, this taste of victory is bitter and metallic. This sensation doesn't subside when reaching the chamber above, but instead submerges him further into dread.
As he emerges from the aperture, he's met with the same horrible sight first observed before his descent. An anxious Sigyn, through magic and shaky examination, struggles to resuscitate or even awaken the Vanir Goddess. The saturation in Freya's skin subsides into a sickly paleness, and her veins thicken into black lines near the wound inflicted on her. As he spots them, Atreus powers pass his exhaustion toward them, sheathing his blades when making his presence known.
"Atreus," Sigyn speaks his name with a gasp of relief and concern. "What happened? There was black smoke and-"
The absence of Atreus's focus and his willingness to speak is the plainest yet bluntest response he can give in his mental state. His silence is a contagion, preventing her from finishing her question out of disbelief and awe. Regardless of Loki's feats, the notion of an Aesir dead still proves challenging to accept. She shivers, releasing a breath of chilled air at the idea. Even so, immortal curiosity doesn't allow her to remain unvocal.
"Is Höðr-"
"Not now, what's happened to Freya?" Atreus questions, abruptly dismissing the topic for another.
"I-I don't know," Sigyn answers, her prior anxiety slivers in her attitude. "Whatever Höðr did, I can't reverse it, and no matter what I try, she won't wake up."
As the recollection of the Aesir's sinister strike resurfaces in his conscience, Atreus also recalls the spectators to the event. Yet, despite his adamant search with his sight, the ravens, Huginn and Muninn, have vanished from the fray. Whatever Odin sought from this battle, he claimed his desired outcome. Unfortunately, due to the gravity of their predicament, and with time potentially limited, they couldn't linger to question.
"We can't stay here," Atreus claims cautiously. "I'll get us out of here."
Before their departure, one final detail in the wake of the fight still lingers. Höðr's bow rests upon the gravel, unscathed and cold from unuse. With it, along with what's left of his armament that fractured, Atreus collects them. As he does, Sigyn, with what strength maintained, lifts Freya from the ground. Before her eyes, the sorceress observes her companion dawn the form that gave him his infamous title of Wolf of Midgard. His body increases in size; black fur thickens across his flesh with a lush shine to the vibrant magics that trigger the transformation. She peers into the window of his spirit; despite his canine appearance, she can still sense the humanity behind the pupils of this beast. Even in his visage, he still expresses a calm look of assurance as he lowers himself to her. Serving as her mount, Sigyn rides atop his back, holding on by his fur with Freya draped in front of her. With the swiftest speed allowed to prevent dropping his friends, the Last Son of Sparta strides onward. Traversing the rubble and climbing the mounds of ruin, the group makes their way with heart-racing haste.
Time is indiscernible due to their strive to reach safety, distracting their focus on the world. Additionally, the outside world continues to be blanketed by the ominous dark clouds that blot the sky. Flakes of frost glide down from the darkened heavens, bringing a chill to which even the gods would quiver. And, regardless of the bounds and kilometers exceeded and reached, it isn't sufficiently comforting for their troubles. Guilt builds on his body like the melted snow that soaks into his fur. This shame plagues him for not only killing Freya's son but brazenly allowing said child to assault his mother. No words could express how much it would devastate him for his childhood friend to die like this. Yet, throughout their tread, the Goddess hasn't shown any signs of life and even appears to be worsening. If not for Sigyn's difficulty keeping her and the Vanir on the Wolf of Midgard, Atreus could break the distance quicker. Despite the exasperation of this journey, he remains at a steady but fast pace across the lands of Midgard. Unaware of the observing presence that soars above, in the form of a rider atop his hippogriff.
After the passage of boundless miles, the three arrive at the fortress with the weight of cold, grim anticipation on their shoulders. In the time it took to reach their destination, the gentle fall of snow intensified into a flurry of frigid winds. Moisture freezes in the air, and the scent of the region smothers under the gusts of winter. Still, the fortress holds its ground against the storm. Atreus awaits Sigyn to leave his back before reverting to his original state, allowing them to support the unconscious Vanir up simultaneously. As she does, the sorceress lifts the Goddess into her arms, followed by Atreus, after the enchanting energy subsides to his humanoid form. Despite her weakened state from their battle, Sigyn displays no issue with holding Freya alone. Her stalwart perseverance to do so serves as a blessing to Atreus, who is now available to prepare for their unannounced visitor.
From above, screeching from the blizzard-forming sky is the hippogriff. The beast descends like a plummeting meteor with the most significant speed capable. Only to halt its momentum at the last moment with its open wings, flapping and hurling a torrent of icy winds at the trio. Although Sigyn redirects her stance to shield herself and Freya, Atreus plants himself firmly into the wet, freezing soil. As the beast lands, so does it lower itself for its rider to depart from its saddle. The man's steps are unbalanced, guided with a limp leg. Even in the darkened environment and snowfall, his wounds of battery are evident from the many bloody marks and bruises. Regardless of this figure's unimposing state, Atreus draws his blades as the man draws his distinct axes.
"Loki!" Ullr, the Aesir calls out the name angrily.
The two immortals stare each other down, their armaments alight with azure fire or white frost. While Ullr is seething with anger, Atreus is sternly focused and tempered, staying his ground to study his opponent. The Son of Sif is in far worse condition than the Wolf of Midgard. Even the simple task of standing is difficult. But this does not subdue Atreus's survival instincts, with Sigyn also standing on the defensive as best as she can. However, only the following words from the Aesir quell Atreus from instigating further violence on this day.
"Where is Höðr!" Ullr spouts with fury in his tone. "Where the Hel is my bastard uncle!"
There's a relapse in Loki's protective stance, and both he and the sorceress are stunned and bewildered. For only a mere handful of seconds, Atreus cannot resist lowering his arms with puzzled interest. Sigyn herself also endures dwindling alarm at the question, especially given the Aesir's hostile tone towards their own kin. As they converse, she takes the initiative to deduce the reason why.
"My business does not concern you, Wolf of Midgard!" Ullr claims, impatiently trembling. "He was trailing you and Sigyn from the last time I saw him, and you wouldn't have been able to slip away as easily as before. He wouldn't have allowed that! Now where is he!"
"Höðr is dead," Atreus confesses coldly.
The blunt response from Atreus does not immediately register with the Aesir, out of his anger and ignorance. In the seconds it takes for the answer to breach his mind, he becomes stun-locked. His breathing, swaying motion, and staggering cyan pupils briefly halt in place once he comprehends Loki's words. Once the shock fades, Ullr unconsciously shakes his head with immense denial. In reaction, Atreus bolsters his guard in case the God of Winter intends to start an altercation.
"You're lying!" Ullr accuses in outrage. "He is a direct son of Odin, he cannot be slain by the likes of a rapid dog!"
"Your uncle is dead," Atreus affirms with the same stern tone. "And unless you seek to join him, you need to leave!"
It's not the insistent response that finally caves in Ullr's biased logic, but instead, the subtle signs caught in his gaze. Even with the terrible weather, the few stains of red upon Atreus's attire, the wounds that had yet fully healed, and the wear and tear of his arsenal and missing arrows deduce his prior absolute belief. The sinking of Ullr's heart is plainly expressed in his jaw-hanging expression. His mere strength to keep his axes up dwindles under his submitting strive. If not for his firm grip, his pristine armaments would slip into the setting snow below. A discorded mesh of mourning, devastation, disbelief, and frustration smothers his sense of reality. He seethes with this agitation, yet his breath quivers at the startling information.
"No, this can't be," Ullr mutters with another shake. "He can't be, Höðr couldn't... If he is, how can I-" The Aesir shows difficulty forming a single outward thought.
Despite the Aesir's despairing mental state, the Wolf of Midgard does not let his focus go undeterred from his target. Atreus readjusts his hold on his father's blades, with flickers of blue flame and celeste cinders radiating from its smooth steel. Yet, in the height of skeptic exhilaration, a voice reaches his determined mind.
"Atreus," Sigyn calls out, stirring their focus towards her. At that moment, with a discreet glance over his shoulder, Atreus looks to her. The sorceress is already directing her shivering finger toward the hippogriff, prompting his eyes to follow the direction. Upon the creature, a deathly still body drapes across its back. The Wolf of Midgard can only stand in startled shock as he quickly determines who it is. Thrúd rests atop the beast with much of her armor missing or battered into disrepair and far more harshly injured than her brother. The child is currently in forced slumber due to her beaten condition. Her physical condition is far worse than that of her brother, and her gruesome wounds are clogged and smothered with blood-stained linen.
"You didn't do that," Sigyn recalls from their last, addressing the Last Son of Sparta.
"No, he didn't," Ullr confirms grateful. "You were far kinder than our attackers."
As they converse, the tension on their nerves steadily settles and quells. Ullr lowers his arms, lost in his thoughts that have only become more mangled by the knowledge of his uncle's passing. Even Atreus, sympathetic towards the man he grew to hear many stories of, cannot uphold his guard perpetually. His intrigue in what occurred for the God of Winter also dwindles his defenses. Sigyn would also share in the bleak sensation, her attention torn between the Vanir and the Aesir child. Yet, this settling of anxiety would not wholely do so due to an unforeseeable offer. Whatever resentment coursed in the sorceress's veins, flushes out by a nurturing instinct.
"Ullr, m-maybe we can h-help you," Sigyn suggests, timid and with mixed emotions.
"What?" Both Ullr and Atreus question, in synchronized surprise.
Their puzzled outburst triggers a flinch in the sorceress. The male gods can only stare as they attempt to fathom Sigyn's reasoning for offering a merciful hand, especially to her enemy. For the seconds that drag out into a misinterpreted minute, the trio freeze in movement like the ice that forms under their feet. A confliction of thoughts and belief in her ideal staggers any of Sigyn's attempts to initially justify her reasoning.
"You're suggesting that we turn our backs on our people, for your aid?" Ullr questions dumbfounded. "Why would you want to help us? And why in the Allfather's name would I trust you two?"
"Sigyn, this man, and his kin have been hunting you since I've known you," Atreus remarks, defensive against her thoughts. "There's no telling what they could do if we let our guard down."
"B-but what is clear, is that T-Thrúd is still just a child," Sigyn answers softly in worry. "A girl that's been thrown into a situation she should have never been in. Even for a goddess, her life is at risk... If those wounds aren't treated, her condition could only grow worse... And we both know the Aesir don't approve of failure, and of how they discipline those who fail them... Especially the Allfather and his son..."
The sharp coldness of her statement pierces their hearts, just as the steadily declining temperature. Both Ullr and Atreus are all too familiar with Modi's fate at the hands of his father. The recollection of such brutality disturbs even their battle-hardened spirits, guiding them to her wavelength of thinking. Yet, neither the trickster god nor Aesir can immediately bring themselves to ease their bias toward the other. Even as they remain in such close proximity, their absent-minded instinct to uphold their stances doesn't sway. Their grips upon their weapons are firm, deathly still, and aimed at each other.
"We would be branded as traitors, as cowards... We could be locked away, or even executed." The Aesir claims grimly.
"Thrúd could die regardless," Sigyn counterpoints gently. "And your courage will only amount to loneliness and shame for risking her fate."
Years of loyalty and blind allegiance, crafted and interwoven into his being, pull, and tangle at the conundrum. Ullr's concern for his sister is transparent by his swift shifting focus as he wrestles with his thoughts. Anxiety pounds in synch with his rapidly pumping heart, and worry carries in his scattered, cold breath.
"How am I to know we won't be treated with equal cruelty?" Ullr questions cautiously.
"Because Atreus is honorable, even to his enemies," Sigyn claims with a warm glance at the Wolf of Midgard. "You know it firsthand. He could have killed you and Thrúd if he wanted, but he did what even the Allfather would never do. He showed you mercy. What would Týr think of that?"
Ullr's defensive stand dwindles at the culmination of his physical condition and Sigyn's direct words. His indecisiveness conflicts with his devotion to his people and loyalty to his sister. Though they've been at odds, his stomach twists at the thought of her fate being one of suffering or worse. Even Atreus, cannot uphold his resentment towards the Aesir, despite all that he has been stripped from him by their clan. However, the primal reflex to maintain his standard for conflict does not dwindle with the same ease.
"Sigyn, are you sure about this?" Atreus questions with an uncommitted heart.
"Do you trust me?" Sigyn gently answers with her own inquiry.
It is the same thing Freya asked of him, yet this time with a different context. However, the expression of yearning validation differs from the Vanir. This time, the request for understanding isn't presented with the same tone or intention. Instead, when presented by Sigyn, there is a yearning for acceptance, a desire to hear that same bold answer given to Freya in that desperate hour. Her soft, squinted look, peering into his own fierce eyes, projects this message with clearness rivaling a naked sky. Despite everything that's transpired, including her outlandish offer, his answer has not changed. As Atreus quells himself and the blue flames of his blades, lowering his arms and arsenal to his sides, he grants her that guarantee with his silent action.