At Hero's Bay

A Line of False Kings

𝐍𝐨𝐛𝐨𝐝𝐲'𝐬 𝐋𝐨𝐬𝐬

𓄹 𝐘/𝐍 𓄼

The abhorrence Y/N nurtures in her white-knuckled fists is swept away like rushing currents, reminding her to 'salvage' Malekith's last breath.

There was no time to give Thor Odinson an indication of her own ambitions, and there was also no time to hinder such regrets. Y/N finds herself standing in the barren and dark wastelands of Svartalfheim, Malekith's homeworld. A thunderous groan of shredding metal resounds from above, splitting the sky in twain that hardly gives way for the light of the eclipsed sun.

There is no trace of reinroses here, and no sky of voices that remind her of comrades long ago. She ducks her head in between her knees to evade a chunk of metal from the Ark, skidding across the dirt that falls off of a precipice. The Ark crashes against the craggy terrain, where detritus and debris shower over Y/N's head, giving her some incentive to search for cover. However, Y/N doesn't move upon witnessing the Ark sinking into the abyss of a faultline, shrieking and pulsing on top of a world long gone.

A fate that Malekith himself was ready to embrace as he lay across the earth, broken and bloodied, smiling and so weak. But Y/N bolts from her place, a master of such tormented fates—for perhaps they shared one now. She fists into the end of his cape and drags him away from the cliff's edge, retaining a strenuous groan that he would've exploited if he knew she was still alive and severely fatigued. The Ark is gone, lost in total darkness and fire. He makes a keening noise, a growl of frustration, freeing himself from her grasp as he crawls towards the nearest rock.

His eyes, red and feral, find her crouched form easily. There is no semblance of gratitude—not that she was expecting any, anyway—for there was only pure abhorrence. The same kind of feeling she has now.

"You...you saved me just to finish me off yourself," Malekith spits, gouts staining the edge of his lip, "How apt, Wild Star."

Y/N snarls, "Frigga should have been the one to finish you. She was a queen and you're just a king of a by-gone era. Nothing but a goddamn nuisance!"

Malekith laughs, mirthlessly and loudly, "I'd imagine she would have 'loved' us both plenty then, conqueror."

Shaking her head, Y/N slams the back of her heel into Malekith's jaw. She haphazardly relishes in the sweet groan of pain he has to give, the way his body jolts under her weight. But, stilling for a moment, simmering that acrimonious fire in her rushing veins, Y/N stops herself, remembering to breathe.

"You did something to me," Y/N says, rising to her feet, "I could hear your voice, see what you saw in a horrible dream. Especially your horrible family."

Malekith scoffs, "As if yours are any better. You and I, Skaraeith, are kindred spirits. Made of fire, of war. What was not to favor in you?"

"Perhaps the fact that we're on opposite sides, this time," Y/N shrugs, leaning against a tor, "There was nothing to corrupt or exploit that you didn't already know. Did you think that I would have a change of heart by showing me what your life was like? If that's the case...you're more of a moron than a conqueror."

The leader of the Dark Elves seemed to ponder for a moment, before licking the front of his teeth and spitting out a wad of blood between Y/N's feet, "I desired no sympathy. I wanted revenge. Asgard has done injustices to both of our kind. What good would forgiveness could have done to this...graveyard of a world?"

Y/N finds some measure of pity as she watches his head slowly lull back, the way his chest rises and falls heavily, and the beginnings of tears forming at the corners of his eyes. He's dying, something tells her—but not of eagerness, he's dying like any other man. Her hands twist reluctantly, where both fire and water conjure into the shape of a long sword, its translucent and blazing blade digging into the dirt beside her. Malekith releases a short huff, maybe out of awe.