Finding The Roots Pt. 2

June 01, 2017:

Malekith makes an offer Amora could refuse, making a bold move that lays groundwork for a very difficult future for herself and Mattias.

Gothenburg, Sweden


NPCs: Malekith



Mood Music: [*\# None.]

Fade In…

At first, all is quiet.

The veil cast upon the home, the very ground around it breaking and undoing curses of old, comes in time with the sense of bodies moving about within. Rapidly, like a video in fast-forward, lights are turned on and off, water races through pipes, and even Mattias, Asgardian or not, is rooted with the spell.

Pages, charred upon ends, are gathered in the winds and sent higher. Ashes rain down about Amora's shoulders as the pages disappear into clouds that darken in purple shades against the glow from the moon and the constellations above. Somewhere, up there, lies the possibility that whatever veil Malekith has cursed Mattias and his wetnurse mothers with, may be seen through the watchful eye of Heimdall, and perhaps Odin himself, beyond.

A streetlamp flickers out, down the lane.
In the distance, the nighttime sky purrs, a cloud stirred.
Another streetlamp dies, to her left.

The street around the Larsson household is a diorama of Swedish life, drowning into a pool of black ink that draws near and threatens to swallow it whole. Dark magics stir, reaching for the edges of the spell Amora has wrought. The entropic energies spill against it like water against glass, held at bay. This she can feel. The impenetrable darkness so akin to the midnight realm of Svartalfheim rears its blackened teeth, with undone magic, no longer able to hide itself from the world now that a Sorceress, one knowing in the arts, has plucked one too many threads clean.

Another streetlamp is swallowed by darkness.


From left to right, all about Amora, pale eyes penetrate through the darkness. Dozens of pale eyes peeking through holes carved into the doll-faced masks of the night elves. Each set of eyes that reveals moves in slow motion, bobbing with the sense of sprinting her way, but held in one-sixteenth time. The curved swords and staves, weapons which unleash magical bolts of energy so old and refined that it looks like science, are brandished in their slow-motion charge.

Her challenge.
Is answered.

“And what…”
“…do you think this will achieve?”

From the darkness before her, sixty feet before her and twice as far ahead of his assassins, the blue and black face or Malekith the Accursed comes forth. In real time, the darkness he walks through beads off of his sharpened features like oil falling sideways. With cold, red eyes and an expressionless face, he gathers his hands behind his back, footfalls deafening in his approach.
Upon his belt…a circular key.
Painted in black, forged by far greater hands.
The key to Kurse and his unstoppable armor.

“I am no fool and am far more wise and dangerous to you than poor Karnilla.” Malekith comes to a stop, jaggedly sharp chin twisting to stare upon Amora at a skewed angle. “You would be wise to choose your next words…” The grin comes slowly; a promise of tricks and hidden cards all around his treacherous form. “…care…ful…ly.”

”Leave the past behind, just walk away..
When it's over, and my heart breaks,
and the cracks begin to show    …”

Not just in the backdrop, not just a song, but a galan, an incantation that keeps the surroundings rising, lifting, and with the incinerated edges shrapnel of the grounds quakes loose to cme aloft, but all the while the structure in which Mattias and his “mothers’” reside, remains untouched in the path behind booted feet that slowly melt away like the ashes of files sent towards an invisible ’Frost’.

Many eyes mottle her path, and when hands fall, from the unfurling of fingers the barbed tips reform, a flash of gold and the twining ascension of chains, fetterings wrapping around phalanges, wrists, and higher in drapery that takes the pace of laces and eaves them glistening in a refraction that could blind
            But the many eyes, the many gleans of weapons honed within the shadows of Svartalfheim do not stop every approach of Enchantress as a sudden breath could be caught….
        Frozen in time..

Above my head, they’re circling..
The vultures want what’s left of me,
I sacrificed it all and I will fight…!

Malekith’s words are heeded, regarded with the very consonants he seeks to make im-po-(r)-tant as the word around them slows and then stops…
            Gothenburg has met a pause in the very lifeblood that keeps pumping..
                    Cardiac Arrest..

A tilt of Enchantress’ head, those many braids falling in a cadence of hollow beads in mate, her smile just as empty and showing darker as the lights hammer out down the street.
            Around her debris and singed (yet embered) edges float in a stasis around her, lingering as if held-in-time.
                This battle’s burned all that I’ve known,
Nothing will keep me from this throne…
        I’ll fight…       
            Until the world goes cold!

“You bring me threats, yet no promises. No word is bound in that!” Fingers curl as palms twist upon slender wrists towards the sky of Gothenberg, Sweden and everything that hangs in stasis starts to spin in a tumultuous funnel, but it does not just remain in the immediate surroundings - with every step Enchantress takes even so much as poles begin to warp, bend, break, bow, but along the creation of limbs the embodiment of ’ancients’ reside.
            Scaled creatures birthing from the bowels and bubbling of metal that is heated by fallen embers and emblazoned with a life anew, behind her the ‘Oafs’ take on their true forms, the Jotun of Storm losing their ‘Monkey Suits’ of Club security to bear their Cro-Magnon scowls, and when their massive fists meet the street - craters form as they face off against the many eyes and weapons directed towards The Enchantress and in turn, selves.

“How care ful do you desire me to be, Maleki~th`?” Upon his name her words become a purr, but borne upon a forked tongue as the streets now are frozen, by standers lost and left to remain as it all unfolds before eyes who bare witness but bodies who cannot move aside.

The name of Karnilla firmly clamps her jaw, aligns her teeth into a grate that could fracture if not for backing and birth alone. Eyes narrow…

“You played a game…
        You lost the turn..”
                A rotation of wrist and the hovering shrapnel of embers and -lifted- ‘crete blur like cast knives through surroundings!

            “How much more careful… “ A few steps forward and hands clasp together as the Jotun of Storms lunge out and power draws in!
                    “Should. I. Be?!

None shall pass!

From within the shadows, the many eyes of faceless dark elves begin to rise. Leaping, knees bent and elbows propped in the initial slow-motion volley, they split down the center, leaving Amora to their master. Instead, they center their rapt attention upon the frost giants and the amalgamations the Enchantress has summoned.


He's sent an entire species, his own kin, to die.
Such is the price.

Stepping aside, Malekith makes room for the flying knees of a dark elf. The Accursed and his leathers, half a face blue as ballpoint ink, ignores the whip of his hair as time races back to the present. The darkness lights up with red bolts of energy, and Malekith pays no mind to the melee erupting around them.

With perfect timing, Malekith lifts his booted feet and steps over the rolling, lifeless body of one of his own soldiers. Captured mid air by one of Amora's Jotun, the splintering of ribs and spine comes with an audible roar of the frost giant, and when the body sails away as hard as it leaped, Malekith jauntily lifts his boot over his head, providing no resistance to the explosion of the body against the sidewalk behind him.

“Is this about the boy, or are you looking for your way into the more grand design, dear creature?” Malekith’s tongue slithers over his teeth. He comes to a stop with a thumb resting in his belt, holding down the leather tabard that serves as his shirt. His lips pucker to one side, then his smirk fades, nose lowering like the point of a ballista’s bolt her way. “Why, if you wanted a piece on,this board, all you had to do was but ask, but it would have been rude of me to interrupt your borrowing of my project.”

Amora's creations are stronger, but Malekith's dark elves are faster and many. The periphery blurs with uprooted trees crushing through skulls and lacerations cutting through azure-tinted giant skin.

Malekith smiles, once more.

“Now, before you call the allfather down, or make him pay attention with his one eye, and ruin what could be a golden opportunity, you should probably consider something.” Flick. A speck of flung dirt is selected out of midair. With dexterity and a devilish grin, Malekith avoids being sullied by the passing debris.

“What is one paltry life for your desires?”
“If you would only…step aside, what could it earn you?”

Malekith lifts his fingers. He holds them pensively in the air, fingers clad in black leather curling in the beginnings of a signal to halt the fight. Wrist tightens. Only but a flick, should the woman call a truce.

“I will let you enjoy him, for now,” Malekith's tongue, like silver. “And when the time comes for you to deliver him to me, you will have a rulership, a grand country, temples built in your name as a rare spot of light in a realm otherwise dark. It will be mine, but you will have so much more than the scraps they foolishly leave for you when no one is looking.”

His other wrist rises, swirling with black energy, the very creation of shadow.


Black and blue lids narrow into serpentine slits.

“Which did you prefer, Annika or Olivia? Pick one, and before they come to take him from both of us,” He pauses for his own love of dramatics. “He will know true pain, betrayal, everything they will need to turn him against the both of us and find his true war yet-” Malekith laughs, it sounds like and fine sandpaper over stone. “-you might be able to flee with him and whichever one you liked better. With luck, this will continue, and you will forever wonder if this is all part of my larger design.”

Tsk. His elven tongue clicks.

“Choices…choices.” He whispers. “I don't admire your position, but I know which choice has a future.”

The freeze of time….
        The lift of matter
                The blank of minds

Nostrils flare and from beneath a single opening a deep ichor pools while eyes narrow against the approach of Malekith, the lunging approach of his fellow Álfar from the dark towards her Jotun of the Storms!
        Bodies impact, meat is met with hollow sounds and that much akin to the parting of flesh, ripping… A sound Mattias knew well..
            A sound Malekith and Enchantress knew well as they conversed over his very becoming in the -pool-…

War and battle rages around them, skirting them and leaving them free as two of the darkened Alfar impact a Jotun…
Ground impacted, a burst of electricity rises, sending darkness back, smoldering as massive body withers in the sacrificial giving….
        A blow of a kiss from the Goddess’ lips and the ashen body is within the wind..

Surrounding her as she steps to meet Malekith in the middle more (de)composition forms in shards of bone and tooth and melee, that single rivulet of vitae descending to match that which she painted her lips with for effigy of an Image Upon A Stand.

~”Let…Me??”~ Enchantress’ voice echoes, like a stone dropped to the bottom of a placid pool, the disruption….

The choir seems broken, strung along a harpsichord that is a noose for the very calling, the very incantation.
        We will save your precious skin..

The rake of his tongue over teeth is focused upon, as her lips split into a smile. “You did nothing for him. You created and left lost, he is a child of Asgard as much as Midgard…” The blood trickled ‘tween lips spat to the side in a spray that seems to hover in the Dissonance caused by her upheaval Malekith flicks aside…   
                “We have already bested You! Let the cattle wither, but he is already a Ber-sekir of My Odr! “
                    The smile that cracks everything asunder, painted pink in the blood descending while she hold it together and tears it all apart.
Footfalls upon a chest of a fallen Jotun to meet Malekith between..
                        … More fall around her…
                                “Let him answer then!”

A touch to brow, beneath the skin a gem implanted casts a glow of fluorescence, a mutual call, but his answer is voluntary while he visits beloved..
            Gains his birth-day present.
                        Has that coffee with his mothers…

And below, in the streets he can see the Alfar, the Jotun, and the meet in the Midst.

        Brace yourself for all will pay…!

“I did not put him through more then Hel would allow, for you to barter with Me as such!!”

“He is mine!” Malekith spits in sudden fury. The leather covering his shoulders lurches upwards when the snap comes. Malekith raises his voice, words in line with Amora's, arguing amidst the dead and dying. “He has NO birthright, NO purpose save for what he was born for! You have NO right to this, foolish witch! In his hatred he finds PURPOSE and this purpose could bring us both—” A spell is cast through emerald. Malekith's eyes widen and his energy-laden hand reaches out, stilling his own spell of doom upon the household in a rush. “NO!

The spell cast is concussive to their sorcerous hearts. An explosion of a bass beat, the sounds of fighting penetrate the protected veil Amora has on the household behind her. Before the next drop of blood splatters to the concrete, the windows rattle with the sound of blessed combat.
Of death.
Of Malekith.

“You foolish, sentimental bitch!” Malekith, overcome with rage, bends forward with a slam of his fist to the ground, cracking the concrete and sending a wave of force towards Amora. “You lack the tenacity to wield a tool such as he, fumbling for power, blind. You are blind! Do not throw this away! He could bring down Asgard!”

Glass shatters.

A Jotun lifts a car from the street. As glass rains over his back, he brings the vehicle down like a hammer.
Black blood paints the concrete.

A frost giant is brought to its knees. Knives stick from a dozen points in its body. The ground rumbles as his knees connect. He falls forward.
Blue…and black.
The blood is like Malekith's face.

…a flash of fire and smoke.

Before the foul energies can release from Malekith's fingertips, a spell that is the doom sealed to one of two women inside of the home, Malekith's body is rocked by Mattias, Son of Lars, appearing in a full-speed rush and a scar-lined shoulder crushing into the Alfar’s chin. Both bodies are driven back against the street, destroyed concrete painting a line from the point of impact until gravity stops their sled-drag.

His is a fury spared from the beast in the woods.

“You!” Mattias bellows, mounting the Alfar and raising his fist in the air. Every muscle in his back, from ridged spine to the triangular curve of his shoulders, is thrown into the punch. The very ground cracks beneath Malekith's head at the thunderous impact, and when his fist rises up once more, it is black with blood. A fresh gout of Malekith's essence flies through the crisp, electricity-laden air.

The fist comes down again.
And again.
Mattias breathes the wish…for murder.

The sickly, wet packing sounds of the blows rain in so fiercely that the spell fizzles from Malekith's fingers. Concentration slips the endangered dark elf, without a brute, a protector. All around Amora, as the shadows of two women above move to witness, the dark elves cease their assault on her Jotun in trade for an eternal order to protect their Lord. Blades sing free from scabbards, heels dig and twist to change direction, and those Jotun nearly dead are spared.

Trapped under Mattias’ weight, the boots that kick with every punishing blow to his face has Malekith's fingers twitching, reaching ever-closer to Kurse’s amulet. The ber-sekir above him, too blind with rage to care, knows not the danger in such magic. There is no care, but in the sudden shift in battle, it is plain as day for Amora to see.

Of Midgard and Asgard.

Malekith's leather clad fingers find the amulet.
He pulls, trying to free it from his belt…

Enchantress has the world in a stasis, that which surrounds them, but the curse Malekith sought to cast….
“I know!” Oh he could curse her as well, and blame emotions, blame attachment…
But she knows! what Mattias can do, and there is rhyme to her reason as that call allows him to bear witness and have his -peace-(piece) in every impact that brings massive fists down upon the skull of Malekith after he spoke such…
To them..!

So she called upon that storm, and as every impact splatters a Rorschach across the pavement     she slowly descends, an accordion falling and folding in upon herself as she comes to knees, but still..
Enchantress smiles, and the blood stains teeth pink and runs deep between…
Those eyes barely visible in iris hue…                            The two shadows above…

All they see? Annika and Olivia…           
Men sought to assault “Helen”, where bodies are scattered papers of the files lay.
She is upon her knees as Mattias leaves the final to a splay upon his back.

He is their son…
Their Hero.

But Malekith still moves and in a sudden reach forward, the Amulet is a focus between split fingers, the spiral of everything ripped free of ether(reality) comes to a freeze.
Or cast away?

A tremor of hand, the indecision evident as power is Just. Before. Fingertips.
                    So Much More…

“Fararleyfi!”  If Malekith’s goal is not reached, if unconsciousness has not yet taken him beneath the fists of the Ber-Odr…
        He is cast away, pushed back to Svartalfheim…

Hands tremble, droplets of blood fall freely between bent knees upon the street, and slowly reality is coming back, even to those frozen on the sidewalks, not so safe…
                        The spinning remnants of a funnel of time..
                            Under assault, now free to bleed as well..

One more punch.

The satisfaction of feeling the bounce of Malekith's skull is far greater than the vibrating ache up to his elbow. Knees bent, body hunched over, blood caked to mid-forearm where the muscle bulges out in Popeye ways, the weakening of bone can be felt through knuckle. One more. Perhaps the next is the one that will cave the blue-huen side of the face in and end the thirst for vengeance. For all cosmic purposes, perhaps a thousand years in the future, the death of Malekith the Accursed now could save hundreds.

The Alfar race for Malekith. Swords lower and arms extend to reach for their master. Their will to attack Mattias disappears in the last few feet or road. Greater, earlier orders for their mission have been set in place. Malekith coughs black blood over his savaged lips, managing a smile of success between blows that reaches up to Mattias with the amulet in hand…

The amulet never touches Mattias Larsson.

The whole of night surrounding the battlefield swallows itself whole. Elves slip and fall to their backs. The dead are sucked through the air to a point before Mattias that steals the oxygen about his naked torso. His hips twist, muscles puckering and hardening against skin with split knuckles raised high. The bracer, once proud, brown fur is stained black, and as the air whips past it and blonde hair flows to the point of exit, Malekith the Accursed rips free from beneath Mattias’ jean-and-leather clad thighs to be swallowed by the hole, like infection drawn from a wound.

The punch that sought to end Malekith's millennium-spanning reign of treachery buries to mid-forearm in the concrete.


Mattias blinks furtively. He understands quickly and twists his head about, his breath a dozen prayers that the elf has merely moved and can be captured again. “No No NO No!” He slams his fist to the dirt and then slaps his hands over his forehead, having missed the final kick of the game. He's up so quickly, he may have well flown to his feet, turning in frustration, resisting the bitter urge to flip an already overturned car in front of his…


Mortals, to the rescue.

The door is flung open and Olivia shoots out like a bullet. Her cable-knit sweater catches around her throat as she runs with open arms to her son, risking the spell-emptied battlefield for her believed progeny. She clasps a hand around his forearm. The fury sucks out of his bones as he turns to face her, eyes chiseled clean with fresh, unspent vengeance and the sickening realization that, soon, he must explain.

A gentle hand tugs at Amora's arm. A tattoo across the back of her hand, a laughing skull, is a match for the stylized gothic crosses over her knuckles.

“Hey, it's okay, Helen?” Annika drops to a knee before Amora, smearing blonde locks away from her face, eyes intent upon her lips and teeth. She pats Amora's cheek, a quick need for her attention before their eyes meet. “All in one piece? Fokkin; Come on, inside.”
Annika Larsson, no son, there is no Lars, tugs. She bids Amora to rise.

“I almost had him,” Mattias woofs in a gust when his mother crushes his belly in a hug. In his first steps towards Amora, dragging his mother with him, he scans the street past the veil left in place to hide the fight from would-be nighttime voyeurs. Hope is dashed when there is no other monster to satisfy his anger. “God damn it!”

Mattias jerks his head back. His waterfall cleaned, blonde hair flicks out of his face as he tries to dispel the millions or question per second from Olivia. He finds Annika and…Helen. The tattoos, the dress, her kohl-rimmed eyes, just as they were when she left the front door, now…only with blood.

One predator to another, the look in his eyes he shares with Amora of Asgard is unmistakable: Vengeance may have meant punishment last week. A ber-sekir now, and instant blame to Malekith for the blood upon her lips, vengeance now, means death. The fall to her knees has fooled Mattias, as well.

Amora has won two victories against Malekith, this day.

“What did he do to you?” Mattias bares his teeth (fangs) with the question. He leans over with his mother on his opposite arm, Annika on Amora's side, to help guide her up. Olivia untangles from her son, nervously looking over her shoulder with wide arms, directing traffic into the house. “I don't care what it takes, what it costs, but he will not touch any of you again. Ever.”

“Was that Helmstrom? What were those things?”
“-call the police.”
“-did he try to stop Helen? How the-?”

The doorstep of the Larsson household becomes a press corps of two, quick firing questions that rattle Mattias’ eyes in their sockets, disorienting him, too flurried to keep up as the two, believed to be youths in romance, are shoved by concerned mortals back into their home.

Slowly the world that Enchantress holds into stasis, veiled, shielded starts to melts away, dissolving like puzzle pieces of illusion that get punched out and hit the ground to shatter across the ground and the mirror set to reflect, refract and block leaves people blinking.

Pedestrians caught in the maelstrom blink, the lost haze in their eyes falling like the veil, but there is wonder as one is looking down and a walking path that slams him into a hydrant and sends him asshole over elbow to blink it off, but it will explain the bruises…
        A woman walks into a wall, a metal eave slicing across her arm, explaining the tear in attire and the blood that wells to descend down…
            Accident after accident, a child wails as knees are skinned in a trip over a crack in the sidewalk.
                An elderly couple falls through the bench that cracks beneath weight that it should have easily withheld.
                    Just as Mattias and Helen are pulled from the street by Olivia and Annika, cars suddenly impact, one rolling down the street as the loud crushing of metal crunches, a concussive echo where glass shatters like two cans are smashed together by the hands of giants…       
                            And oh how real that was, but this is the explanation as time catches up for those who were trapped within the maelstrom.

                                No death. At least for them to see.

Helen looks back, fingertips coming to her nose, pulling down to smear thumb over the blood as if it was a thing she has not seen in ages… Not like this. Some of those papers still remain and she is wiping them clean with a piece of that skirt laying in splits, she does not speak just yet, no questions answered, only a look Annika had ushered with the pats of hands along her cheeks and the rise.       
            The look from Mattias.
                There is no rage from Amora… Helen. Resolve. Solid.

“Just a push is all. I am fine.” But the resolute placidity, the apathy she is sliding over her face like yet another masque tells Mattias far more than Annika and Olivia can pick up on.

Amora just welcomed war with open arms, and she is settling into that fact, the why, the when, and the look upon the blood between fingertips is just the beginning.

Looking inside the apartment when they are finally behind closed doors the flurry of questions makes her head buzz, ears ring, and finally pupils move to pin-dots and dilate, narrowing in set only to close. Reality and the time comes slamming fully back into place now and it clarifies to piece together and parse.

The look on her face falls back to the facade of Helen, the look, curious, shocked. “So that was who we are up against?” But when she looks at Mattias, her head tilts slightly and once a towel is handed her way from Annika, as Olivia is standing by her sons side, inspecting him with eyes and hands, both distracted enough that look cannot be caught.
                        How long will you keep this from them?
                            A draw back to narrowing gaze and that towel sweeps slowly and bares the essence of red to pink.
                                It will burn later

“Thank you.” A quiet murmured appreciation towards Annika and Olivia as she takes a seat and leans back, a rocked gesture that does not defy the regalness in her repose, one leg crossing over the other, capturing fabric between the press of thighs while the adjustment in her position rests her on the curve of one hip.

One arm rests over the back of the chair, the one she holds the towel to her nose (long done bleeding, but not to show…) “Looks like you get your prolonged visit.” No bitterness in her words, no ire, that resolve, the firmness set in place like a shield slammed down, the first in many of this wall being built before the assault and return fire.

“Don’t mind me if I already dusted off one of your journals, Matti.” The smile comes once a final sweep is made over upper lip, smudging and removing bits of that makeup. Don’t give her a mirror, that facade of calm might just reach its breaking point…

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