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Loki makes a little gesture, "Now…you are wed, so…return /MY/ elf?" he demands without grace, his words dripping with eager impatience.
The celebration between the handfasted couple wed in Odin's name by Odin's son lasts as long as a kiss to the stunned, lovely ljosalf. Then, in true Malekith fashion, he shoves her through a portal trimmed in violet tendrils. Speeding up her descent satisfies the need to be away from so grimly happy a prison, but a cage all the same. Loki has but a second to throw himself through or find his own way to wherever pleases him.
Through the Glass Darkly
Heat rushes over the abundance of frosty chill briefly there. A dry heat, as the locals would call it, though in truth it's more a baked in sort radiating off a vast swath of grey concrete. Marigolds and petunias vie for the brightest colour in a pristine bed featuring clipped topiaries of cartoonishly rounded horses and a bear on his hind legs, another of an elephant further along. Wire stars and snowflakes adorn the jaggedy white fringe enclosing an open-sided pavilion. Spiralling topiaries imitate in nature the twist and twirl of automated figures in national costumes parading around in front of a gilt-and-white castle.
The light, playful sonnet of activity is part of an international atmosphere, hundreds of nations exhibiting their wonders and joy. Exciting shapes rotate. A train plows by outside, full of girls in dirndls and boys in green, feathered hats.
Loki Odinson stands on a boat that floats along a waterway through gently lit phantasmagoria. Children dip from canoes in eternal rhythms, dipping an oar into the water while a seal bursts out. Grinning whales overlook Asian dancers paired off, rotating around and around. He might want to duck. The procession of floating barges may not be fast on its route to the Underworld, but knocking his head on an arch is going to hurt. Malekith and Aelsa both crouch down, and she stares out at the displays, wide-eyed. He mostly laughs.
"It's a world of laughter,
It's a world of tears,
It's a world of hopes,
And a world of fears,
There's so much that we share
That it's time we're aware,
It's a small world after all…"
Loki flings himself through the portal, coming up in a gasping rush with a headache when he arrives in the land of the dead, he takes a good few moments to come to grips with where he even is. "Malekith!" Each syllable is rent sharply, like slashes of a knife. "Yes, you win this round of game and rest assured that I will return the favor in this…eternal dance of games between us, but I am no longer feeling gracious. Return my elf, now, or there will be a game you do not like anymore!" His voice lifts to a shout at the end.
"Manners, man. You did say we needed a proper procession for consummate enjoyment." Malekith's teeth flash terribly bright in the dim light. No place here for masks, really. His hand remains wrapped with Aelsa's, and the smaller woman cuddles up against his side as they lean against the side of the boat. She provides Loki with a raised eyebrow, a lift of her chin.
"Oh, husband, must we keep him when he wishes so clearly to be elsewhere?" Her arresting, clear eyes rest upon the Asgardian prince. "I am grateful for your assistance. I will remember Asgard well for this." It isn't rude dismissal rather than honest gratitude.
The svartalf waves his hand. "Oh, very well, sugar-frosted petal. Your fairness is unparalleled in all the realms, and none shall ever sweeten me to such disgusting depths as my lovely savage." He makes a languid, courtly gesture. "You're on Midgard, old man. He should be about somewhere. Many happy days to you both."
The godling is not born of these modern times. He has lived in them, not even a year, and it may be said that though modern men cannot fathom the brutality of their forebearers, not only is Loki of slower generations, born during the time of those forebearers, but he is also 'young' and coming from the time when what he recalls are hunts, and wars, before their father schooled too much mercy. It is uncouth to threaten people, these days, but not for Loki. For him, it is the same as breathing, when provoked. Title rises, and he seems to grow, taking a step towards Malekith and his wilting elf. He lifts his hand, fingers bent at odd angles, "Perhaps you heard some rumor that I was tamed, or forgetful, or lacking my full breadth of powers? Perhaps my compliance thus far leads you to believe that I can be played as a pawn. I wish to assure you, Accursed, that should I find him with even a scratch upon him…that I will make all the same marks on your lovely thing." Then he reaches out to try to snatch the crown heirloom right off her head.
Malekith raises his white eyebrows, sliding up over his particoloured forehead. He laughs softly, but then laughter has ever been his weapon in times of war and peace. Such peace as the Svartalfjar ever known. "Tidings, my sweet barbarian, for all occasions. Have no fear. I am happy to stand behind you while you defend your groom's honour."
Loki might want to take his fingers back. Fire starts to form between him and the fair woman. Not simple red fire, but the magnesium burn, the intense searing blue of stars. It's not without reason there are rumours all throughout Asgard, affirmed, Thor once lost his beard to such a hot elven flame! Its source just happens to be her. He doesn't touch, he doesn't end up on fire. She's very reasonable.
Aelsa turns her mild, wide eyes upon Loki, pulled away from the Swiss dancers spinning around in their mountains, so like her homeland and so unlike. Well, there's not always reason or explanation for human activities. "Loki of Asgard, I would not have such harsh words between us on my matrimony. Let not your lover be under interdict of his people." The light elf has a spine. Only reasonable, she's born to it, explaining the cage. She raises her bound hand, and brushes her cheek against the ribbon and Malekith's fingers. "My husband says he is about. Surely he must be."
"My gift to you, man." Malekith shrugs. "I'm not keeping my eyes on that particular savage barbarian when I've one of my own now. He's been out and about for days. Maybe scratched up or not, I haven't a clue. I'm not his keeper. The elf isn't my guest any more."
Loki stares at Malekith and the witch, threat in his eyes even still. His hand is forced back by her quick reaction, but he still seems better than a trifle, despite the laughter. "Its not a gift…if you took it in the first place. My word stands." And then he stands for a second, feeling if this is truly Midgard, before he attemtps to teleport himself back to his New York home.
"I do not want a threat upon one of my subjects from you or him. Anyone." Aelsa sharply looks over at Malekith. "I do not know why any of them live in the city."
The dark elf shakes his head and shrugs. "No idea, when the charms of other such dark places…"
Loki finds no barrier to California. He's whisked out from Disneyland back home. And that, as they say, is that.