How long had it been? Ten thousand years perhaps? 3,650,000 days: more hours than he cared to imagine, or spend the time calculating. It might as well have been forever. So long had he been driven by all-consuming purpose: to stamp out the scuttling infestations of the realms, and extinguish the harsh and tawdry light of the universe; to bring back the perfect darkness that shrouded all at the dawn of time. Even asleep, these desires had pervaded his thoughts, while his body was kept inert but alive by machines and magic. Now, awake again and burning with renewed life, Malekith found his mind and body plagued by different cravings. The machines had renewed his life-force, repairing damage and endowing his body with the physique and drives of a young man again. And it wanted to do what it was made to do.
It was an annoying distraction.
Malekith swept onto the bridge of his ship, with his dark cloak billowing like a wisp of smoke in a night breeze. His masked minions stood as he entered, inclining their heads in deference as he passed. To do otherwise was to invite pain and death. He stopped at the main bulkhead, where the various buildings and roads of Greenwich laid out in a 3-dimensional luminous display around three sides of the bridge. He stared expectantly at a high-ranking crewman until he gave a report. The news pleased him. The convergence was imminent. Now if only he wasn't feeling so damned horny.
His eye was caught by a small female figure carrying what appeared to be a bundle of silver poles.
She was not running, she did not appear to be afraid. She moved with purpose. Malekith turned to the closest minion.
'What is she doing?'
The minion hesitated. Malekith suppressed his irritation.
'I don't know my Lord.'
'Bring her to me!'
There was a dangerous moment where the minion hesitated, and Malekith's eyes darkened with the full destructive power of the Aether. Behind his implacable gaze the cloud swirled, promising darkness and a slow death. With the mission, with the vengeance, there was ageless purpose. Now there was an addition: passion. Somehow it seemed more dangerous.
"Right away, my lord," was the only sensible response, and Malekith turned back to the control panels with a suppressed growl. He had no fear of insubordination, not with the Aether coursing through his veins and elevating him to the status of a god, but he knew from old that in Svartalfheim a leader who became unstable was courting his own downfall.
He stared out at the young mortal, now engaged in driving a long metal spike into the ground, and his fingers curled unconsciously into fists as he leant forward.
It was probably for the best that Darcy didn't notice the dark elves creeping up on her until it was too late. At the very least, it meant that she was brought back to Malekith alive.
"…You guys better have a good lawyer, 'cause I'm going to sue your asses for … oh."
The mortal's chatter ceased and her eyes grew wide at the sight of Malekith. It pleased him. From long experience, he knew his form inspired fear and intimidation – all the more so since the Thunder God had seared half his face. While it had irked him at the time, he rather enjoyed his minions' hurried attempts to hide their revulsion quickly enough to keep their lives.
The girl didn't appear to be either intimidated or disgusted, however. She was looking at him with outright curiosity. He drew himself up to his full height and puffed out his chest, looking at her down his long, crooked nose.
"So what happened? You fall asleep on a waffle iron?"
His eyes widened slightly. That didn't sound like fear.
"A waffle iron? This is one of your weapons?"
Darcy burst out laughing,
"You will tell me." He beckoned two minions imperiously. "Take her to the interrogation room. I'll question her myself."
Pinned between the two minions, Darcy decided that perhaps a waffle iron was some kind of a weapon. She didn't think Malekith would get the joke even if it was explained to him, in fact, she didn't think he was likely to get a joke at all.
Had Ian seen her being taken captive? She wasn't sure. He'd been following her around like a puppy and she'd sent him back to the car. Of course, he'd gone.
The interrogation room was dominated by what looked like a large dentist's chair and a steel table with a tray of instruments. The minions strapped Darcy into the chair easily. She did struggle, she just got the feeling they didn't notice.
"You guys work-out?"
If they reacted behind their blank, frankly kinda creepy masks, she couldn't tell. Great. Kidnapped by the gimp squad. And here came King Gimp himself, with the half of his face looking like toast and the other half –
Malekith paused in the doorway to issue orders to the goons, and the light caught the unscarred part of his face, casting his already deep eyesockets into deeper shadow. Somewhere in that shadow, a glint of red. Despite her determination to be unfazed by stuff, cold fear gripped at her. That was evil with a capital E, washing about inside there like Jell-O in a bowl.
Whatever she was going to say about that waffle iron, Darcy suddenly had the distinct feeling she'd better make it good. She tugged experimentally at the straps pinning her wrists. Nothing. And her ankles. Double nothing. She looked down and saw that the chair, obviously designed for torturing people much bigger than her, was holding her up off the floor, raising her, almost reclining, to the big scary guy's hip level.
"I am Malekith," the dude said, and his voice seemed to rumble through the metal of the chair. "Master of the Aether, Destroyer of the Nine Realms."
"Darcy. Mistress of the, uh, iPod. Wielder of the Waffle Iron of Truth."
She forced herself to look at him. His skin was smooth like bone on the unscarred side, his nose long and crooked, his mouth turned down in a permanent frown. And jeez, he had ears like a mutant kitty-cat.
Malekith raised an eyebrow. "You are the wielder of the waffle-iron? Show it to me – now!" he demanded, looking the girl's body up and down to ascertain where the weapon might be concealed. To impress upon her the importance of responding, he strode across to the side of the chair and leaned over her, his hands pressed against her wrists, his face inches from hers.
"It – uh- it's somewhere you'll never find it," she said, tilting her head defiantly at him with the faintest trace of a smile.
Malekith scowled, then jerked his head back as an old but familiar feeling washed over him. It had been eons since he was alone with a woman, and now, here in the presence of this mortal waffle-warrior, with her full lips and her rebellious attitude, his body was reminding him - somewhat painfully - what it was like to be a man.
He lowered his head towards hers again, letting the Aether light his eyes and mesmerise the girl with its infinitely swirling depths.
"Then I shall have to be thorough in my search."
The woman was wearing layers of clothing that seemed completely unnecessary to Malekith, given the local temperature. Seizing a razor-sharp knife, he sliced through the seams on the arms of the bulky outer coat she wore, ripped off the buttons and spread the garment out flat, checking the pockets and folds for any trace of the deadly weapon he suspected was hidden within.
Nothing.
"Hey!" Came Darcy's indignant protest. "You got something against Burberry?!"
She had named her garment. It had felt dead in his hands when he had cut it and yet, she had named it. One does not name that which is not alive and sentient. If he had killed it, why had he not felt the life leaving it? Why did it not bleed?
Malekith pondered. Evidently these humans possessed more sophisticated technology than he had been led to believe. When he discovered who was responsible for that oversight he would make them suffer. Malekith did not like surprises.
From her words, it was clear his actions had caused the woman some pain. Perhaps the fate of this 'Burberry' would teach her the respect she so evidently lacked.
"If you wish to avoid further deaths you will tell me what I want to know."
The woman just stared.
Malekith leaned over and cut the top button from her blouse.
"Tell me."
"Never!"
He seized the flimsy fabric in both hands and pulled. Buttons flew across the room, pinging against the steel table.
"Hey! You stop that."
His reply was to tear the remainder of the garment off. When he was finished he leaned in close to her, his cheek almost touching hers.
"Make me."
Dude evidently thought he was all that. Somewhere deep inside Darcy's mind, the tiny thought managed to make itself known that maybe dude had a point. Y'know, just a little. In the right light. She could feel his breath on her face and that original tiny thought inside managed to kick the somewhat larger instinctive reaction of ohcraphe'ssomuchbiggerthanme into full gear.
"I'm not frightened," she said, out loud, and Malekith's scowling mouth twitched. If that was a smile, it was in no way reassuring. He leant back, folding his arms, waiting for her move.
Maybe it was time for a bit of thinking. Jane always said "You're a smart girl, Darcy, but you just don't think." So maybe she could apply a little WWJD. But what the heck would Jane do?
Think, Darce. Try not to freak out at the way dude's obviously eyeing up your winsome girlish body –
Hey, wait a minute. Hold the phone. When buff ripped aliens fell from the sky, what had Jane done? Forget the car thing. She'd taken the crazy alien home and made out with him. That had totally worked out for her.
She risked another direct stare at Malekith, trying to show him just how much she wasn't frightened, and ended up wrinkling her nose in realisation.
Dude was definitely checking her out. OK.
"Hey. C'mere. Yeah, you, who'd you think I was talking to?"
He leaned in again, glowering. Darcy put on her best sultry pout.
"You didn't check in this for the waffle iron," she said, and wriggled as best she could in the restraints to indicate her bra (the really good one without the lace but with the watermelon slices printed on it).
She really regretted that it had been the good bra when Malekith's hand snapped out, ridiculously fast, and tore it apart.
There had been no weapon in the girl's chest-piece, at least not in the conventional sense. The sight that met his eyes immobilised him momentarily, nonetheless. It had been ten thousand years, after all. Malekith suddenly felt very restricted in his dress uniform. The breastplate constricted, hampering his rapid breathing; his cloak was heavy about his shoulders, which roiled with tension, and his trousers were tight at the groin. Still, this was an interrogation, and he would see it through.
He leaned over her again, his tension barely contained. "Tell me where the waffle-iron is!"