Thickened Skin
By moonship
Part Two: Sanest Choice
She'd been Jane: just plain Jane. In her last years as a mortal, her world had been a fury of calculation and thought, Erik sighing his exasperation, and Darcy underfoot. Her life was full. Thor with his bright smile and big, warm hands had been larger than life, and for a time, she'd had to shove aside parts of… Jane to make room for him. Then, there'd been Convergence: all boiled down to a crack in a pillar where the Aether had smoldered like a dying fire, waiting for her to reach out her fingers and touch. Jane in all her good-hearted naivety was as good as dead the second it grabbed her, tried to suck her into itself before seeping into her instead. If that hadn't been the moment her life as Jane Foster came to an end, then that end certainly came in Svartalfheim- with Loki, with Thor- and yes, with Malekith.
Thor had been writhing on the ground, clutching the stump of his hand. While she'd probably screamed, she never remembered actually doing so. Her reality had become much smaller: the thud of the witch-king's boot as it connected with Thor's side, and how she hated helplessness. Reality was the way her blood had roared in her ears, and how easily she'd been raised into the air by a single, powerful sweep of his Malekith's arm. 'Look at me,' Malekith had told Thor, but the words only seemed to register when he glared up at her, hard-faced and full of a hatred she couldn't begin to understand.
Look at me.
Red and gritty, the Aether had sifted from her ears and the corners of her mouth, as if she were breathing out bloody sand. In her mind's eye, she saw darkness without end, and then dark-skinned elf children with white hair splashing about in glassy water. She smelled the stink of countless bodies and saw the sun die. Then, she saw the way his head snapped back, and the way his jaw opened wide enough to swallow the entirety of the world. All she could think as the long threads of Aether joined them together like they were all one warped, single organism was: 'Don't you think about it, don't you think I won't let you you'll never hurt him-' "No-" She'd gagged; he'd convulsed. Where one lost an inch, the other gained. Once, the Aether had been in them both at the same time-
A slip of the foot- a weakening of the will as a shred of blackened skin detached from his face, and Jane had it all. Breathing and knowing only red, she'd towered over the three of them. Her body was burning, twisting inside, and even with the pain, it was worth all of the hurt to keep Thor safe, strong, and with that warm light in his eyes.'Look- at- me-' she mouthed silently, and that time, meeting Malekith's cold, resigned gaze was like watching empires fall. When she lashed out, she killed the monster next to him for Frigga.
Malekith's arm, she took to make a point.
Jane had liked to rattle off energy transfer equations to 'scientifically' prove her point that it was love that had 'brought' the Aether back to her. She'd been missing her van and her work, too tired from the alien force twisting her body and thoughts to deal with Asgardian superiority when she went to pore over their technology. Her little pseudo-scientific jokes about the entire situation, and trying to keep in good spirits was better than sitting around and feeling sorry for herself. Thor would merely slide an arm about her waist and smile gently, laughing into her brittle hair, never doubting in her strength.
She continued to call herself Jane for the next two hundred years, but her life on Earth was over long before: the host of the Aether was too dangerous to leave among Midgardians. In spite of her game face, the realization hurt, and it was difficult for her to keep up a good front at all times. Her body was continuing to grow, she found herself wanting to just let some power out, and she couldn't keep up her old, hectic pace of living. Minutes before the first Aethersleep had taken her; she'd wept, but closed her eyes and turned her head away so Thor couldn't see the tears. One hundred years had passed before she'd come back to herself, her overgrown legs hanging over the edge of the bed. Jokingly, Thor called her his jotunn: his giant. Jane had smiled again, loving him all the more for his gentleness as he answered her questions about friends and family long dead- even as she'd wanted to let loose a red-and-black tendril of energy to slam his head into the floor until his skull was crushed.
The Asgardians liked their weaponry enough that it was part of their wardrobe. She took a shine to the small, ornamental blades that doubled as keys and tools: they were pretty and useful. Having them on hand reminded her of being an undergrad, carrying trays of this and that back and forth across tables to lab classes. The knives were comforting the way days spent badgering Heimdall about the Bifrost were, or the nights she passed flying her little ship through the skies. Jane rattled and clattered enough that Sif took to calling her 'Iron-Knife'. It was a nickname she liked, and as she became more accustomed to the Asgardian lifestyle, it was only natural to become Jarnsaxa—the iron seax, andmother of Magni.
"You've taken something that doesn't belong to you." There was an odd, gentle way in which he spoke the words, and it jolted Jarnsaxa back to 'Jane', watching Frigga's body crumple to the ground.
'Return it,' Jane thought, following the natural flow of his thoughts. They'd fought like children over a favorite plaything all those years ago- children playing games with the fate of the Realms. 'You have something, child. Give it back.' There was nothing said of his arm, or even his humiliation at Svartalfheim. He spoke of the Aether, as if it were the only thing he could see. He was so focused, dead-set on his target and his ultimate goal that she couldn't even find him cruel. Obsessed, and even lacking room for anything but rage- but not cruel.
"It always belonged to me." She answered him in his own tongue; saw the flicker of surprise on his scarred face. Dangerous as he'd always viewed her, Odin had decided keeping a potential enemy close was better than a failed attempt at destroying her: Jarnsaxa learned of the Nine Realms at his feet, the conveniently abridged version of Svartalfheim history included. 'I keep the Aether and I remember-'
"You heard me."
He watched as she drifted back toward the ground, the clouds of dust she'd managed to stir up in that fierce wind almost immediately snuffed out by the light rain. Blue eyes raked her top to bottom, taking in everything from how slight she'd become, down to the little rings she wore on her toes. "Yes," was all he said, as if he had no words left in him but for those meant for the battlefield. Then, "I have until the end of this universe to listen. Not even you can outwait me."
There was nothing to be done other than to hold his men back. It didn't take any real effort to do so; their faces behind their death-mask helms were both frightened and reverent. Malekith didn't show any signs of fear, but she knew he'd prepared himself for every possible scenario but her. He was merely still as a statue, watchful, and impossibly aware of the Aether that had called him there. Come fire and damnation, through the floods and ice that once ravaged Midgard, and from across the depths of endless space, he would follow the Aether to its source. If she let herself truly think about that, it frightened her.
"Well," she acknowledged with the faintest of smiles. "I'm dying anyway."
"I already knew. It can still be done- surrender to me the Aether and I'll delay long enough for you to live out the rest of your life in peace."
"No."
Silence grew taut between the two of them: Jarnsaxa who had been Jane and the one-armed witch-king called the Accursed. Thousands of years ago, diplomacy had fallen by the wayside, left to rot with the corpses of his wife and children. During Malekith's reign, 'diplomacy' was like 'treaty' or 'parlay': they ceased to exist. 'Stand-off' was equally unheard of, for all that there was nothing to be done but allow her turn her back to him.
"Tell what's left of your men-" Were there women there? She couldn't tell- "to put down their weapons." She hadn't set foot in Asgard in… how long? How long had it been? Unlike his voice, there was nothing gentle about her smile. She was rough and wild-haired in her brown shift, and too tired to pretend she felt benevolent. "Accursed." He gave her another slight reaction, there in the way his lips tightened and his jaw clenched. "I need your ship to get back to Asgard."
Jarnsaxa left him shaken as a man who'd sacrificed thousands of people ever could be unsettled, treating his soldiers like an afterthought and letting him nurse his growing anger as she picked her way across the town and back to her own little house. Outside, she heard Malekith barking orders. While he did so, she ran fond fingers over her battered machines with their lovingly polished surfaces, took the time to write letters to the fragile, mortal people she called 'friends'. She wrote to them of the community two hundred miles away where they learned to create ship batteries from fallen Asgardian energy stones, to avoid the main roads on their way there, and that Anders Starksson didn't mind sharing a few secrets in exchange for a lifetime supply of honeybeer.
Last of all, she wrote: 'Never forget the tasers.
Regards,
Dr. Iduna Haldorsdottir'
'Iduna' took plenty of time to see her affairs were in order, but no time to comfort the frightened faces peering out from distant trees. Instead, she spent fifteen minutes making sure her old circlet of heavy, Asgardian make was free of tarnish, gently applying the force of the Aether as needed to push out any dents. It felt uncomfortably cold where it pressed against her forehead She left with a bag of clean clothes on one shoulder, Magni's heavy sword strapped to the other. The sandals she wore on her feet were impractical and delicate as the circlet itself, but the cloak on her shoulders was heavy and warm, the boots tucked under her arm sturdy and plated with steel.
Outside, the drizzle had become a rainstorm that plastered her hair to her head and the thin cloth of her dress to her hips and breasts. She went to him as the host of the Aether, dressed as a queen turned beggar. He was waiting, immovable and annoyed as she squelched in his direction, picking her way across the mud with the aid of a gnarled, red-runed stave. Nature itself had the common decency to snap their cloaks for them, but even the Aether couldn't have stirred up dust at that point.
The way he took her gracefully extended hand was decorous, oddly proper for all that his strong fingers bruised her skin. He raised it to eye-level, staring at the spidery red lines below the skin as if they were something fascinating and offensive to him all at the same time. His attention lingered on her chapped lips when he glanced up, then on the circlet at her brow before their eyes met yet again. Hers weren't red, the way they had been in Svartalfheim as they battled with hearts and wills for control of the Aether.
"Who are you?" Malekith asked bluntly, though question itself was carried on something that was part hiss of frustration, part sigh. Jarnsaxa wanted to laugh as she realized all she'd been to him before Svartalfheim was a random mortal who happened to have something he wanted.
"Jarnsaxa." She fell into step beside him and into the magical shield he'd summoned earlier to keep himself dry while waiting.
"It's an Asgardian name," he grit out lowly, his confident steps not so much as faltering. He had one of the deepest voices she'd ever heard, and the sound of it only served to make the way they ascended the gangplank to the ship more… processional. By mute agreement, they'd decided to make it all seamless the second her bony hand settled in his pale one. The host of the Aether and the King of Svartalfheim would be seen as a man and woman in accord with one another.
"Then call me Ivdel, or Asahem, or Thalasa." Dark Elven names, spoken as a twist of the knife to goad him further. "I've had plenty of names over the last thousand years." She could slip in and out of them like she had her cloak, or the way she'd changed her dress for something thinner and more transparent when wet. She wouldn't answer to 'Bitch' or 'Whore' or even 'Woman', but he could call her by the given name of his choice and she'd break it in like she would a new pair of boots or a new piece of optical equipment- so long as he never tried to call her Jane.
Author Notes: Those of you who've expressed an interest on AO3 and are just lovely. Thank you! I'm going to continue tinkering this for a little while and see where it goes. Part One is in desperate need of a revision now that I've rewatched the films. Italics denote stuff in the Dark Elven language, but I'll also be using them for general emphasis as needed. Let me know if that's too confusing!
I'm… pretty sure that this will conflict with some other Marvel Cinematic Universe canon. Equal butchering of Norse mythology is to be expected, but I can promise Loki never had sex with a horse in this world.
… I think.
Quick shout-outs to Sathanas, who has written some absolutely wonderful Malekith material that helped me get my inner-Malekith on. If you haven't read their stuff do so. Do it now, or I'll hold my breath.