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[He came in the depth of the night, a creature of shadow, the very figment of the legends spoken of his kin. The fae steal babies, some spoke, and replace them with children of their own! Malekith would not deny the accusations. It had been the fun sport of youth, stealing away human children, and now a sport left to his lessers. Every action of Malekith’s had purpose, and this night was no different. It was no child he came to take, and he had little intention of leaving an elvish spy in his victim’s place. Truthfully, the less Malekith left of his presence within the city, the better. Had his escape been a pure fluke? Perhaps. His return was intentional, though, and his time limited.

So limited, though, that he cannot momentarily admire the peace of the sleeping prince before him? Hardly.

It is a short lived admiration, of course, for Malekith cannot deny himself the pleasure of taking his target, and it is the ensuing panic that will truly give him his satisfaction. His moves are quick - a hand firmly placed over Clovis’ mouth to start, followed by his other hand finding grip upon the prince’s shoulder, yanking him forth, undoubtedly both from sleep, and physically. With no impairment enlisted upon him by the city any further, it’s with little effort that Malekith pulls the other man from bed, and finally he breaks the silence with a quick laugh. The experience must be terrifying for Clovis.

But just as quick, he pulls the other man back across the room, and flairs of red lick at the both of them, reminiscent of the magic Malekith had managed to use that once-

It happens in a blinding flash, their transfer between worlds, a pathway forged by Malekith’s abilities. How quick it happens, though! One moment, in a quiet room, the next - the next…

The air is thick with the smell of damp earth, and the sounds of unfamiliar insects sing about them. For just a moment longer, Malekith keeps his grip upon Clovis’ upper arm, but as the magic dissipates around them, returning to the ether from which it spawned, Malekith’s hands removes themselves, leaving the prince to support himself. There’s no backwards glance from the elf to see how the other man fairs. Instead, Malekith steps forward, mindlessly treading through the shallow mud of the swamp they’ve appeared within.

There’s a quiet hum from him, though, the low hum of satisfaction, tinged with a sharp grin. It’s then that he twists his head to direct a sharp stare towards Clovis, and in that moment, Malekith fits. He is not the elf alien among humans, he is not the king displaced among naysayers. In that moment, every bramble of crooked tree seemingly reaches for him and every waft of murky swamp fumes pull in towards their master. Here lies the environment that let Malekith grow his thorns. Here lies the dark elf’s home.

It’s with flourish that he then turns to face Clovis in full, arms spreading in welcoming gesture.]

Welcome to the realm of Svartalfheim, little prince. I do hope you find it to your tastes.

[And almost as if on cue, the howl of a strange beast calls out in the distance, reverberating off the strange depths of the swamp about them. Behind Clovis, the trees press in dark, line of sight cut before too long. To the right, a large bubble pops at the surface of murky water - from a creature beneath the surface? Or merely the shifting of mud? And then, all about on small patches of dirt, grasses in deep purples and weird shades of green, mushrooms colored so toxically that seemingly the very sight of them would poison, and above it all, Malekith and his relentless, malicious grin.

This land would kill Clovis. Malekith could only hope the prince begged for the proper protections.]

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And leave you to those savages within the city, dear Clovis? I would never be so cruel. [His words come with a smirk. Between them both, it’s only Malekith who will be able to recount the countless ages of insult. Dark Elves are barbarians.]

I thought you would appreciate the gesture. How upset with me would you have been otherwise, hm? I can hear your complaints now - I can’t believe he got out and said nothing of it! [Dropping his arms, Malekith neatly folds his hands behind his back, turning to resume his steps away from Clovis, the confidence in his stride saying that he holds no further plan to stall for the other man’s recovery. Keep up.]

Of course, if you prefer it, I could return you. I might find a certain satisfaction in wondering how long it takes before you bow beneath an undeniable sense of hopelessness… A taste of freedom and then returned to your entrapment? Terrible.

Breath deep, little lord. Your mind is your own now. A gift from me to you. Perhaps we should have left a parting note, though, at the least? Ah, well- [His tone is far from remorseful, and stepping up upon a fallen log, Malekith does just as he instructed of Clovis - a deep breath, and then a satisfied smile. Though the light barely breaks through the canopy above, he can smell it - dawn has just broken upon the realm. His realm.]

[ His mouth hangs open as he cannot find any way to respond back. It is shocking that he would be capable of saying anything to being with. He continues to dart his eyes around to their surroundings. It feels to him like some beast -- or would monster be a better word? -- will come bursting out either the bubbling mud or trees. Clovis cannot take a breath without gulping it down.

He does find his voice. A sharp, high ah. Clovis snaps his mouth shut immediately after as he starts to stumble after Malekith. Almost crawling after him. The mud on his pajama's legs feel like it is weighing him down and he fears that he would actually be abandoned in this unknown world.

Am I free? Free of Ariel, but not free of the elf.

Clovis stops when Malekith stops. Tipping his head back, he can see the light. It isn't as soft and comforting as the one in his dream -- already that dream feels so far away. Is it safer in this world now that dawn has come? He doubts it. Oh, he doubts it very much.

To return to the city, he would have to subject himself to becoming its toy once more. His head drops as he curls in on himself. No, he doesn't want to return. But -- he peeks up at Malekith. Worry paints his expression over the fear. ]

It's mine. [ He wants to touch his head, but to do so would mean to rub mud into his hair. ] Thank you, my lord. You ... you are most kind to me.

[ A beat. ]

No. I'll... I'll stay with you. I'm honored that you would even -- [ Another beast's cry out in the dark that brings him to cling onto Malekith's legs. To bury his face against the elf. His shoulders trembling. He found his voice, but he has not found his courage. Or his mask to give the appearance that he even had a brave bone in his body. ]

-- please, protect me!

[Silence is all Malekith offers Clovis’ outburst, his gaze directed down his nose towards the prince. Amusement plays on his lips, of course, but it’s a long moment that the elf lets Clovis make his plea. Then, slowly, Malekith bends forth, strands of hair falling past his shoulders to dangle down. In the same fluid movement, he reaches a hand down, as if reaching to console…

But his gesture is a lazy backhanded swipe, a motion to wipe the mud from his thigh, a motion to wipe Clovis’ grasp away, as if a gnat had lighted upon him. Still, Malekith grins.

A grin is always good.]

Don’t be foolish, Clovis. I am but the protector of dark elves. [As he speaks, Malekith’s other hand slips around, and gently, as if removing a minor inconvenience, he picks Clovis off of himself, finger by finger, hand, and then arm. Finally free, he stands once more, tall and proud.]

It is your own misfortune to be born into the lineage that you are, but the fates still play in your favor. After all, is there anyone else whose presence you would rather be among? There is nothing upon this realm that would touch me. [I would kill it.]

Come now. [It’s a backwards step that Malekith takes off of the log, turning to resume his forward stride, and regardless of the seeming repetition of the trees or the lack of any identifiable landmarks, he must know where he heads.]

Mind your step now, little lordling. I would warn for wayward thorns, but then I might neglect the muck lurkers. I’m sure they would find your toes a treat. [Heh.]

[It’s almost cruel, the fact that Malekith would make them walk. The ability to teleport between realms, and yet the seeming promise of a trek across unspoken lengths…]

[ It lasts only a second, but he truly believed that Malekith would rest his hand upon his head, would say something kind and reassuring to him. Clovis wonders if the fear of being in this world has simply made his mind soft. The swiping of the hand is met with a soft cry.

Indignation colors his face in bright red. Fear keeps him from snapping at the elf as he pulls his hands back to press against his chest. Clovis makes a face as he feels the cold mud soak through the front of his pajamas. ]

My misfortune. [ Those words spits out like acid. But he remembers himself. His eyes close tight to keep himself from starting an argument that he will surely lose. He's too far from everything to wish to earn Malekith's ire. ]

Thorns? Mud lurkers?

[ He is able to keep his scream down this time as he gets upon the log that Malekith abandoned. Peering at the ground, he wonders if he actually sees such a creature, but he can't stay on what he considers a safe spot for long. The elf is already starting to walk off ... somewhere.

Tripping over the log, he catches himself before he falls flat. The princeling does his best to brush off what muck is upon him, but it is a lost cause. He takes a deep breath, shaky still, still just a gulp, before he hurries after Malekith. ]

I have no shoes. You must, at least, carry me.

[ It's pointless, he knows, but it's easier to make demands than continue to feed off his growing terror. If he does, he wonders if he would have any sense left by the time they reach whatever awful destination that they are headed. ]

[Malekith’s laugh some immediate, sharp, and cruel. It is not a laugh of amusement. It is a laugh of pure derision.]

Carry you? Already you whine more than a child. And then how will you react? When you see children running about, barefooted and with dagger in hand? But have no worry, you have ample time to compose yourself, I’m sure. Forbid you let the young ones make you cry.

[Without hesitation, Malekith reaches out before him, pulling aside at a mess of brambles, clearing a path, and despite his harsh words, when he walks through the available space, he holds aside the foliage until Clovis can manage past. It’s with full confidence that the elf feels comfortable assuming that Clovis has been in nothing less than a perfectly manicured garden.

Every crooked branch and dismal fern must seem perfectly terrible.

But on the other side, relief presents itself in the form of a knoll emerging from the mud, its grass an almost sickly shade of teal. With his free hand, Malekith gestures Clovis forth. Forward towards the dry land, forward towards-

Unbelievable.

At the crest of the hill stands a statue, tall, menacing, and judging by the ivy that clings to it, by every spot of moss clinging to what crevices are offered, well aged. Unmissable, though, above all else, is the subject - it’s Malekith, undeniably. Far be it from him to be an elf to wrangle his ego, but had every grandiose claim of his kingship been spoken truthfully?]

Oh, and they’ll try, I should mention. The children making you cry, I mean. [Casually, he strides past Clovis, taking the knoll with ease until he can stand atop the crest, and from there he stops, folding his hands behind him once more to survey what lies before him. A castle, Clovis will find, one very medievally classic in its design. Spires stretching into the sky, the bleak grey of stone, save for peeks of color from within tall windows - a thing out of fairy tale, truly. But Malekith tuts to himself, as if he were hoping to be greeted with otherwise.]

Look now upon the sight of your salvation. This is the castle my predecessor called her own, but seeing as my favored court has fallen to the misfortune of being razed to the ground, we will have to settle for this eyesore. Appreciate the vision of it now, little prince. I promise it will be some time before you find yourself outside of its walls, if ever.

[Hardly words of consolation, but both of them know Malekith isn’t the sort to offer such. Onwards, then, and he resumes his progression forth.]

[ Somehow, he keeps his bottom lip from protruding outwards in a pout. Pouting wouldn't do anything, and he does rather hate to be likened to a child. Though, the children that Malekith speaks of leaves his blood cold. ]

Shouldn't run around with sharp objects. Haven't they been told better?

[ Everything is so awful and new, but he -- at least -- finds it in himself to mumble something under his breath. A very weakly spoken quip.

Clovis hesitantly walks forward. He shrinks away from the brambles, fearing that they would catch onto his pajamas and rip them. Or worse, poison him. He fears that everything in this awful world has some means to kill him, while it would do absolutely nothing to the elf. He walks with tension obvious in his shoulders, trying not to curl in on himself but failing at that as fear eats at him.

When he heads forward, his eyes widen at the sight of the statue. He can only claim to having a painting in his honor -- one that is roughly ten-feet high, but not a statue. Not one so worn. Clovis stares at the age on it as he walks to rest his hand on some of the moss. The terror ebbs just a little as he whirls to face Malekith. You didn't lie. ]

How old are you?

[ Of all the questions, that is the one that comes to mind first. Well, of course, Malekith is much older than him, but to see the age on the statue just makes that so much more obvious. He pulls his hand away to walk forward to have his eyes settle on something somewhat familiar -- a castle. There are plenty of them in Pendragon.

It actually warms his heart just a little to see something somewhat familiar in a foreign, hostile land -- and Malekith ruins it. ]

Razed to the ground? I'm to be kept prisoner there?

[ Even with his questions, he still heads onward. Staying where he is would be too much. He did not want to know what other creature would find him. (He also did not want to have his toes eaten, as he was certain such a beast would do it.) Clovis shakes his head at the ghastly thought. ]

I thought you said I was free. [ It's another whine, another complaint, rather than the sound of a prince. Clovis presses his lips together in a firm line, feeling like he's swallowed something vile. He tries, again. ]

My king, does this mean that I please you enough to keep?

Now, now, Clovis, surely you have been raised better than to ask someone their age. Regardless, I would think you more impressed with my immortality than the actual figure of my age. [His tone is not one of scolding, but if Malekith were to elicit a momentary stab of embarrassment in the other man - well - that would be fine. Any definitive answer is left unspoken, though, and only when Clovis finds end to his question:]

I only keep that which I find benefit in, this cannot surprise you. And, while true, I did use the word “free,” I said so in the context of the city. What is it, in the very moment, that you expect? I unleash you onto Svartalfheim? That you might forge your own way forth?

Do not be ridiculous.

This realm is under my rule, as such are all creatures upon it. Either you bend to my command, or… well.

I kill you.

[It’s a sinister smirk that Malekith casts back towards Clovis, and as he does so, the noise of his boot hitting cobblestone sounds out, each step forward pulling them under the protection of the castle’s height. High above, there’s shout - one more-so of surprise than true alarm, their lord returns! - and before either of them even pull within range, the great gate of the castle begins to pull upward.]

Ah, but I assure you that the situation is much the same, regardless of what realm I would leave you upon, save your own. Midgardians, so accommodating…

[And as Malekith strolls forth, crossing the massive threshold of his castle with ease, out flit a trio of fairies, creatures far more akin to the traditional image of fae than Malekith ever claims to be. Tiny humanoids, purple in color, and moving fast, like little insects upon the wind, and the only head Malekith pays any of them is in his gesture to shoo them from about his head, despite their tiny cheers of ‘King! King Malekith!’

It’s only one of the three that falls back, it’s attention clearly focused upon Clovis in amazed surprise - A guest! A guest?

Ah - but then Malekith is stopped and turned to face Clovis, his eyes narrowed in speculation, the smirk on his face one of amusement. He’s halfway there, between the giant doors of the main hall and the gate they’ve passed through, and already two elvish guards rush forth to admit him into the castle, but-]

It is only courteous I extend the offer, I suppose. Do you wish to be let loose to roam the wilds? To fend for yourself? Or do you accept your place in my court? You might claim it a place as prisoner, but know I keep you for my entertainment only. If you call such a thing imprisonment, then so be it.

But you are capable of making a decision.

Make yours.

[Clovis cannot keep his gaze on Malekith after his question. Embarrassment does color is face as he did not realize how the question came out.

He remembers threatening Malekith; he remembers telling the elf that he would figure out his magic, his immorality and present to his father. His palms feel sweaty -- and he blames that on the swamp and temperature, even though it is more his anxiety.

Not even that humid as it is cold, if he is honest. Or maybe, he has a chill because of everything that he's realizing and seeing.]

Kill me!

[The prince cannot help but squeak out those words, like he is being strangled. What little comfort that he got from seeing the castle is lost as he continues to follow after. HIs legs move him forward even though he feels so weighed down. At the very least, he is proud that he keeps his whimpering to a minimum.]

Ah!

[Jumping backwards, he did not expect the sight of the fae. It helps to jolt him out of the truth that Malekith speaks. (The situation is the same -- either he bends the knee to him or dies. Even his own world, he starts to fear that they would not be capable of standing against Malekith.)

Yes, the sight of those winged fairies help to give him something else to focus on. He cannot help but tilt his head from side to side in awe. Purple, even-- Clovis does lift his hand out to grab onto Malekith's wrist to try to stop him from shooing them. They're tiny and you'll hurt them!

He stares up at the elf and where his hand is and drops it away like he did not.

Clovis wants to take a step back. He wants to holds is hands against his chest to stop the frantic beating. To apologize for trying to act out of turn. He flinches -- flinches at knowing how little his title still means. But he looks to the fae and feels like he's being expected of something.

His eyes scan the ground as he decides that he should, at least, try to not appear like some beaten dog. Tossing his hair back, he tips his chin up. Pretending he is not in pajamas, pretending he is not covered in mud, not barefoot, so many things that he pretends that he is so that he could speak without his voice shaking:]

You say such in an attempt to shame me, but I see no shame in taking the courtesy of a king.

[Really. Did he have a choice?]

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