Thor: The Dark World | Malekith, Algrim | 2000 words (AO3 link)

Look at me.

Darkness now. In his dead eye, scratched of its sight by flashing hooks of electricity, Malekith is staring down the long throat of darkness to its deep heart, the place of origin where black blessings make the heavy flesh irrelevant. Distant now; he is stitched too tightly to the body that bears him up, his own flesh is cracked and smoking and he cannot remember how it feels to drift as formless as a thought — but there before him darkness persists and he sees.

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death-fires danced

The Hobbit | Smaug | 900 words (AO3 link, FFN link)

Glory to the ghost of war, reborn in flesh and scale.

Hunger is like the inversion of fire, a grey chill that creeps down the throat and smothers the heart’s hearth in ashes. Beasts with thin blood and thinner skin fear it as a harbinger of death, a butcher carving their bodies with unseen knives. Not so among the mighty. Not so among destroyers and devourers and the winds of devastation itself, the dragons, though hunger is known to them very well. Even Glaurung knew hunger; and after Glaurung, Ancalagon; and after Ancalagon, Smaug; and it is no accident that this should run through them like a trembling thread, generations long.

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Title: The Locus Priory
Artist: Saltillo
Played: 1125 times

11 months agovia with 28 notes

The Kursed are different, Malekith tells himself. Power and pain are the only beacons they seek in the mad, white wastelands flowering through Yggdrasil’s fingers. Power to fare forward through heaps of shattered bodies, pain to give their fury a locus; these are the two dark bolts of clarity that they will follow until their flesh disintegrates. As for the rest, they must remember it — but only dimly, like shapes glimpsed in rising smoke. They must remember dear ones, but not their deaths. They must remember home, but not its long lesions of terrible silence. They must mourn without knowing exactly why, they must take savage solace in their task, it must be simpler for them in some ways. Malekith tells himself this must be so.

A familiar weight is in the corner of his vision; Algrim, looming attentively nearby. Somehow, ludicrously, he seems almost unchanged. Still steady, still strong, waiting for whatever may come. But now he waits wordless and now his eyes track back and forth absently while he stands ready in close shadows. He looks to Malekith often, watches him as if nothing else is real.

It is a great honour and a great sacrifice to accept the covenant of the Kursed, Malekith thinks. All strength is born from suffering. If nothing else, they must always remember treasured things from their former lives. A word, a secret, a face. His heart aches for them. They must remember everything that they have lost.

let me sing to you the anguished power ballad of my people

(Control to Yuletide base, we are doing a thing.)

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