At Hero's Bay

The Convergence

𝐒𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐡𝐨𝐨𝐝 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐁𝐫𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐲 𝐋𝐨𝐯𝐞

𓄹 𝐘/𝐍 𓄼

Between her scape of slumber, Y/N walks in a world of primordial darkness.

She knows this is a dream, she does. The half-blood distinctly remembers finding a quiet solace as she, Vi-di, and Yalina drifted across the ranges of Svartalfheim. But where was this place? She never encountered a realm where the very air she breathed was filled with the scent of aged mildew and the acrid tang of copper—not unless the fields were laden in battle.

Her nose stings whenever she tries to sense whatever she could not see, eliciting small tears to form at the corner of her eyes. But Y/N maintains her repose and uses her hands as her guide. She trudges through a viscous land that left a sultry residue under the soles of her feet, and the Amisian cringed at the thought of how meticulous her dream—and perhaps her own mind—could be.

Maybe this was not a memory at all, she thinks, then inhales sharply when she hears the abrupt cacophony of whispers that resonate from above her head. A sky of voices that she cannot yet see perturbs her in a place like this, especially since her perception skills are not as adept as she hoped they would be. As Y/N does attempt to discern any fragment of such tumultuous voices, she cannot recognize any of them.

When Y/N decided that it was a useless endeavor, she quickly claps both of her hands over her ears as they only grew louder. Yet, after enduring another few minutes of the hellish noise, Y/N does notice that the abstruse voices do begin to coalesce—soon speaking as one. And the sky cracks like thunder with a name and voice that Y/N only vaguely recognizes.

"I oppose you, Kraw the Uncontrollable." The sky bellows in the voice of Malekith, the leader of the Dark Elves.

By the time she does familiarize herself with the deep undertones of Malekith's words, the dark abyss she once walks through slowly melts into a world of iridescent color. She stands at the precipice of some form of a sweeter memory; a field of reinroses shrouded in the dusk, where children who bear no faces run past her legs, laughing and giggling, keeping away from her and her bemused curiosities. Y/N veers when they reach the top of the knoll, apparently relishing in what little light this mysterious world had to give, and did eventually realize that they were children of Dark Elf heritage. They come together, hand-in-hand, joining the company of two figures who emerge from the shadow-laden horizon; a man and a woman, she sees, their parents perhaps.

It is a hellscape, Y/N knows, smarter than to fall for imagery that she could have imagined before with her own siblings—even her own parents that have already departed from her life. For now, she only watches, palm open wide and fingers curled at the ready, prepared to bring forth the tides that just might disappear beneath her feet—akin to a waterfall that does not have an end. She sees that the woman—the mother—bears no face like her children, but somehow, the Amisian does receive a saccharine impression, as any loving mother would have in the company of her children. But Y/N could only guess towards those kinds of things, and silently continued watching as the man—the father—turns.

It was Malekith. He was the only one who bears some semblance of a visage, and Y/N could see the scorched half of his face, the part where Thor had unleashed his fury upon after the death of his mother. Y/N could perceive that the wound still remained fresh, clumps of flesh surrounding each crevice of exposed bone were charred and mangled, and blood still wept at where his blackened eye would be. It was a scar he seemed to have carried even in what seemed to be a world of his own memories.