brovengers | White Christmas, Intro

Malekith begins an attack on Midgard, blanketing the entire planet in ice and snow; Thor and Loki form an uneasy alliance.

Snow blankets the desert, buries the buttery sand dunes with layer upon layer of glimmering, bone-white powder. Despite the traditional view of a desert climate, a few inches of snow per year is not unusual for this region. A three-foot accumulation over as many hours, however, is enough to give anyone pause.

Ice coats the roads like a frozen sheath. Travel is foolishly dangerous, and not just because of the weather conditions: the shadows of the long winter nights hide more insidious enemies now. Deadly agents of Malekith lurk in the darkness, waiting to ambush those Midgardians who stray too far from the light. These soft, sedentary, eggnog-addled humans are easy prey for the lithe warriors of Svartalfheim, and the disappearance rate worldwide has spiked significantly. Neighborhoods across the United States and elsewhere are locked down from terror, and even the hardiest souls are sleeping with a nightlight.

Initially, Loki was amused. The mortals were in a confused panic, his brother was enraged, and, of course, Loki was getting lectured by all corners. But, truth be told, he would not have let Midgard fall to the Casket’s powers even if Thor had not prostrated himself before his brother. Loki did not wish for an end to mortal life. Its subjugation, perhaps, but not its extinction. And, though he would scarcely admit it to himself, the thought of Jane or Darcy in the hands of the Dark elves discomfited him. Thor, Thor’s friends, and Midgard as a whole—they were Loki’s territory, as far as he was concerned, and Malekith was encroaching.

“Twas the night before Christmas, and all through the house,” Loki murmurs as he materializes on the streets of Puente Antiguo, which are silent, empty, and bright with rows of streetlights, “not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse.”

He shoves his hands into the pockets of his overcoat as he strolls down the sidewalk, heading to the apartment shared by his brother and Jane Foster and trying not to think too deeply about the irony of his actions.

The weather outside is frightful. One glance through the frost-coated windows of the apartment reveals a frozen landscape fit only for the heart of Jotunheim. Which undoubtedly isn’t a coincidence, considering the blizzard’s origin. In a sea of frigid blue, Thor can’t spot even a glimpse of light from the neighboring buildings. Only the streetlamps remain, and despite an obvious lack of understanding when it comes to Midgardian technologies, he knows they won’t be able to endure much longer.

Behind him the room is bright and warm, a stark contrast to the world outside. Lanterns lit with enchanted flames flicker at each corner of the apartment, their amber glow keeping all but the thinnest shadows at bay. The towering piles of paperwork used by Jane and Erik for research are stacked neatly in rows against the far wall, unable to provide cover for any would-be intruders. Even the furniture is arranged in a wide, turret-like crescent that blocks off the main entrance from where Jane sits and Thor paces.

“Where are you, Loki.” He mutters, turning on his heel to pass by the window once more.

The fires inside Jane’s apartment are so delightful. Loki bows gallantly to the good doctor after he teleports beside her, much to her obvious and disheartening dismay.

“Hello, my dear,” he says. “I’d sing you a carol, but I have neither the time nor the religious inclination.” Turning to his brother, Loki adds, “You look ready to punch something, as always.” That trait of Thor’s usually worked against Loki, but tonight he expected it to come in handy.

Loki’s words are undeniably true for once. Thor has to force the scowl on his lips to fade, his brother’s nonchalant entrance only fanning the ever-burning flames of his temper. After all, if not for Loki’s arrogance, the wrath of Svartalfheim would never have been set on Midgard.

Malekith is hunting his brother, of that he is certain. And beneath the urge to grab Loki and knock him upside the head until some amount of sense falls back into place, he is more than a little relieved to know that the dark elves haven’t yet found their target. His eyes lack the harshness of his expression, offering a barely noticeable glimpse of the true reason for his agitation: the thought that his brother might have already fallen.

Of course, that thought has (thankfully) been proven wrong, and Thor circles around once more into his usual, hammer-swinging fury.

“You’re late.” He snaps, leaning forward just enough to point an accusing finger in Loki’s direction.

Shadows lengthen over Puente Antiguo in a deluge that threatens to drown. One by one, the lamps along the streets wink out; the lights strung over the trees and bushes turn black; headlights dim and then shatter; every sign loses its glow. The darkness suffocates as it gathers and becomes so heavy and all-consuming that not even the stars or the moon can pierce its cloak. Malekith strides forward from its center, and his warriors lurk around him, their weapons ready. Bitter wind howls around these nightmare forces, a frigid gale straight from the deepest canyons of Jotunheim.

Malekith can hear the mortals gasping for breath in their homes, hear them shivering in cold and terror in their cars and shops. He expects that many of them will die tonight. He hopes to take care of the rest before this planet finishes its year. Midgard is nothing to him, except as a means to an end. Loki’s end, and perhaps Thor’s in the bargain. Malekith knows that they are here, in this little speck of a town, and he has few qualms about killing every last resident if it means flushing out his quarry.

Inside Jane’s apartment, just before the fire dies and the lightbulbs fail, Loki says, “I submit that I am, in fact, precisely on time.”

Once they are plunged into darkness, he adds, “See?”

Jane hugs herself, though it does no good; the cold that follows the power outage bites into her bones. ”This isn’t natural,” she says. Her blood feels like sludge, her thoughts move like someone barefoot in a bog.

“Sharply observed,” Loki says, not unkindly. He drapes his coat around her, and Jane opens her mouth to protest. But its enchantment warms her, keeps her from collapsing into a frozen stupor on the couch, and so she wordlessly draws it tight around her body.

Loki offers his hand to his brother. “Come on, then. I think someone’s waiting for us outside.”

Thor doesn’t waste a second. Even without sight, he can hear his brother’s voice enough to know what he means to do.

“Right,” His hand clamps down on Loki’s wrist. “Let’s get this over with.”