"Young," he can barely remember those years for himself. "The youngest of us are older than your world." Malekith recalls the creation of Yggdrasil; of Svartalfheim and what it had become. The times before were fading. Holding on, desperately. Fighting desperately to return to those years; return to the universe that was theirs. To hear there is conflict in her world as well he can't say he finds himself surprised.

The device is turned back over to her once more, a hand motioning back toward her book with silent suggeston: for your records. More items had come in the meantime but he chooses to pursue this conversation for now. What could possibly urge her from her home? Conflict was, well. He'd long grown accustomed to it; perhaps in some small way he enjoyed it, but Malekith wasn't one to fight for sake of fighting. Those were the Asgardians (and perhaps Midgardians but he'd been asleep since the beginning of their lives and knew quite little of them).

Although there was a spark of pleasure that came with the destruction of those who had done him wrong. He finds no need to lie of it were he asked. However, back to her world: "Tell me of this conflict."