Mother was tired. The work of a slave was arduous, so she was often tired, but this time was different. We didn't have the luxuries of palace servants, since they were above us in rank, and our needs were never cared for the way theirs were. So there would be no formal care for my mother's state—not even a diagnosis for whatever was ailing her these days.
We were the bottommost class of citizens. There was no cost for the servants' care in the hospital, while ours was cruelly beyond our means. They wore finely woven dresses for work, while we wore pants…our women's tunics had some overflowing fabrics, but they were hardly dresses. We needed the movement for harder work.
The princes and nobles frequently courted the servants as well, sometimes bringing them to their chambers, but rarely did any servant marry into a noble family. We, on the other hand, were disallowed from even looking upon their faces—our very existence was graced with only the basest conditions for survival.
As I watched the kitchen bustle about in preparation for the feast, my mother struggled to hide her crippling fatigue. She had fallen ill recently, and none of the healers would see her without payment—and healing was one of many forms of magic she never managed to teach me in secret. We were hardly allowed to defend ourselves from the advances of the royal guard—use of the seidr was certainly forbidden. And it was a secret I would carry to the grave.
When I matured into adulthood, she'd spent the darkest, most secret hours of the night teaching me the basest forms of magic that she'd learned as a young girl. Projections mostly, taught in the most secluded rooms of the palace—or ones that were locked up at night, and could only be opened by magic.
I never advanced past those, never managed to, before the lessons became encumbering. A few tricks had allowed me to retain my strength, which made me an excellent worker, but I was to use them sparsely—only if I were in desperate need to carry on.
"Mother?" I sauntered to her, my chest tightening at the sight of her hunched form. Evening had fallen, and it was time to start bringing out the food. Prepare our decanters to serve wine. "Let me take that," I said, reaching for the heavy tray she hovered over.
"No," she waved my hand away. "It's alright."
"No, it's not," I insisted, placing my decanter in front of her. "You take this."
Despite our difficult life, I was not accustomed to seeing her so weak. She'd told me stories about being a woman of rank in our old world, having escaped my horror of a father when she became pregnant. He was also a renowned nobleman—though escaping him proved the lesser fortune, since she ended up captive among the enemies of Asgard.
"I'm alright, Aila—really, I am," she breathed out, though her paleness was not convincing.
"No, you're not." I shook my head. "You come find me if they give you something heavy to carry, alright?"
She said nothing at first, and then eased into a grin. "Thank you, nochka."
I grinned, and bent over for a quick embrace, before seeing the lead servant shoot me a glare from the corner. I dropped my gaze down to the floor, feeling my own blood drain fearfully from my cheeks, and picked up the heavy tray from my mother—leaving her my decanter instead.
One by one, the serving maids and bussing slaves gathered around the kitchen exit. We waited for a time there, while the first round of the feast had passed, and then it was our turn—to bring more food out, and more wine.
I looked over at her, panic blooming in my chest at the sight of her frailness. "Mother…"
"Lower your eyes," she whispered as we shuffled down the long hallway to the ballroom.
"They are lowered—we must sneak away, mother. You need to rest."
"No," she shook her head. "Don't even think on attempting it. They will notice the absence, and I will be worse off than I am now."
I pressed my lips together worriedly. I didn't want to look away, but the stress of being flogged or otherwise punished would only worsen her condition. My punishments were always worse for her to take than her own.
I trailed back down to the large tray in front of me, with tempting rolls and meats laden on it. Though it was easy to avert my thoughts from my growling stomach—I foolishly ate my entire ration in the morning—as we strode into the ballroom.
The cold, brisk hallway air was immediately replaced by the smell of food, with the heat of a multitude of noblemen and women crowded into the space. The king and queen were situated at the far left of the room—where I was headed—along with the princes, Thor and Loki. Mother and I went our separate ways, each of us surrounded by a flurry of beautiful fabrics, laughter, and smiling faces.
The royal table was laden with the most food, and I was to leave my platefuls before the family itself. Mostly in front of Thor—he was the one with the larger appetite.
I'd only witnessed the princes' faces a few times in my life, but I was still familiar with both their demeanors. The older one, Thor, was large, loud and boisterous—I only ever dared to glance at him a few times, but I never needed it to sense the friendliness in his tone…we may have been friends in another life, if I were ever one of the noblewomen attending these events.
The fact that such thoughts perused my mind at all was thanks to my mother.
The lesser prince, Loki, was tall and lean with a handsome face, but terribly quiet—and a master of magic, as mother had warned me. He and the queen were to be dealt with caution at all costs, for if they sensed any flares of seidr about me, my meager practices would have severe consequences.
My shoulders clenched, and nervousness rose as I strode around the back of their table. From here, it was safe to glance up at them. The Almother was speaking to the lesser prince, whose dark curls swept over his shoulders as he turned toward her. And as usual, Thor was instead conversing with the warriors three.
I was to hold the tray in one hand, and slide the food onto the table in the crevice between the princes—which proved rather strenuous, and I was glad to have taken the task from my mother. She may or may not have managed on her own.
I took one of the plates, and leaned over the lesser prince's shoulder. He whispered something in his mother's ear, she chuckled and muttered back to him, "We'll have to talk to Eirarch about—"
Her voice was suddenly stunted by the sound of a clatter and a thump in the middle of the ballroom.
In the corner of my eye, I saw my mother tumble to the ground. My breath hitched in my throat, and the plate dropped from my hands. My eyes fell with panic, and the Prince recoiled from the sudden mess, shifting in his chair as his eyes jolted up to me. Shock gripped my chest as my eyes flitted up to his, with a terrified gasp, and fear shot through me at the ire in his emerald gaze.
"How dare you?" he growled, and I stumbled back fearfully.
My limbs trembled. Flashes of a bloody whip, and incorrigible pain flared before my eyes, but tears had filled them as I swept toward sight of my mother laying on the ground.
"Mother," I whimpered, and gathered just enough strength to bolt around the table, to her side. I fell to my knees beside her, tears streaming down my cheeks as I felt the heat subsiding from her body. "Gods, no—no! Help me, please!" I cried out to the others, no longer caring what punishment awaited me for looking at their faces.
All around me, finely clothed nobles stood stock-still and peered down at us. No one moved.
"Please!" I screamed, and only a few of their faces contorted. They glanced between themselves with looks of disgusted shock at my outburst.
Only the Almother's brows creased with pain and worry, and she rose slightly from her chair as she regarded us. Odin grasped her forearm calmly, and she shot him a look of disdain. Beside her, the lesser prince merely stared annoyedly, before looking back down at the servant who had come to clean the mess.
A figure appeared before them in front of me, crouched before my mother. "Aila," Davos muttered darkly, as he tucked his arms beneath my mother. "Lower your eyes."
I looked down at my friend—my one-time lover—and tears fell at the earnestness in his expression. Slowly, I dragged my gaze back down at the ground. He rose slowly with my mother in his arms, and made for the exit—with me in tow.
Once we were past the doors, I couldn't contain myself any longer. Tears streamed down my cheeks, and I followed him to the slaves' quarters.
Eye-la.
That was the slave girl's name, Loki had learned later that evening. Frigga had requested to know the state of the girl's mother—who had evidently passed sometime during the latter half of the feast.
"That poor girl," the Almother muttered, glowering at Odin slightly. "You should have let me help her."
"You help one, and the rest will begin to harbor ideas about our generosity," the Alfather mused coldly, taking a sip from his chalice.
"I doubt it would have gone that far."
Loki arched a brow at his mother's sharpness. He had long since finished his food, and was also nursing his wine, keenly listening to the conversations that went on around him. Thor and his Idiots Three had fallen back to the subject of their latest weapons requisition, while Frigga argued with Odin—a slightly more interesting conversation.
Political at least, in its nature.
"If I had not seen it before, I would not ask this of you now."
Frigga huffed. "When have you ever endeavored to treat them kindly, Odin?"
His mother, the caring woman that she was, had always advocated for the betterment of care of their lesser residents. Though when one retort followed another at length, Loki had begun to grow bored with even that conversation.
"More wine, Prince Loki?" A voice appeared in front of him, and Loki looked up at the servant girl who had been traipsing along their table—the same one who had rushed to his side, to clean the mess that the slave had left behind.
Despite her shy glances over the past few months, Loki had never cared to learn her name. Even now, he stared coldly at the woman—while she gave him a longer, kinder stare. As though she were accustomed to his demeanor.
"Please," he answered politely, and her cheeks flushed slightly as he held out his chalice. From where he sat, Loki could see her chest heaving with apprehension.
"Thank you," he muttered, and she pressed her lips together with a grin.
Thor had had so many noblewomen and servants—Loki's own appetite for such carnal affections was sparse over the long years. It was deemed inappropriate for all intents and purposes, and no one was to speak of it or display it outwardly. The royal family was still to be feared and respected. Gossip would not be tolerated by any servant especially, of any rank.
Later in the night, Loki decided he would find her again, and approach with some semblance of a conversation. The woman was tall, lean—fully matured in all ways that a woman could be. Her cheeks bloomed red when first approached her, though Loki's interest had only peaked at the prospect of a distraction from the otherwise dull night—which had followed a dull week of celebrations and drinking preceding the winter solstice.
There were no prospects for a queen in Loki's near future, nor that of physical companionship among the abhorrently poor conversationalists. He saw no trouble in relinquishing their attentions for that of the servant woman that night.
It was always tiring to entertain prospective companions, and it had been some time since Loki's last encounter. Though this one was quiet, reserved—there would be no issues with gossip, that much he was certain of. And things went by as quickly as he'd anticipated, just as they always had. It grew late before he'd even realized, and deep into the evening, Loki laid atop his sheets, staring into the fireplace as the servant girl gathered her clothes.
"My prince?" he heard her mutter, and his eyes flitted in her direction.
Now fully clothed, her dark hair was tousled—the only remnants of their evening together. She curtsied to him, grinning happily, as though it were an honor to curtsy to him in such personal circumstances.
Loki stood from the bed, and in a flash of green, he was robed. He sauntered toward the door along with her, and took her hand. Offering the warmest grin that he could muster, Loki pressed his lips to her knuckles. "I thank you for your company tonight."
"Of course," she breathed out, her bright smile only growing at his touch.
Loki nodded, and opened the door for her, stepping out slightly to allow her to pass. The corridor was dark… dark, but not completely silent, as he realized instantly.
The quiet sound of pattering feet and muffled sobbing had barely reached his ears.
"Good night, Loki," the servant girl whispered as she stepped past him. Loki's grin abated slightly—the informality was an infraction, regardless of what transpired between them.
He watched for a moment as she sauntered down the hallway. Light poured onto him from the fireplace, and a second figure suddenly appeared in the dark.
Loki made out the features instantly—it was the slave girl from the feast, and her eyes were glinting with wetness in the pale moonlight. Her light, brown waves were a mess about her shoulders, and her tense movements nearly skidded to a stop. Her eyes flickered up, accidentally meeting the gaze of the servant girl and Loki.
The servant frowned, and the look on her face was sharp as she eyed the slave continuing her stride—sharp with disbelief. "Keep your eyes down, girl," she commanded the girl coldly.
Loki's attention averted to the young woman. She stared pointedly at the ground as she walked by him, covering her mouth with her wrist. Her shoulders pulled inward fearfully as she drew near him, though her features continued to be twisted with pain. Her brows were furrowed, damp with sweat, and her lips shuddered against her skin, against… against a film of seidr.
If Loki blinked, he would have missed it. The hint of seidr, draining from the slave girl's lips. It was faint—likely fading, so as to keep him from sensing it altogether. When he realized that the servant was still standing in the corner of his eye, he turned back toward her annoyedly.
"Sleep well," he said sharply—intently—and tension flickered in her brow.
She bowed her head confusedly, and turned slowly to disappear around the corner. When Loki looked back, he also saw that the slave girl—Aila, was it?—had gone down the stairwell at the far side of the hall.
Magic hummed in his veins as he closed the door behind him silently, masking his footsteps as he trailed down the hallway. Stopping at the archway that led into the stairwell, he tuned his hearing to the sounds of the palace…everything was still. Wherever she had disappeared to, the woman had done so quickly.
Loki stood a moment more, listening to nothing, and then sighed.
However the girl learned her menial trick—likely through natural talent—her use of the seidr was a crime. A serious crime. He had merely to accuse her of it, and she would be reprimanded. Punished severely, if not executed.
Which may or may not have been a gift, considering the girl's circumstances. To lose one's mother, and continue on living as a slave, alone in a punishing world? Loki would never traverse the lower dungeons of the palace where the slaves slept, but that did not mean that he was blind to their condition. None in the palace were.
w00t. Got this story started. So if you guys are here from my God and the Siren series, thank you so much for checking this story out! It's going to be a pretty relaxed, easy going story. Tons of palace intrigue, mostly light hearted stuff. Obviously there's going to be a plot and an endgame, but I'm aiming for this to be an easy, enjoyable, slightly angsty slowburn read. I'm DYING to write this thing.
Please, please do also share your thoughts with me along the way, and hear me out on why - for those of you who've read my AN's from my other stories, you know that I work full time and am also trying to publish my own novel, and I also work as a book editor. I was dying to write this story since I came up with it, but all of this is a lot on my plate. I can update as regularly as every week (some of you know this already), but if a story doesn't get a lot of traffic, there's not really a reason for me to not take my time with it, considering how much I've got going on.
Of course that's not an ultimatum on whether you get reading material, I hate it when writers do that. I write first and foremost for myself and will always finish my projects, but I want you guys to understand where I'm coming from too with pacing. I need to pace myself and prioritize. If people are going cray cray for the next chapter, I will go cray cray to prioritize it.
That's all for now. Til next time, lovelies!
