Chapter 1
Asgard is not my home, nor will it ever be. It is too loud, too bright. Too cruel.
Pots rattle about my ears in the off-key melody of a morning as my eyes slowly flutter open to take in the dank cellars of the grandest palace in the heavens.
"You should 'ave been up hours ago, Astir!" Fridtjov, the sveinn master, scolds, his breathing hot in my face.
I try my hardest not to meet his hungry eye as I rise and slip familiar scarred brown leather slipppers onto my feet.
"Yes, master. I am sorry. Won't happen again," I say quietly.
I stare down at my lap and peek through the tangled heap of brown and red and blond to assess his mood, the answer taking form in a sharp slap.
"Every mornin'! 'Sorry, master, not again, master!' You hell-hated varlot!" he murmurs as he takes hold of my hair, pulling me off the bed and out of my small living quarters.
He lets go as he approaches the staircase, and I follow him wearily up the chilled steps, shielding my eyes from the hot light of the kitchens and looking instead to the cracked and stained stone beneath my feet as Fridtjov's clumsy footsteps clomp ahead of me. Familiar noise rises up as I enter the room: boiling and chatting, slicing and scolding, scrubbing and gossiping. It comes into view like a beehive with so many workers milling about.
A heavyset man stands over a steaming pot, barking orders at his wife as she slices vegetables on the counter near him. She smiles and does as she's told, as all good wives are expected to do, shuttling dishes from the hands of her husband to the young men next to her, who are preparing plates with breakfast pastries and drinks for the residents and guests of the palace, clanking lids onto trays as they finish.
Two women stand in the doorway to one of the many storage closets, snapping at the younger women lined up in front of them waiting for their duties. Some of them stare down at their simple green dresses, wringing their hands and their aprons as they quietly bicker, while others are still rubbing the last remnants of dream from their faces. A girl about my age flicks tumbling dark hair over her shoulder as she catches me watching them, her face slowly contorting to a smirk as she whispers at everyone within earshot what must be another joke or rumor.
Every sound of the kitchen is matched with a whisper or a murmur. This level rumbles on with staff day and night, their lips always passing along something unbelievable, something, scandalous, something bitter to the ears and sweet to the tongue. I sink into the corner to avoid being trampled or noticed again, lest I become a larger part of their scarcely quieted conversations.
My head throbs as Fridtjoy continues to waddle around the room thinking of something terrible for me to do, scratching his balding head in an attempt to move the slimy grey-brown locks to one side. His skin seems always to be burning, sweating from his labored movements and red with anger and oven heat. He wears the same brown trousers as the rest of the male workers, but his drag the ground, and his sweat stained cream shirt seems to swallow him whole.
The door I hide behind opens and my tattered gray apron hangs dejectedly on the backside. I manage to expertly pull it off the hook and around the waist of my dress in one motion, pulling a piece of midnight blue silk ribbon from a hole in the hem. The ribbon feels cool in my calloused hands, and I quickly tie the last remnant of my home on Earth around my thick hair, pulling it away from my already sweating neck.
More rattling arises over the din of the room and I know that a task has been found for me. The staff scuttles out of his way, eyeing me, as the sveinn master gets closer, a shining covered tray in his hands and a childish gleam in his beady black eyes.
"This," he sneers jovially, "goes to the tower." He shoves the tray towards me and pulls an elegant silver key on a delicate chain from his pocket. "You'll find that you'll be needing this as well, dear."
I slip the key around my neck and accept the tray as I hear the rest of the staff chuckle with him. Perfect idea- send the human to his chambers. I am Asgardian by blood just as they, but they disgrace me nonetheless, hoping perhaps that he will do something more than mock, for it would make excellent sport and even more wonderful gossip. I walk slowly and steadily out of the kitchen, feeling eyes on my back and knowing of the mockery that coats their lips.
Their whispers push me through still quiet marble corridors, past others carrying matching trays, and up and up the endless stair to the tower, where I am left to my thoughts and the echoes of my footsteps.
I would give anything to be back on Earth. Back home, with my father. I miss him so. His exile made him bitter to outsiders, but our simple little house rang with his laughter when we were alone. Simple, but lovely was that life. We would lay and stare at the endless night skies and he would teach me of realms unknown to that world. We could sit for hours with a pot of coffee and a book, reading to each other. He would start the mornings with the radio up, on a different station every day, and it would stay that way until dusk. But that life became lost with my father's death and Odin's guard to escort me home. Home.
"Asgard is not my home," I whisper as an unfamiliar door comes into view. "Nor will it ever be. It is too loud, too bright. Too cruel."
I shake myself free of the steely grasp of the past and collect myself, but I still cannot bring myself to open the door. He is different. I am different. I reek of earth, of long forgotten rainclouds and dirt; music leaks from my lips, songs that would twist the ears of any Asgardian. My eyes echo a different sky, a different sun, a different life. I wish for nothing more than the book in my thin mattress floors below, for the words that will bring my earthen music back, the words that I spent a lifetime trying to remember, the words that no one else on Asgard knows.
Sun streams in from a small slit of a window behind me and warms my back, but I still shiver. The key resting on my bare skin sends chills deeper. I fret with it and begin to look for a lock on the great door, but find none. With just a touch, it breathes open into the darkened chamber of a man- though I know it unwise to call him a man- that I had hoped never to meet.
One foot in the door, then the other. How can so few steps take such courage? Shapes materialize before me as my eyes adjust to the comforting darkness. The chamber is spacious; a large fireplace stands frostily empty at one end of the room, and green curtains lined with gold reveal tall windows along one wall. A gorgeous table of some dark, unfamiliar wood sits alone in the center with a few straight-backed chairs surrounding it. Dark green couches and chairs are seen everywhere and thick curtains of the same shade enclose a bed a few feet in front of me.
I set the tray on a small table next to the bed, and my voice comes out in near whisper in the silence, "I have your meal, sir."
A pale hand parts the curtains as if it had just been waiting for me to speak, and a matching set of bare feet slowly reach for the elegant floor. A muffled rustling accompanies the opening of the curtain as an arm comes into view, a bare shoulder, little by little until a whole battered body has appeared. His raven hair almost disappears in this light, and my eyes work timidly down the face; cold blue in the eyes with deep shadows beneath, bruises and cuts from a battle not so far in the past. I stare at a man who threw himself into the abyss and came out the other side a different man- Asgard's once king, our quisling prince Loki.
A single glance tells that he has not slept, but his eyes still calculate, still analyze, and still classify his surroundings. He evaluates me, andI do the same. His jaw is muzzled- but I can hardly call it a muzzle. It is elegant and gruff metal, like a warning of the silver tongue it holds captive.
I finger the key around my neck. He nods knowingly and turns his chin to the left and slightly upward, never taking his eyes from mine. A small keyhole rests at the corner of his jaw, so that the key runs parallel to his face when inserted. I step tentatively and uncomfortably close, holding his stare, and place one hand gently on the device as I guide the key into the lock. With a satisfying series of clicks, it falls softly into my waiting hand. He says nothing still, just rubs his jaw, opening and closing his mouth to work out the stiffness.
"Shall I let in the dawn, sir?" I say a bit louder, still not breaking our shared gaze. Another nod, and I must turn away. I can feel his eyes on my back as I make my way toward the curtains. I tug one heavy curtain open and stare out into the blue and pink sky, a few purple clouds trailing lazily along.
"It's a beautiful morning. Full of color," I say dreamily. For just a moment, it seems as if I'm under a familiar sky. Even with a different sun, sunrises and sunsets can make one forget their place and forget their worries. But not for long.
"Beauty is all in the eyes. And yours tell me so much." I jump at Loki's voice- too close. I turn to see him right behind me, staring not into my eyes, but at the slowly changing sky. His face betrays nothing, and in his eyes lays an ominous silence.
"And what do they tell you?" I whisper, turning back to the sky.
The door to the chamber flies open before he can reply, hitting the wall with a menacing thud. A large man stands in the doorway, armor shining in the light and blond hair strewn over his shoulders. Thor, the next king of Asgard and hero of Earth, stands straight and tall, though he seems to be holding a great burden. There is a pain in his face, a look of betrayal; but there is also anger.
I quickly turn to face him, standing a little straighter with my hands clasped behind me back, waiting to be ordered about. He stares at Loki's back, and the pain grows deeper as his brother does not turn. Loki still stares straight past me to the open skies, a marble statue scarred by the passing of time.
"Has he spoken?" Thor turns to me, a note of hope in his voice. I open my mouth to reply, but Loki's eyes are upon me again. There is something fierce and urgent in his eyes, something threatening.
"No sir," I say obediently, looking down like a good servant girl. To look him in the eye could be too curious, too aggressive, or too defiant. I have been bruised many times for staring, but it is so difficult not to. One can learn so much from the eyes. The eyes of this brother spark with a warm ferocity, and yet they storm and rage with bewilderment and grief.
"Brother, why must you torment me so? Speak to me, Loki. To someone. I want to help you make up for your wrongdoing, but I can do nothing if you block me out." Thor speaks as if he has forgotten I am in the room. He walks forward and attempts to turn Loki by the shoulders, but in vain.
"I did what I had to. You know that. You almost destroyed the planet, Loki! I will not feel guilty for bringing you home, even when it must be for imprisonment. This is not my fault!" His voice echoes through the chamber and is met yet again with silence.
"Shall I leave you two alone, sir?" I say. I cannot stand and watch him try so disparately to bring words from Loki's mouth when they came to me so simply.
"No. If he will not speak to me, I will not stay. I just thought… he was finally alive again. But that matters not. Has he eaten?" he asks, looking for the tray.
"Not yet, sir. He has only been out of bed for a short time."
"I see. Make sure he is properly fed for once. His mind may be wasting, but I will not let his body follow. See to the healing of his wounds, and treat his jaw as well. It must ache him so," Thor lists worriedly, looking around the chamber for anything else that may be done to make his brother more comfortable.
"I will make sure he is cared for, sir. Does he have a normal servant?"
"No. His food is brought and then he is left to his own devices."
I pause for a moment- He is left without a guard? Loki may be a prince, but he is a war criminal and a master of magic. He could escape with ease, and who knows what he would do then? He could seek revenge on Asgard, on the Avengers. On Earth.
"Would you like me to see to it that someone is left to care for him regularly, sir?" I ask. Someone should be keeping watch over him.
"I must speak to the Allfather, but I fear his condition may worsen in solitude. He is my little brother no matter what he has done, and I will see to it that he is cared for. I will inform your master, and you shall stay with him for today, at least," Thor replies firmly.
"Y-yes, sir. Of course," I stammer. I cannot imagine a day in this chamber, a day of being analyzed, a day with he who could end me at any moment, but disobeying a direct order from the son of Odin could be much worse.
"Good. Thank you." He walks around his brother and steps in front of him. Somehow, Loki seems to be staring straight through him. Thor places a hand gently on his brother's face and pushes a lock of dark hair from it.
"I forgive you, Loki. I just want you home. Really home. " He stands there for a moment, his eyes finding every wound, every bruise and blemish on Loki's face, knowing that many came from his hand, his hammer. The pain drills its way deeper. He sighs softly and begins the solemn walk to the door.
"Take care of him. Take good care of him," he repeats without turning. He does not wait for me to reply, but closes the door softly behind him.
"I will," I breathe into the chilly air. "I will."
