Author's Note: SO. This story is loosely loosely loosely based on the Greek myth the Rape of Persephone. I thought it might be an interesting concept, so I decided to see where it goes. Also my name is not actually Persephone, despite my pen-name, so this fic is not a self-insert lol. And the title comes from Loki's quote "Freedom is life's great lie. Once you accept that, in your heart, you will know peace."
Disclaimer: I own nothing.
CHAPTER I
Abduction
. . .
He takes her.
He rips her from her planet, cruelly tears her away from everything she has ever known, and holds her for ransom. Not because she is the best or the most important or even the loveliest, but because she is the only one he can get his hands on. And so he must make do.
She is royalty, just as he is, her father the king of his own realm.
Desperation has driven him to occupy this role. Really, he is nothing more than a kidnapper, and it dismays him to acknowledge that he has sunken to such depths.
But Asgard is mutinous. There are daily uprisings and his control is tenuous at best. The people scorn him, call him murderer, call him usurper. He must put a stop to it through any means necessary.
. . .
Before this, she, a bastard, had lived concealed from her father's wife's wrath. Her life had been a tranquil one, marked only by halfhearted endeavors in the arts and whimsical interactions with no-name Olympians. She had never known anything so harsh as need or wanting, and her mother's tender surveillance had sheltered her from the brutalities and politics of the world that she had been born into. For no real purpose, she had been preserved as pristine and naïve, shielded even and especially from the numerous potential suitors that boasted similar pedigrees. Shielded from everything.
If she was never in the palace, her mother had thought, perhaps she might be safe. The tragic irony was that, all that time, she had been looking for danger in all the wrong places.
He came to her when she was alone, shopping in the marketplace. The day was, as all the ones before it and certainly all the ones that would come after it, beautiful. The sun gleamed high in the azure sky, warming her olive skin and ensuring agricultural prosperity for her people. Olympus was a glorious realm, one she was happy to call her home.
He caught her eye and she knew immediately that he was different. His clothing was dark, so dark, darker than anything she had ever seen. Just like the night, just like his eyes, just like his inky hair. The only thing about him that wasn't dark was his porcelain skin.
He was striking, yes, but she had assumed him to be some sort of foreign tradesman or mysterious traveler from the outer reaches of the empire, come to Olympus on business. She supposed, in retrospect, that this presumption hadn't been entirely wrong. She was his business.
It wasn't until he had been following her for five minutes that she picked up her pace, an unknown and singular sort of terror sending a current of ice shooting through her veins. She glanced over her shoulder at him, startled, and he made no pretense of his intentions – he descended upon her swiftly, before she ever knew what was happening. The sound of apples spilling from her basket and onto the cobblestone floor was the only sound that echoed in the deserted alleyway.
As her senses became fogged by some sort of trickery or drug, the last thought that crossed her mind was merely why? She was insignificant.
. . .
She sleeps the first two days away. When she wakes, there is a weighty, sinking despair in her gut; the events stitch themselves together in her mind, mending the fragmented tapestry of her memory.
She sees his emerald eyes watching her, unblinking, as her gaze settles. His face is narrow and angular, defined by sharp features that look as if they had been cut from the purest marble. The crooked lilt in the corners of his mouth conveys a particular sense of malice.
"Finally, you're awake," he drawls.
Who are you? "Where am I?" she questions instead. The words rasp against the inside of her throat, but they are melodious all the same. She takes in their surroundings: they are in some sort of dungeon, it appears, and the color scheme is a far cry from what she is accustomed to. Instead of warm tones, everything is cold – icy, even – and bluish. The palette reminds her of bruises, of death, and it scares her because it is so utterly foreign. She wraps her arms around herself, shuddering.
"You are in Jotunheim," he tells her, his voice lapping over her like liquid silk. He speaks so eloquently and with such beautiful diction that she almost forgets her initial fear – almost.
A look of hazy recognition washes over her features. "We have left Olympus."
His brow furrows in apparent disappointment. "Yes, we have left Olympus. Surely you are familiar with the Nine Realms – they have educated you on that godforsaken planet, haven't they?"
He speaks to her as if she is a dull child, but she is too stunned to take offense. Her tutelage has in fact covered intergalactic history, but indeed his tone is so steely that she can only nod in affirmation. "Who are you?" she murmurs quietly, warranted trepidation lacing every syllable.
"I am Loki, King of Asgard and Jotunheim," he states boldly, straightening his posture.
She flinches at the word 'king.' He is young, too young to be king, in her opinion. She cannot fathom that he is any older than she and her estranged half-siblings, who all expect to be princes and princesses for the foreseeable future. Something about this 'Loki' is mischievous – playful, even, and not at all suited for her conception of a wise, aged King of Asgard. Indeed, though, he revels in the title; she can't help but think he'd been waiting impatiently this entire time to introduce himself so grandly. She racks her brain, but she cannot, in her flustered state, recall ever learning that Asgard and Jotunheim were united under one ruler. She actually vaguely remembers them to be sworn enemies. She thinks perhaps it might have served her well to have paid better attention to the current politics of Olympus' neighboring planets, or, conversely, that she is a part of something far more momentous than she could have ever imagined.
"And I presume you already know who I am, or else I wouldn't be here," she ventures, finding her voice.
"You are Persephone, Princess of Olympus."
"Yes," she acknowledges softly. "And why have you taken me?"
"I am in need of military support, and I wager your father is in a position to assist me," he informs her plainly. His words, though they are not comforting, seem to have a strange and inexplicably calming effect on her nerves.
"You're holding me for ransom?" she asks, growing bolder.
"I wouldn't phrase it so crassly," he starts, wrinkling the bridge of his pointed nose distastefully, "but yes, in a manner of speaking, I suppose I am."
"You think my father, Zeus, will supply you with an army," she says, reasoning through her circumstances aloud. "And why is it you are in need of troops in the first place?"
He lets out a theatrical sigh. "It's quite a long story, you see, and it really is none of your concern."
For the first time, Persephone is indignant. Outrage bubbles in her chest, and she cannot contain herself. "You cannot be serious!" she protests.
His mouth twists into a grin, as if he is glad for some display of emotion; he'd begun to grow unnerved by her unnatural composure, until now. "I'm afraid I am, pet. Rest assuredly, I hope for both our sakes that your stay will be a mercifully short one and that the details of this exchange need not ever trouble you."
"You say you have taken me for ransom, that you need an army – Olympus and Asgard are allies! If you are truly king and you truly are in need of assistance, could you not have just asked for my father's assistance?" she demands.
His smile broadens, as if he is pleasantly surprised once more. "Clever girl," he murmurs. She is inclined to believe that he is sincere in his praise, but something in his tone is distinctly contemptuous.
He doesn't say anything more. Before she can press him to elaborate he is gone, vanished into thin air. She sinks to the floor where she stands, her face completely devoid of any visible emotion. She feels nothing. She isn't sure if it is the shock of everything – the whirlwind and devastating change – or simply her own stunted psyche that prevents her from experiencing the crippling sense of despair she knows her predicament merits. Her emotional reactions have always ranged within a very narrow spectrum, as was appropriate for her rather mundane life on Olympus, and this is decidedly beyond anything she is prepared to comprehend.
And so she sits on the cold, hard floor, waiting for him to return, waiting to cry, waiting to feel anything other than terrifying numbness.
Author's Note: Let me know what you think! I might not continue this, but I will if there's enough interest. Things will be better explained as the story progresses and future chapters won't be as short - this is kind of just like a test run to see what people think. Constructive criticism is very much appreciated!