AN: Hello! This has been sitting on my hard drive for ages now, and I'm still not sure if I really want to share it, but as I have several chapters written already, I decided to give it a shot. Be warned that there is some occasional violence depicted against the reader-slash-main-character, so if that's something that might trigger you or offend you, this might be one to give a miss. Sorry. (I'm not sure whether it qualifies as truly "graphic" as per the archive warning system, but I figure it's better to be safe than put an innocent reader in a bad mental place.) I've done my best to keep things fairly accurate to the film, but in the case of any noticeable errors, please note that I originally intended this as an alternate universe. Please let me know if anything is distractingly out of place, however: I am more than willing to fix things as necessary!
In hindsight, you should have known that something was wrong when your father presented you with the gown. It was a beautiful silken thing, a rich emerald color that didn't match your eyes, exactly, but did make them stand out among the scattering of freckles on your cheeks. There were intricate designs embroidered in gold thread along the bodice, and they caught the light with each tiny movement. It was soft and beautiful, and unlike anything else you'd ever worn, and that should have been a clue. Your clothes were cheap and perfunctory, at this point more patch than original fabric, and there was a reason for that. Your father was cheap and he only spent what he absolutely had to—and certainly never on anyone but himself. You should have run while you had the chance, before the carriages showed up at your door.
Three men and a woman stood outside, their clothes bearing the crest of the royal family. At first you thought they had come for your brother. He was an idiot, and really not suited for much work in the military beyond the front line, but he was solidly build and could probably take a dozen bullets before falling. But then the woman caught your eyes almost pityingly.
"Are you ready, my lady?" she asked. Upon your bewildered expression, she elaborated. "The ball. Are you ready? We are here to escort you."
The pleading look you sent your father did nothing, as he refused to look at you. He handed the box containing that cursed gown to the lady, and two of the men came to grip your arms firmly. They led you to the carriage outside without a word.
In the past, "going to the ball" was the polite euphemism that families used when their daughters were kidnapped and forced into harems at the palace. These girls would never return to their families: they would serve as whores for the king or the prince, or even any visitors to whom the royals granted permission. When they grew too old, or fell pregnant, they were either turned into palace servants or simply killed to prevent a bastard from interfering with a rightful heir.
Today, the balls were supposedly more civilized. The outcome was the same, of course, but now many girls were invited to the palace for dinner and dancing before the king or the prince selected his favorites. It was touted as an honor now, and many girls grew up believing that it was. You knew several girls who had been dreaming about this day since the first time they heard the stories. You had been dreading it. You told yourself that you were too poor, too plain, too stupid to ever be summoned, let alone chosen, but now your last hope was that you would not attract too much attention from His Majesty's eyes. Your family would, of course, be handsomely rewarded if your company were...desired, which would explain the gamble that your father had taken on that dress. You settled back against the plush cushions of the carriage and tried to ignore both the weight of the box in your lap and the churning in your stomach. It would be mortifying to vomit all over the inside of a royal carriage—though you could not deny the small trace of glee that your small protest would bring you.
"You were not told." The woman sounded sympathetic. As though she had any idea what this was like. The temptation to cross your arms and simply ignore her was great, but it was childish and could easily get you into deep trouble with the king. So you shook your head and swallowed hard.
"No, m'lady. But I...accept my summons gratefully." The words tasted sour, like bile, and you had to swallow again. "May I ask who has invited me?" You could only hope that it would be the firstborn, Prince Thor. He was known to be just and honorable. He would not take someone unwilling, not with a room full of girls begging to be chosen. There was nothing preventing the King from building another harem—unless you counted his wife, of course. Queen Frigga was unlikely to allow such a thing. The woman glanced at the box in your lap and smiled grimly at you.
"My lady, does the green and gold of your dress not tell you?"
Loki. The younger brother of Thor. He had always struck you as the worst kind of royal (not that you personally knew of many): bitter about his place in his family and drunk on what little power he did have. He did not make many appearances with the rest of his family, but when he did, the differences between his brother and him was always jarring. He was, without a doubt, the kind of man who might create a harem made up entirely out of unwilling women for the simple pleasure of breaking them, exerting control over them. Suddenly, you felt even sicker, and it didn't help that the carriage jolted to a halt outside another house.
Soon, there were half a dozen other girls in your carriage, all giggling and jabbering excitedly about the ball and their chances of being selected. It was easy to fade into the background of such a din, but it was impossible to forget where you were going.
By the time you arrived at the palace, the small room the guards herded you into to change was already filled with girls and their things. Thankfully, you managed to find a corner to change in. After struggling with the zipper on your dress, you turned around and noticed that more than a few pairs of eyes were looking at you. Appraising you. Some apparently decided that you were no threat, while others grew even colder.
"Looks like someone's got a thing for Prince Loki," someone muttered, and several girls tittered. Now that you looked around the room, it became even clearer who most of the girls were hoping to impress. Your dress was a tiny green island amongst a sea of red and gold. There were girls applying crimson powder to their eyelids and girls tying golden ribbons into their hair. There were even a few girls wearing the darker hue commonly associated with the king's cloak. It was horrifying. You looked down at your dress. There were girls dressed in green, of course—there would always be girls interested in that kind of man—but your dress stood out. It was shimmering and glowing in the light, and that was no good at all. Even worse, it was sure to attract the wrong kind of attention from the wrong prince.
You were just beginning to panic again when a small girl in a forest-green dress that seemed like it should have belonged to someone taller—an older sister, perhaps?—came over to you and smiled almost shyly. It was hard for you to believe that she could possibly be of age, but that was none of your business. "Would you like me to brush your hair, m'lady?" she asked. You shook your head—you had carefully worked the tangles out of your hair with your fingers, and it now fell in waves around your shoulders, but that was all the effort that you desired to put into it. Nothing elaborate, nothing fancy, nothing that would draw attention to you. "No, thank you. I'd prefer to let it be." The girl nodded again and took in your appearance. Her eyes traveled along the designs in your bodice, down to the skirts that flared out just slightly around your hips, and you recognized that small flash of jealousy. You knew that feeling well. Something twisted inside you. You'd always longed for a sister, and now you wanted to hide this girl, protect her from the night's dangers. "I could do your hair, if you'd like."
The girl accepted with an excited nod, and you set about working her long hair into a simple braid. It was elegant (or as elegant as fingers like yours could manage) without being too showy, and the mindless activity allowed the fear to drain from your body. The two of you began talking, and before you knew it, another woman was poking her head in to tell you all to line up for the entrance.
In a different situation, the ballroom might have taken your breath away, but as things were, you would barely remember it. The royal family sat at the front of the room, and as each girl passed them, she fell into a deep curtsy. The king and queen watched benignly, royal smiles fixed firmly on their faces as each girl passed them. Thor was smiling kindly and nodding reassuringly to the girls, though he showed no interest in the gowns of blood and gold. Loki seemed least interested of all. When a girl not swathed in his brother's colors crossed in front of him, he seemed to prick up a bit, but it was always short-lived, because even they were always staring, moon-faced, at his brother. You felt a stab of pity for the prince, but it quickly disappeared, overtaken by nausea. It wasn't as though he hadn't had a choice in this. The girl—Sigg was her name—nudged you excitedly from her place in front of you.
"He's looking at us!" She whispered, and stood up straighter to try to look older. You put your hands on her bare shoulders and squeezed gently.
"No, he's looking at you. Your hair must be even more beautiful than I thought."
She giggled and took her turn in front of the royals, which left you with the uncomfortable realization that Prince Loki was, in fact, looking right at you. You took your turn and tried not to look at anyone—not Loki, not Thor, not Sigg, not anyone. It was all you could do to keep from freezing on the spot. Finally, you were able to join the rest of the girls at the side of the room before the ball was announced officially open. Sigg giggled about the way Loki had been unable to tear his eyes away from you, but you did your best to steer her away from the topic each time.
Avoiding the prince was easy, for the most part. There would be a sudden flurry of activity nearby, which gave you plenty of time to melt away in the opposite direction. Many times you thought you could feel a cold stare on the back of your neck, but when you searched the crowd, you saw only your fellow guests. When you had to duck into the washroom, you managed to sink into a group of red dresses, and you were careful to avoid the tables set out with offerings of food and drink. As long as you stayed in the middle of the dance floor, with plenty of room on each side of you, and away from corners, you would be just fine.
The night was beginning to come to a close and you hadn't seen either of the princes for the better part of an hour when you ducked out onto the balcony. There were fewer girls out here, and the night air felt cool and refreshing on your skin. This running was exhausting, but, below, you could see the carriages lining up to take you home. You let a sigh pass your lips. Relief. Your father would be livid that his money had been wasted, and surely you would be made to bear the brunt of that anger, but it was still safer than being here.
"Enjoying the night, my lady?" The voice was low in your ear and ever so slightly raspy. You had not heard it very frequently, but you recognized it immediately and your heart sank. The prince. Loki.
You spun around, and were taken aback by how close he was standing to you. Either one of you would only have to lift an arm a few inches and you would be touching. You could swear that you could feel the heat of his body seeping through your dress, though of course that was ridiculous, especially with the breeze that blew through you. His eyes were glowing with light reflected from the ballroom and the night sky, and they were trained, unblinking and with far too much interest, on you. It was hard to breathe. You lowered your eyes and sank into a curtsy, despite the lack of space between you.
"Forgive me, my lord prince, but I am no lady. I am merely a girl from the village." If he knew how lowly you were, perhaps he would be less likely to bother with you. Your dress, however, would make a hard case for your family's poverty. He smiled a bit and lifted your hand to his lips, never tearing his eyes away from yours.
"You are breathtaking in my colors, my lady." It was his only reply, but it said enough. Something made you want to tell him that it was a coincidence, that you actually wanted nothing more out of life than to be one of Prince Thor's sluts, but the words would not come. You were too proud, perhaps, or too honest.
"Thank you, sir." It was a poor substitute for the desperate appeal you longed to make. Please do not choose me. Please let me go home. Please. You could not look at him, but he tugged lightly on your arm.
"Dance with me."
It was not a request, and, even if it had been, refusing it would not have been an option. So you let him lead you back into the ballroom, let him put his hands on your hips and pull you close. Too close. He was a strong leader, though, and so light on his feet that he seemed to be floating. By comparison, you felt more like some kind of well-trained beast. You could follow along, and you picked up on the steps easily, but it was not nearly so magical. Instead of frustration at your gracelessness, he seemed to hold only amusement. A hint of a smile hovered near his lips, but it did not seem overtly mocking. In any case, you were attracting attention: jealous stares even from the girls in scarlet. After all, you had the undivided attention of a prince.
You would gladly have given it to any other girl in the room.
A second song drew to a close, and then a third and the prince continued to pull you closer. Occasionally he lowered his head to allow his lips to graze the skin of your neck, and then your cheeks. When he finally moved in to kiss you, your spine stiffened and you would have pulled away if his arms had not been locking you in place against his body. There was a moment of stunned silence as he processed what had just happened, and then his face hardened with irritation.
"I am your prince," he hissed. People around you were staring for entirely different reasons now: jealousy had turned into shock, and maybe a bit of fear. You held your back straight and ignored the smirks that a few of the girls were sending your way.
"I am sorry, my lord, please, forgive me. It was...reflex. Instinct, sire." This was bad. This was very, exceedingly, dangerously bad. Anger was flaring in the prince's eyes, and it was a well-documented fact that when royalty got this angry, other people got hurt. Suddenly the threat was not just against you and your modesty, but against your entire family as well. Your apologies did nothing.
"Any other woman in this room would be glad to suffer my kiss, and you, who come here wearing my colors, spend your night running from me at every opportunity and recoil from me as though I had venom in my fangs." He gestured to someone in the crowd, and for the second time that day, you found yourself flanked by silent guards. "Take her," he spat. "I have made my decisions. The night is over."
The guards led you from the room, and you concentrated on turning your heart to stone. Begging would not work, and you would not give him the satisfaction of your tears. It was best, for now, to accept your fate silently and without a struggle. They took you to a large room full of dark furniture, with a fireplace burning brightly and a window seat cut into the stone walls, but not much else. This was not a prison cell, but neither was it how you would have expected a palace whore to live. At the very least, you'd expected that there would be more than one bed. The guards left and the heavy door locked behind them. You were trapped.