14. Poison

The cell was small by palace standards but still larger than Natasha's bedroom. The guards slung her inside, slammed the bars shut, and secured the lock with several keys one carried on a large chain around his waist. She heard the heavy tramp of their boots as they disappeared into the dark hallway and up the long flight of steps.

As soon as she was certain they were gone, Natasha removed a little flask she had stolen from one of the soldiers during the ride back to Asgard. With a muttered prayer to Frigga, she uncorked the bottle and sniffed – pure water, thank the gods, and not cheap gin. Carefully she placed in the far corner and looked around the cell. There was a thin pallet in the middle, which she dragged to the corner furthest from the barred door. The neighboring cell on her right was separated by more bars, and something small moved within its shadows. Natasha ignored it for the time being and concentrated on creating a place where she could exist for the next few days – weeks? months? – without losing her sanity.

When she was a girl, the brothers who abused her sometimes held her in a root cellar for hours - once for several days. During those times she learned quickly that life descended into a series of basic necessities: Water, first. Sanity, second, followed by sleep and food. She had already secured the first two and would do her best to get the rest.

"Hullo, gurlie," the inhabitant of the neighboring cell said. It spoke with a voice that was hoarse from disuse. "Wut y'after then?"

"Settling in." Natasha spoke shortly, intent on her cell. Among the moldy straw lining the place she found a short stick, perfect for the next step. With quick movements she divided the cell into four parts. Where the pallet lay would be her bedroom, and the corner with the water flask would be for mediation and thought. Another quarter she would use for her privy – it lay in front of the barred passage, but there was nothing she could do about that. The final quarter would be for eating, as soon as she actually was given a meal. If Lorelei held true to her word, Natasha would have to wait several days.

"Ugly," the voice continued. The shadow came forward and grasped two of the bars between their cells before he pointed to the room that lay across the hall – another barred cell.

Carefully Natasha hid the flask under more straw in her Sanity 'room' and placed the stick next to it. "You wouldn't look too pretty after the day I've had either," she retorted.

The shadow laughed, a long gurgling snort of mirth. "Nay, y'urt a beauty compared t'Ugly over there. See? Hullo, Ugly!"

Natasha looked at the direction the shadow pointed out. An emaciated figure stood there, its arms tucked around itself. When it heard the shadow's greeting, the figure howled and hid its bald head with clawed fingers. It was impossible to tell if it were a man or a woman as it shrieked and pounded its body against the bars.

"What's your name?" she asked the shadow next to her. Hopefully Ugly would stop shouting if the attention were removed.

"Ah. T'name's Grub. As in the maggot, eh? Not t'food. Food. Time for food!" Grub began to rattle his own cage, shouting into the hall. Ugly's cries joined his, and Natasha decided it was time to withdraw to the room she had set aside for sanity.

There she piled straw to give herself somewhere to sit. Two days she had to endure until a meal arrived. The flask, by its weight, would give her about a mouthful every few hours. It would have to be enough. She uncorked the bottle, took a quick drink, and savored the water on her tongue before she restoppered the bottle and hid it again. With the stick, Natasha scratched out a smooth place in the dirt floor and listed a schedule for herself: once the ruckus died down she would resume her conversation with Grub. She would sleep and have another drink when she woke. She would try to keep her cell as clean as possible, although for the moment she had to conserve her strength. And she would do her best to get to know the guard with the keys.

It was a different man who returned with a bucket of stew. The guard shoved bowls at Ugly and Grub, who seized it and poured the contents into his mouth. From the flaming brand in the corridor, Natasha was able to see Grub's appearance: a small being, short enough to be a dwarf, if such things existed.

Ugly put the bowl on the floor before covering its face. The thing began to cry with great sobs that racked its frame, as though it had broken its heart. When it squatted again to lift the bowl, Ugly's rags shifted, and Natasha could clearly see it was a female. Whoever Ugly was, she seemed appalled to be in such squalor.

"Wine!" Ugly called out. "Where is my wine?" She had a high-class voice, as though she were used to ordering quantities of servants around.

"No wine here, duchess," Grub cried.

"I've got Ugly's vintage ready," the guard laughed. He faced her cage, and Natasha heard the rustle of buttons being undone, followed by a long splash of urine. Ugly shrieked and retreated to the far corner, covering her shorn head with her arms. The guard laughed and withdrew, carrying his bucket of stew.

As expected, Natasha received nothing.

She took off her jacket, brushed the dirt off as well as she could, and folded it at the foot of her pallet. Arms folded around her for comfort and warmth, Natasha slid into a tortured kind of sleep, chased by crowned skeletons on horseback who hunted her for sport.

Morning, such as it was, brought more of the same. Natasha awoke to a loud harangue between Ugly and Scrub, both insisting the other was a 'little shit' and a 'right fucker.' She sat up, shaking the cobwebs of sleep away, and pushed her hair out of her face. Hunger made her angry, and she nearly joined in the shouting match to tell them to leave it off before she recalled it would use up precious reserves of energy, the last she had left.

Instead Natasha crawled to her Sanity quarter, sat on the pile of straw, and drank a small sip of water. She closed her eyes and imagined she was back in the stream, floating among the stars that wheeled overhead, reflected in the ripples.

Such thoughts led to Loki, and she sighed. What wouldn't she give to wake from this horror as a terrible dream, held in his arms after making love all night? He would be tender and passionate if they had been able to lie together, she was certain. The prince's virility was strong, worn like an accustomed garment. Was Lorelei testing that male dominance now, taunting him with her beauty and wiles?

Natasha shook those mental pictures away. There was nothing to be done about it in any case, and she would only sear herself with such thoughts.

Breakfast came and went – bowls of cold porridge. There was none for Natasha. Instead she concentrated on plans, scratching line after line of ideas for getting her hands on the chain of keys.

Lunch came and went – bowls of warm soup. There was none for Natasha.

And dinner, more of the same. She went to her 'bedroom', hugged her knees, and consoled herself that she had survived day one of starvation.

Except the next day would be much harder.

Natasha's dreams were of her belly – of large animals raking her gut with their claws, of getting punched in the stomach again and again until she heaved up the contents. As before, she was awoken by Grub and Ugly shouting at each other.

"You disgust me!" he shrieked.

"And you will always be foul!" she hurled back. "At least when I get out, I will recover my looks!"

Shooting out of bed, Natasha strode to the bars. "Be quiet, both of you. At least you got fed yesterday. All I had was air. I'm ready to gnaw on someone's face, so if you don't want my teeth in your skin, shut it. I won't say it again."

This was met with a stunned silence. "They gave you nothing at all?" Grub asked.

"The queen has decided I'm to suffer for what someone else said." Natasha couldn't keep the bitterness out of her voice. Weak with hunger, she felt she hated Loki at that moment for putting her through such deprivation. It had been his actions that made Lorelei pile on the extra punishment.

"Lorelei is such a scurvy bitch," Ugly exploded. "Everyone thought she was so beautiful. We all fawned over her, gave her gifts and invitations…"

"Hang on," Natasha said slowly. "Do you mean to say you were a member of the court? That you knew the queen personally?"

"Of course not," Grub jeered. "T's'all a farce, see! Ugly thinks Ugly was Pretty once upon a time, but 'tis impossible."

"Shut up, Grub," Natasha retorted. Her brain whirled, and she peered through the bars at Ugly, cowering in her cell. She could see the prisoner more clearly, now that her eyes had grown accustomed to the dim light. Someone had shorn off the woman's hair so thoroughly it had left scars in her scalp, although a few black tufts showed the original color. Ugly moved to wipe away tears with her wrist, and for a moment Natasha felt a bolt of recognition.

Then dull, stupid hunger washed over her, and it was gone.

Breakfast arrived. There was none for Natasha.

Lunch arrived. Nothing.

She lay on her pallet, too weak to sit anywhere else. Whenever she thought she might faint, Natasha dragged out the little flask and had a few drops of water. It was the only thing keeping her from banging her head against the bars or scraping her wrists on the sharpest surface she could find until she bled out.

Dinner arrived, brought by several guards. Not moving, Natasha heard the splash of stew in bowls, the clinks as they were handed into the cells. She willed herself to ignore it, but she could picture each movement: the way the food would settle against the sides of the dish, the scraping sound her spoon would make as she picked up another bite. The softness of the meat, of the potatoes. Tears poured down her cheeks and she whispered to herself she was an idiot for crying over prisoners' slop.

"Eh, gurl." Grub spoke around a mouthful of stew. "They've gorn, and they've put a bowl in t'cell for tha."

"What?" Natasha raised her head.

A steaming bowl sat at the far end of her cell, by the bars, in what she now considered her 'eating' room. Unable to stop herself, Natasha tumbled off the pallet and crawled forward, praying to Frigga it wouldn't be an illusion born of hunger, or a bowl of hot mud – a guard's cruel joke.

The dish was filled with beef, potatoes, and onions, just as she had imagined. Natasha had the presence of mind to take small bites, forcing herself to chew without pouring the stuff down her throat. The meat was tough and stringy, the potatoes undercooked, but it was still the most delicious meal she had ever tasted in her life.

It was only when her hunger was blunted that she noticed the smell. Natasha stopped eating to sniff the gravy, and a cold feeling of horror washed over her. Dittany and rue: the same thing she had noticed on Ivan's breath and in the dreadful bag from the healers.

Hands clapped over her mouth, Natasha retreated to her pallet and regarded the bowl in shock.

Had she just been poisoned?