Author's note: Alright, onto chapter two of "Loki's Crappy Lif-" I mean, "Claimed".
He has long since lost track of how long he's been here, the days are so similar that their passage has merged into a grayish muddle, the seamlessness only intermittently broken up by minor mishaps or sometimes by a more serious misfortune. But it feels like forever. As if this has always been his existence and his old life in Asgard was but a feverish dream, barely remembered now.
Every day starts the same, without exception. The slaves gather at the edge of the inner courtyard, the sun only a glowing smudge on the sky struggling to make it past the horizon. The faces around him are worn and haggard and they all wear the same expression, those sunken eyes and hollow cheeks, making them eerily indistinguishable from each other. He wonders if he's sporting the same nondescript, characterless look nowadays and surmises that he is. As much as he initially wanted to believe himself apart from this broken rabble, he knows better now.
He's no different from them in any aspect that matters.
A few of the slaves – they do this in shifts, taking turns – have readied the water barrels, filling them to the brim with cold water from the well. The Vanir price cleanliness and dislike having to put up with dirty, smelly slaves in their close vicinity. So everyone washes, as well as one can possibly wash with nothing at hand but a ladle dipped a few times into a water barrel. Well, that and a shaving of coarse soap that feels more like sandpaper than a washing product and never makes any lather, no matter how persistently he rubs it between his palms.
It's springtime, but despite the mild days the mornings are still freezing and he shivers where he's standing naked in line, waiting for his few turns with the ladle. An eternity ago, or what certainly feels like it, he resented this procedure and the indignity of it, having to undress in full view of everyone. But he soon realized that no one cared one sliver about his or anybody else's nakedness, all that those shivering unfortunates were focused on was to get it done with as quickly as possible so they could reclaim the marginal warmth of their tattered clothing. Pride and dignity have no place here.
The water chills him to the bone as it runs over his skin, icy fingers tracing meandering patterns over his body. At least it serves to wake him up, to clear the muddle that keeps threatening to settle into his mind so often nowadays. It doesn't do for a Vanir slave to be inattentive. He has to keep his wits about him, as much as the repetitiveness of his existence and the monotonousness of his assigned tasks are conspiring to turn him into a dull-minded thrall for whom the highest goal is the mere absence of suffering.
It's a small relief when he's able to pull his shirt over his head again and shield his body from the biting drafts that always seem to gather in this particular corner of the courtyard.
Then he gets into the next line, this one leading up to a sullen-faced slave sitting next to a pile of brick-like bread, doling out far too small pieces to the eager hands held out before him. Loki doesn't think he's heard this particular slave speak as much as a single word to anyone; he merely hands out the meagre portions in silence, mechanically. Whether the silence is by choice or due to muteness Loki has no idea.
Having received his share, he settles on the ground like everyone else to nibble at the hard, blackish bread, as the overseers impatiently mill about. There are only men in the group, the female slaves being kept apart from the males whenever they're not working. He sometimes encounters them in the kitchens or the castle halls on his way somewhere, but they ignore him and he's happy to ignore them in turn, those silent, unobtrusive shadows hurrying by.
There is little talk, though it's not forbidden for the slaves to speak quietly among themselves during mealtimes. But what is there to talk about, with every day being the same as the one that preceded it? And why bother wasting one's breath on idle chatter when it will soon be needed for far more demanding tasks?
The bread in his hands gone, he closes his eyes, leaning against one of the mostly empty water barrels, its splintery wood chafing through the thin fabric of his shirt, until Ulfgrimm orders them all up for another day's hard toiling.
"You, you, and you," the overseer barks, each pronoun accompanied by a sharp stabbing motion of his pudgy finger, "go and draw water for the kitchen. "You over there," he points at another group, "to the stables."
The slaves shuffle off as soon as they have their orders, knowing that to linger is to draw Ulfgrimm's wrath. Another group is directed to the laundry rooms, another is to form today's cleaning squad. Loki ends up in the team assigned to load some carriages with goods to be transported to the outskirts of Vanaheim. Could have been better, could have been worse. Loading is heavy work, but at least he gets to labour in the open air as opposed to the dark and oppressive laundry rooms.
Ulfgrimm takes charge of Loki's group; even though the overseers change from time to time it seems like Ulfgrimm is almost always leading whatever group Loki happens to be in. Not that the other overseers are lenient, but no one seems to have it in for him the way Ulfgrimm does. So now he can look forward to another day of snide remarks with the odd punch or kick thrown in. Or worse, if he screws up.
But he's determined not to screw up today. His body is still aching from the beating he received a few days ago after Ulfgrimm decided he was slacking off.
They are marched outside the inner castle gates where their works is waiting for them. Loki knows this process well by now. Huge supply wagons have already delivered and unloaded their goods, and the towering piles of crates on the castle grounds are now to be put into smaller carriages for distribution to other, more remote parts of the realm.
They work in pairs, one of the men delivering the crates up to his partner who is poised inside the carriage and stacking the crates as they come. After a while they switch. And so it goes. It's mind-numbing and Loki's thoughts wander. He can feel the gentle stirring of seidr in the man working with him, a slender youth with dark blond hair tied back with a leather string and uneven specks of facial hair on his cheeks. Even after all this time it startles him to feel it in his fellow slaves, or the overseers, or the haughty nobles walking past with their noses upturned, to say nothing of the mighty warriors with their muscle and brawn, so alike their Asgardian counterparts in everything but this.
Yes, magic abilities are nothing unusual in Vanaheim. But more importantly, here it is nothing to be ashamed of. It's not beneath anyone nor is it considered unmanly. Here it is a skill to be fostered and nurtured like any other talent a young man might show a particular promise for, no different from archery or weapon forging. Most of the magic potentials he senses here are quite modest, in his former glory he would have considered them pitiful, but now even these small amounts of seidr are enough to make frustrated jealousy tear at his insides with sharp claws until there is only sadness left, a sharp, biting sorrow over all that he has lost.
Of course, the young man working next to him has surely never received any magical training or practice whatsoever, his position in life dooming his powers to useless dormancy.
What a waste.
He picks up another crate from the humongous pile in front of him and heads with his heavy load towards the half-loaded carriage. There are already several splinters in his palms from the rough wood and he yearns for a pair of gloves, just another wish in the long line of things he will never have. His partner grabs the crate from his hands without a word as Loki offers it up to him, his boyish slenderness belying the stubborn, unyielding strength beneath.
The magical stirring is a little stronger so close, and Loki quickly pulls away, not wanting to be overwhelmed by its tantalizing call. He finds himself wondering, not for the first time, what his life would have been like if he had grown up here in Vanaheim instead of Asgard, with its acceptance, even encouragement, of magic. If it had been Sturli, Vanaheim's king, rather than Odin who had found him on the frozen plains of Jotunheim and decided to take him in.
But it's a silly, childish thought. Sturli would have had no reason to claim a Jotun runt as his, no reason to play political games with Jotunheim and its king. Vanaheim has never been on bad terms with Jotunheim, not like Asgard. Any wars fought out between the two realms are in the distant past, remembered by no one. There is nobody to be appeased, no rift to be healed. Nor is there the history of fear and hate and mutual mistrust that Asgard and Jotunheim have harboured against each other since time immemorial.
No, the hate against him here is not because he's a frost giant or a magic user, but because of what he has done. The destruction and carnage that he has caused.
Still, he can't help but to wonder what it would have been like growing up here and not in Asgard where martial prowess is valued beyond all else. Of course, Vanaheim is a land of warriors like Asgard, but it is also a land of poets, magic users and fops. While all their males learn the basics in the art of fighting as part of a well-rounded education, many grown men wear their weapons like women wear accessories, for decoration and not for practical use. They have found other ways to make themselves useful, to earn the respect of their peers.
He envies those men.
Frustrated, he tries to wrench his mind loose from the destructive path it's heading down. That way lies only misery. Better to focus on the crates, at least they lack the capacity to hurt him. He grabs hold of the next in line, this one considerably heavier than the previous ones, and he has to use his knee for support before he manages to hoist the thing into a carrying position.
A few stumbling steps towards the carriage, and then it happens. His foot slips on something wet, probably only morning dew on the grass, but it's enough to make him stumble and the crate go flying out of his arms.
It's too late to avert disaster and he can only watch feebly as the crate traces a horrifying aerial arc in the slow-motion that nightmares are made of. Please let it only be foodstuff. Please, he pleads to no one in particular but his vain hopes are crushed as the crate lands on the ground with a whole series of ear-shattering, unmistakable clatters.
Glassware. And he's ruined a whole create of it. Oh norns, no.
"What in the nine realms is going on here?" Ulfgrimm's face is contorted by rage as he comes stomping forth like an avenging Einherjer, drawn by the ominous crunching noise. Nostrils flaring, he only needs a second to take in the situation before reaching the unfortunate but correct conclusion. "You!" he bellows, his accusing finger pointing right at Loki, like it has done so many times in the past. "You have single-handedly managed to ruin an entire shipment of Leidur's finest glassware! You worthless lowlife scum!"
There is a kick at Loki's midsection, and another one, a whole series of blows. He tries to shield his head with his hands and his ribcage with his drawn-up knees, but Ulfgrimm's onslaught is merciless and he has to bite the inside of his cheeks to stop himself from whimpering in pain. Not out of any misplaced sense of pride, but because he knows from past experience that any whimpering is only apt to draw forth more, not less, violence from the overseer.
A whole set of bruises later, the assault stops, and a hand reaches down to crumple the front of Loki's shirt in a firm grip, pulling him upright so abruptly that his teeth clatter.
Ulfgrimm's ugly face is mere inches from his, eyes narrowed and specks of spittle flying as he addresses Loki in something between a growl and a hiss. "I will teach you a lesson what happens to clumsy, worthless slaves like you!" A rough shake, like Loki is a rag doll. "You will seriously regret your appalling lack of effort!"
He knows what is coming even before the overseer starts to drag him off towards the whipping post. And it's at times like these that he is grateful for his enforced muteness; for what little it is worth, at least he won't dissolve into pitiful pleading and begging, the way he did in the dungeons.
"Back to work!" Ulfgrimm shouts at the few slaves who have stopped in their tracks to watch. Most are still working, though, heads down, as if nothing has happened; this is not a rare kind of scene after all. "Or I'll have you dealt with too when I return!"
The post looms large before him as they approach their destination in the backyard, and his stomach makes a terrible roll at the sight, threatening to spill its meagre contents. Darkened wood with iron inlays and rings, from which hangs a pair of black manacles. It's not the first time he's been chained to that post, and this surely won't be the last, and the dread this prospect fills him with is nauseating. He might have suffered worse in those dungeons, but that was when he was still strong and defiant, not… weak like this.
Ungentle hands shove him towards the pole, almost knocking him into it face first, and then his shirt is torn from his back, seams splitting with a ripping noise. He hates Ulfgrimm even more for this; he could have just ordered Loki to remove the garment himself, but he chose not to, so now Loki has to mend the shirt afterwards if he still wants to wear one. Which he probably won't for quite some time after what is coming.
Next, the manacles are fastened around his wrists, the chains pulled upwards so that his body is stretched taut. And then he waits, sweat running down his back despite the briskness of the air against his naked skin.
Norns, let it be over quickly.
End note: Poor Loki. Things really aren't going well for him.