TW: man-handling, non-consensual touching, casual power imbalance, forced obedience, exploitation of someone referred to as a child.
Everyone had their dirty little secrets, their guilty pleasures. The things that excited them, or kept them up at night fantasizing, or simply made the day to day more bearable, but which were demonized by society.
The thing about existing for only a short period of time, especially as compared to the world one existed upon, was that while the exact nature of said sinful indulgences varied, at their most basic, they were all primal, even if they didn’t appear to be. The needs for socialization, for amusement, and for comfort and pleasure, drove all mortal creatures.
It was a lovely and oh-so fascinating observation Granville had made about ten years ago, after five years running various Underworld dens of inequity. Whenever the moral powers that be declared something an affront to the deity no one had ever met or had proof of existing, a new den opened. A new niche for the hungry and desperate to stumble into and trade their valuables for a chance to satiate their desires.
For now, and for the past seven years, he and his partner ran the casino, the brothel and the speakeasy, though they’d have previous ventures. Granville had been disgusted by the moral laws set in place on sex for only his first year. In the Underworld, one had to become well acquainted with the inherent disconnect between one’s own morality and that which imposed by the Upstairs.
The desperately hungry and needy trickled down to the Underworld, no matter how often they were warned, how many mundane or magical defenses were put in place, because it was simply in the nature of the world to twist and reshape reality to open the doors to wherever that thirst could be slaked. It wasn’t as though anyone Upstairs had the ear of an actual holy being to enforce the rules created.
And tonight, as testament to that, the casino pulsed and throbbed with life, full to bursting, but that wasn’t what had captured Granville’s attention.
“Kastrom,” he said idly to his partner by his side as they overlooked the main floor. “Do you see it?”
“There’s a lot to see,” she replied. “Be more specific.”
He snorted, then gestured to the oddity.
A child, though obviously old enough they would take great offense to the description, sat at a blackjack table with a glass of amber liquid and a veritable pile of chips. They winked at the croupier and added their latest winnings to their stash.
He nodded at the hellhound croupier at the table. “Rot Bite typically has turned the tables by now. Our guest is skilled.”
She hummed her agreement. “They appear… young.” Her gaze flickered briefly to his, lurid orange cat’s eyes meeting pale brown.
To be fair, recognizing the ages of mortals was hardly a priority for an effectively immortal being such as herself. Demons didn’t typically interact directly with mortals. He was a select exception.
“I would wager they are,” he agreed.
This was hardly the first time a young soul had found their way to the Underworld and it wouldn’t be the last. It was merely the nature of the prices paid in such a place like this that made it tricky. While Upstairs, no child could legally drink, for example, but a soul belonged to a mortal just as soon as they decided that for themselves. A guardian could teach, could bring them to religious institutions or elect not to, but it was the individual who owned their own soul, no matter the age they recognized this natural right. In the eyes of the Underworld, in the eyes of countless demons, that meant the souls were afforded the same responsibilities and contractual autonomy as a legal adult.
Admittedly, Granville had just enough of Upstairs morality clinging to him to keep the youngest souls from leaping headfirst into a contract, to warn them prior to signing that dotted line just what they were selling. He collected enough souls to make quota without being reduced to such easy pickings. It was pride, perhaps, and not Upstairs morality, that stayed his hand.
Kastrom snaked the tip of her tail under his shirt, untucking it to drag a cold line along his lower back. “Their luck has to run out soon,” she said.
Steadfast in place despite the chill, Granville merely angled his head, trying to determine whether she meant that as a passing comment, or for him to make sure of it. “I believe I’ll visit our young friend then.”
With her silence as answer enough, he started to make his way to the main floor of the casino.
“Once you’re finished mingling,” she called, her tone stopping him in his tracks, “I believe you still haven’t finished your collections.”
No, no he hadn’t. Between running the casino, brothel and speakeasy, he’d gotten sloppy. Four souls had escaped in the last month alone, and two the month previous, each taking with them their talismans. Then there were the derelicts raiding the Outskirts, and the squatters camped in the Sweltering Plains. The infestation of Crawlers needed exterminating, and the old opium den was still to be cleared for demolition. Yes, there was work aplenty and yet… Very carefully not clenching his jaw and forcing the muscles in his neck not to tighten, he smirked and offered a flippant wave. “Have a little faith, partner,” he said before continuing down the stairs.
He felt fire on his back and knew she’d taken her leave for the night. What a cluster. His neck ached and his temples throbbed, reminded him of his own outstanding balance several months building. Even he had to acknowledge that he had his limits, much as they were far beyond the typical mortal’s, and he could feel their rapid approach.
Concentrate on the present issue, he thought as he reached the table. Plan for exhaustive collapse tomorrow.
As Granville approached and placed his bet, Rot Bite barely looked up before seamlessly dealing him in.
How to play this, beyond carefully? The kid, perhaps, didn’t recognize him, or they were pretending not to. Either way, so far they hadn’t so much as looked at him, keeping their gaze on the dealing shoe. The other two at the table, a nervous looking kelpie and a snake picking at her shedding scales, didn’t seem to care either about his presence.
It wouldn’t do to tip hands too early, to declare his intentions so immediately. He had to hold off a minute, get a feel for the table and the kid’s tells. And while they would hardly lower their guard quickly, sometimes observing their inaction was twice as informative as catching someone in the act.
As expected, their effortless flow and easy wins became more ragged and sporadic. Certainly they still won, but their luck took an abrupt turn away from the preternaturally profitable. Still, Granville wasn’t about to let the kid off the hook quite so quickly. He could be patient. Dealing with immortal beings necessitated some degree of patience.
Mortal humans, especially young ones, did not have much patience.
A scant couple hands later, the kid’s luck began a miraculous comeback Granville studied them in his peripheral vision, watching their hands fluttering over their own cards and tapping a nervous pace.
Nervous, or were they signaling someone?
No, they had to be working alone. The angle of their seat offered poor lines of sight, the din of the casino was too loud to allow the sound to carry clearly, and the only other two at the table were still wholly absorbed their own business. Desperate, he’d say, and ripe for a deal. Perhaps after dealing with the card shark he’d make a deal or two.
Then the kid doubled down on a eleven and hit blackjack.
That was something he didn’t miss about his youth— the foolhardiness to assume his plans infallible and those around him blind.
Rot Bite gave them congratulations and their winnings. Granville offered only the bare minimum to match the kelpie and the snake’s interest. Another hand later and the kid stood on a twelve while Rot Bite busted.
Interesting. Some sort of card counting, or— yes, there. On the back of the queen Rot Bite had drawn, a mark in the upper right corner.
He’d wasted enough time in observation, now he could act.
Smoothly, he slid out of his seat to move behind the cheater.
“Say, friend,” he drawled as he roped an arm around them. “You and I ought to go cash out.”
To their credit, they merely brought their drink to their lips and took a sip from the trembling liquid.
“I’m going to keep playing,” they said as they tried to pry him off them.
He merely readjusted his hold, left hand digging into their scrawny upper arm and right arm wrapped around their shoulders. “With what money? Not a single scrap of that’s honest pay.”
The kid went very, deathly still, which was smart. Before they could get any wise ideas, Granville allowed a crackle of magic to dance along his fingers as he waved them in their face.
He chuckled, low and smoky, the charcoal taste of his little display on his tongue. “Now… Let’s you and I talk terms. Step into my office.”
They audibly swallowed.
Ah, how sweet youth was. So easily exploited and wrong-footed.
They resisted him for all of a second, long enough for his magic to singe their shirt, before obedience reasserted itself and they leaned into his direction.
“You are going to give me your name,” he said, smirking as he led them across the floor. The other patrons, if they acknowledged them except to move out of the way, tried not to glance too obviously at the scene.
The kid puckered their lips.
Tasting each honey-sweet enchantment on his tongue now, he insisted, “You will give me your name, my friend, or I will take it by force.”
With his every word, their expression strained and crumbled further as they valiantly fought the compulsion, but, like a sapling branch steadily twisted, and bent, and sawed, and folded until it sprang free of its trunk, their resolve split open.
“Jules!” Their name burst from their cracked will, music to his ears and a heady rush through his whole body.
“This will go much smoother with some measure of cooperation,” he reminded them as he led them into his office.
As he all but shoved the kid into the chair opposite him, he smiled, far away from prying eyes. Jules watched him with wide eyes
“‘Jules’ is a very decidedly human name, as is your appearance, and yet you know to be wary of anyone asking for your name. You, my young friend, are multi-talented, worldly. Why, I do wonder what ever could draw you here.”
He leaned back in his own chair and studied them for some sort of reaction. They were very obviously trying to keep from speaking again, going so far as to grip the arm rests with white knuckles, pressing themselves against the chair back.
How cute. If slightly predictable.
Beyond that, they seemed far too out of their depths to manage any sort of intriguing reaction to their situation.
“How fortunate for you I am not truly Fae, or else you’d be fully committed to my offer already.”
“What is your offer? You speak a lot in vague terms, saying barely anything worthwhile.”
Irritation sharpened his smile. “How would you like to walk out of here with both your soul and your winnings?”
Their dark green eyes gleamed, a slight furrow on their brow. Interested, but not yet sold. Foolhardy enough to attempt to cheat the most powerful demon currently known, yet nowhere near desperate enough to leap at the chance to save their soul.
“Say, you may even keep your hands, you filthy thief.”
“I didn’t take anything,” they protested. “Just some liberties with your rules.”
Granville masked his wry amusement. Finally he recognized why the kid’s behavior felt so unduly familiar— his own greed and ambition, his own hungry childhood, reflected in their features. “You have cost me a small fortune,” he said after his study. As entertaining as this has turned out to be, it was time to cut to the quick. He required a final determination now. “My time is a precious commodity, luckily, and you will repay your debt by performing menial tasks to free my schedule.”
“You want me to run errands for you. That’s what all this is about? ‘Run along to the store and pick me up some tea and biscuits, dearie’!”
They laughed, the sound harsh with hysteria, and laughed again when his expression didn’t so much as twitch. Their bravado melted.
“Wh-What do want me to do?”
He reassured Jules, “Nothing overly sordid.” They were too young for his tastes to bind a contract, but there were other methods to ensure some degree of compliance. In a practiced motion, he took hold of their left hand, removed his pen from his inner pocket, and drew a simple glyph on their palm.
“Hey! What gives?”
Granville twisted their arm, their bones birdlike in his grasp. A quick flick of his wrist would be more than enough to get his point across. Instead he left bruises under his fingers.
“Hush. Now.”
They stilled.
His focus frayed to the end of the mark, sparks flying off, but while it was ugly, it was perfectly serviceable collateral. With an exaggerated, insouciant flourish, he released them.
Jules yanked their arm back, nearly tipping over their chair, and cradled their no-doubt stinging hand. Even at this angle he could see his list beginning to form on their skin.
“What the fuck is this?” they demanded. “This isn’t a grocery list!”
“Hop to it, kid,” he ordered.
“You want me to deliver a hand!”
“Yes. Risk disobedience at a cost.”
Pushing past the building tension in his magic, Granville discorporated from his office and left them to their tasks.
Here’s one for you DM’s that want a side quest where retribution is served.
Not too long ago, a wandering fisher had taken the skin of a selkie & has now forced them into a life of servitude. The selkie, not wanting to be forced into a life of servitude, decided that they will find any means necessary to not be stuck in this life.
With a simple plan of "hiring anyone to kill that b@$tard" turning out to be surprisingly failure, they have now approached the party to find a way to take back their skin & find a way to give them a "just retribution". If the party succeeds, the selkie will give them a guide book, that will show all the best fishing spot, & best of all, the book is waterproof.
Their inspiring acts of resistance were ignored or erased for centuries—until now.
This colossal freedom statue stands in front of Nigeria's Badagry Heritage Museum in Lagos State. Badgery, a small town near Nigeria's border with Benin, was the site of a large slave port. Solasly/CC BY-SA 4.0
♥♥♥
Sisters rest in eternal sleep of the brave. We will not forget you!
Could I ask for a story where G1 Megatron captures a young Hot Rod and forces him to be his servant? - EmsieSecretStuff
Hot Rod growled as Megatron dragged him back into his chambers. During the battle, the mad warlord had grabbed him and retreated. The cons had grabbed a large amount of Energon and left most of the bots in need of repairs.
“You're the bot with the fire ability correct?” The warlord said as Hot Rod squirmed.
“What’s it to ya?” Hot Rod glared at the warlord. He wasn’t going to help out Megatron even if his life depended on it.
“I’ll take that as a yes,” the warlord ushered the youngling into the wash racks, “now clean up and I’ll give you your first task.”
“Like I’m going to listen to you!” Hot Rod huffed.
“Would you rather me throw you in the dungeon? Or worse, tell the seekers that we have a misbehaving sparkling on our servos?” The racer shivered, he had heard from Springer that the command trine could lecture better than Ultra Magnus.
“Fine,” Hot Rod grumbled as he turned on the solvent spray and started to wash away the grime of the previous battle. It felt nice, but the speedster was wary of what Megatron wanted of him. Once he was done, he quickly dried off and stomped out and glared at the warlord.
“Now that you're presentable, I want this room spotless by the time I come back.” Megatron started to walk away, “if it’s not, the seekers might catch wind that there's a naughty sparkling on board.” Hot Rod shivered as Megatron left the room. If he wanted to get out, then he would have to play along with the mad mech's games.
A disturbing missive arrives from Asgard. The Collector stakes his claim over Loki.
Loki did not sleep, ignoring the exhaustion that had burrowed its way deep into his bones. He lay very still on the hard cot, cold and uncomfortable, staring blindly off into impenetrable darkness.
He had no idea how long he’d been locked away in here. It seemed a small eternity had passed, but time had no meaning in a place such as this, where sight and sound were strange, distant concepts.
Trapped in the maddening silence of his pitch-black cell, he had nothing to do but think, and regret the decisions that had brought him here.
For some reason Thor loomed large in his musings, though he had not given the man a thought in quite some time. His golden brother, made of sunlight and laughter and cheery good will.
He wondered what Thor would do, were he to find himself in this situation.
Loki imagined Odin’s voice, his tone carefully modulated to conceal disappointment, reminding him that his older son, his real son, would never have allowed himself to be captured in the first place.
The trickster scoffed, tucking these lingering resentments away, resolving not to acknowledge them again. After all, Odin’s opinion of him no longer mattered. The Allfather was nothing more to him now than a prospective captor, and an enemy to be avoided at all costs.
The muffled din of conversation pierced his dark reflections suddenly, traveling through his cell’s locked door from the corridor beyond. Loki sat up sharply, his blind eyes roving back and forth, searching.
The harsh clicks of a lock unlatching filled the small space, metal scraping smoothly against metal.
Loki squinted, averting his eyes as the door was pushed inwards. Dim light from the hallway poured inside as an imposing shadow moved to block the doorway.
“Good evening, Prince Loki”, Taneleer Tivan greeted, “I trust that you have rested well.”
“I have not”, Loki replied, drawing himself up proudly, “Though I cannot understand why you would bother to inquire on the subject, as you seem to have little to no regard for my comfort, or well-being. There’s certainly no use in pretending otherwise.”
Taneleer smiled. “Honestly, young prince, you are far too canny for your own good.”
“Mmm, you have met Odin before.” He bared his teeth in an impressive sneer. “You sound just like him.”
Tivan placed a hand over his heart. “You do me too much honor, Prince Loki.” He gestured for the trickster to join him in the hall.
Loki complied, stepping out of his small cell with watchful trepidation. He immediately spotted Asha, who was lingering in a shadowy enclave nearby. “I see you’ve brought your loyal dog along.”
Tivan ignored the biting quip, sweeping back towards the main chamber, his long black fur trailing on the floor behind him. “Come along, young prince”, he spoke over his shoulder, never stopping to see if Loki was following. The trickster, bristling at being ordered about like a hound on a leash, opened his mouth to protest the rude treatment.
Before he could say a word Asha shoved him lightly in the back, a clear threat. He twisted around, glaring at his masked tormentor. “Touch me again”, he bit out, “and you will lose your hand.”
“As you say, Prince Loki”, Asha replied, his tone rather more dismissive than the trickster liked. He gestured. “After you.”
Loki started walking, his hands balled into fists, every inch of his frame taut with indignant fury.
When he freed himself, he would kill Asha first. He would look forward to that, very much indeed.
[xxxxxxx]
Loki followed Tivan away from his cell, into the area housing the cages.
They came to a stop at a small, messy workstation holding all manner of things, from stacks of paper and glass vials to scattered specimen reports and unlabeled key cards. Taneleer was hunched over the desk, busily digging through the piles of junk and muttering to himself in a language Loki did not recognize.
“Ah, here!”, he exclaimed suddenly, pulling a sheet of rolled parchment out from beneath a scattered heaping of tiny, delicate-looking animal bones. He held the paper out to Loki.
“And what is that?”, Loki asked, staring warily at Tivan’s offering.
“A gift, from Asgard”, he replied, “To her estranged princeling.”
The trickster froze, panic slowly beginning to creep into the edges of his thoughts. Odin must have managed to track him down, then. How? And, more importantly, what actions did he mean to take, if he knew where he was?
Wary, Loki gazed down at the proffered document. “You’re lying. Asgard could not have sent that. No one there knows where I am.” The assertion sounded hollow, even in his own ears.
“I’m afraid that you’re mistaken”, Tivan commented off-handedly, “I contacted the Allfather last night, and we ended up having a very interesting and productive discussion.” He held the parchment out again, rather insistently. “It’s all here, in the letter. He sent it just this morning, by messenger.”
Loki opened his hand to receive the innocuous-looking document. He studied the fine parchment with growing dread, recognizing the grain of the paper, as well as the crest imprinted upon the seal: two ravens, their wings intertwined. It was the personal seal of Odin himself.
Loki’s eyes narrowed as he suddenly noticed a hairline split, running the length of the wax imprint.
“Why has this been opened, if it was intended for me?” he demanded, glaring.
“Ah, but it was not intended for you, young prince”, he replied, “I simply share this with you out of courtesy.”
Loki scoffed at the man’s odd notions of courtesy. He unrolled the parchment and began to peruse the note inside, noticing with dread that it was indeed written in the Allfather’s distinct scrawl.
Taneleer Tivan, it read, Esteemed Collector and Proprietor of Rarities,
I, Odin Allfather, have received the message you sent regarding my son, Loki Odinson.
I am relieved and grateful to discover that Loki is safe in your hands. Asgard greatly appreciates the consideration you have shown her second prince, and will do her best to reward your generosity in the future.
I have thought on your proposed trade agreement, and I see no reason why we should not do business in this matter.
The trickster narrowed his eyes suspiciously.
A note: the crates of magical weapons you offered are to be delivered via the Bifrost. I shall send a small battalion of trusted warriors to your location in two days’ time, to aid with their retrieval.
In return, my son, Prince Loki Odinson, is to serve out the remainder of his prison sentence with you.
Loki’s breath caught in his throat.
As requested in your previous communique, he shall fill the role of assistant, acting as caretaker to your vast collection. He shall also answer any additional needs that may arise in the interim.
Conditional to this agreement is your assurance that he will not be harmed in any way, and your understanding that, should he come to be pardoned, you shall relinquish him to Asgardian authorities immediately.
I will require written reports every two weeks, detailing his service to you, and confirming his health and well-being. Failure to provide these reports shall constitute a violation of the contract, and its immediate termination thereof.
The terms agreed upon by both parties also state that Prince Loki shall not be pardoned before a period of at least ten standard years has passed.
Please know that violation of any of these terms is grounds for the contract immediately being declared null and void. Additionally, should the contract be forcefully voided, the party at fault shall pay restitution to the other in the form of weregild. The amount of this restitution shall be determined by the severity of the offense.
I look forward to more prosperous relations in the future.
Signed,
Odin Borson, Allfather and Ruler of the Nine Realms
Loki stared down at the parchment in wide-eyed dismay, scanning its contents again and again as if hoping that the words would shift to something less damning. The print remained stubbornly in place, mocking him.
A cold rage began to fill him as he pondered the letter’s implications. The Allfather had sold him to this man, for weapons.
Loki saw only spite in Odin’s actions here. After all, the trickster had long-outlived his usefulness to Asgard, laying waste to the Allfather’s carefully-laid plans for him and railing against every convention placed upon him as an Asgardian, and as a prince.
Surely, Odin was furious at such blatant defiance from his own, so-called son. It was obvious that he was trying to make Loki regret ever stepping out of line. Frantic laughter began bubbling up in his throat, a mad, breathy noise that rose steadily in volume and agitation. Loki crumpled the paper in his hand and forcefully lobbed it in Tivan’s direction, satisfied to see it bounce lightly off of the man’s forehead.
“So I am to be your slave, then”, he spat, his tone thick with contempt.
“’Slave’ seems overly-harsh. No, I do not hold with slavery at all”, Tivan grimaced, as if in distaste. “I suppose, if you must confine our arrangement to traditional terms, you may think of yourself as a long-term guest in my home, one who must earn his keep in order to remain.” The intensity of his gaze upon Loki grew uncomfortable. Tivan’s dark eyes raked down over the trickster’s pale features. “You know, you should actually be relieved, all things considered. I am rather certain that, had you been re-captured by the Asgardians, Odin Allfather would have had no recourse but to sentence you to death. This way, he has been provided with an alternative, one which could not be construed as favoritism by Asgard’s enemies.”
“I would prefer death to this”, he ground out, “I am no one’s property, and least of all yours.”
“But you are mistaken, young prince”, Taneleer replied, his tone soft, steady, “You are my servant now, bought and paid for in fair trade. And you shall serve me and my interests, until such time as the Allfather chooses to release you.”
“Put me back in that cell if you insist on keeping me here!” Loki snarled, “I will not comply with the terms of this agreement.”
“Your compliance is not needed.” He turned away, moving towards a door tucked into the farthest corner of the cavernous room. “Asha, bring him.”
One of his arms was taken roughly by Taneleer’s manservant, who had crept up soundlessly behind him. Loki instinctually tried to pull out of the hold, but Asha wrenched his arm upwards, pulling until his forearm rested painfully against the dip between his shoulder blades. He found struggling to be completely ineffectual, since hot spears of pain shot up his arm every time he moved.
“Release me immediately!” the trickster demanded, trying to disguise the pained waver in his tone. He was marched towards the shadowy door, the pressure upon his tortured limb practically forcing him to walk up on the tips of his toes.
Once they reached the doorway, Asha released Loki’s arm and shoved him inside. He stumbled, barely managing to catch himself before he went pitching forward onto the floor.
Before he could turn to challenge the masked thug, Loki heard the door slam shut behind him, leaving him alone in the small room with Tivan. He glanced around the dank, empty chamber, the faint smells of mold and rot irritating his nostrils.
His eyes were immediately drawn to a series of runes which had been drawn on the walls with fading red paint. They seemed to be magical in nature, though he was frustrated to find that he did not recognize the runic dialect.
Tivan stood in the corner, stoically watching him. He said nothing.
Loki’s gaze flitted back and forth between his captor and the ominous marks all around him.
“What-“
Suddenly, a sharp, high-pitched tone sounded, seemingly coming from everywhere and nowhere all at once. Loki slammed his hands over his ears, trying to block the piercing noise out. A panicked grunt escaped his lips when he found that he could not. It continued at the same volume no matter what he tried, making him wonder if the awful sound was coming from inside his own head.
Tivan, unmoved by the piercing noise, continued to stare fixedly at his captive.
At some point, Loki fell to his knees and curled himself protectively against the wall, tucking his long limbs into a fetal position and trying to cover his head in the process. The noise had grown worse, louder and more grating, somehow.
The faded runes on the walls seemed to pulsate and throb, like a sinister heartbeat.
Oddly, when Tivan began to speak to him the pitch abated, though only enough so that Loki could hear what he said.
“This is the meditation room, Prince Loki”, he said calmly, “I find that it is an excellent place for relaxation, as well as self-reflection. It seems to me that you might benefit from both.” He paused, tilting his head to one side as he watched his prisoner writhe in agony on the floor. “You must understand, princeling, this is not Asgard, and I am not a simpering courtier who will bow blindly to your will.”
The moment he stopped talking, the torturous sound doubled in strength. Loki let out a garbled noise of distress.
Tivan crouched by his side and regarded him closely. “I have faith that you will come to see things my way, Loki.” Almost affectionately, he pulled an errant strand of hair away from the trickster’s forehead. “You will, soon enough.”
He rose, leaving him there on the floor. After opening the door, Tivan turned back to the room and balled his hand into a tight fist, holding it up towards the ceiling.
The lights flickered, then died. Loki tried to quell the rising panic as he watched his captor spin on his heel and leave, slamming the door shut behind him.
Loki curled into a tight little ball on the floor, hands clamped uselessly over his ears. Face wet with tears he hadn’t consciously shed, he waited for unconsciousness to claim him.
[xxxxxxx]
Time passed slowly in his dark prison.
The agonizing sound never ceased, drilling its way into his skull, driving him mad. He knew that the noise was somehow magical in nature, that it must be connected with the runes. He would have tried to scratch some of them off, but he was trapped in the dark. He couldn’t see his own hand in front of his face, let alone the markings on the wall.
Frantic with the need to get out, Loki crawled towards the tiny sliver of light bleeding in through the space beneath the locked door. He scratched and pounded at the metal until his fingernails bled. He screamed for release, cursing them, bellowing obscenities in twenty different languages.
No one ever came. His pain continued.
The trickster curled up on the floor near the doorway, covering his head protectively and shutting his eyes.
Eventually they’ll come, he told himself, trying to disregard his rising desperation. Odin specified that no harm was to come to me. Eventually they’ll have to let me out of here. Then, they’ll have to face what they’ve done.
He was not comforted by these thoughts.
Time passed, though he could not have said how much.
Without warning unconsciousness began to slip in once again, smooth and slow, like a knife beneath the ribs. He welcomed it gladly.
[xxxxxxx]
He was awakened by the sound of locks being opened on the other side of the door.
Hands still clamped over his ears, he forced himself to slide backwards a bit, lest he be struck when the heavy portal swung inwards.
It took him several seconds to realize that the torturous noise had stopped.
The trickster felt weak and completely wrung-out, as if he’d been ill for a long period of time and was just now beginning to recover.
The door swung wide, letting in a broad swath of light from the adjoining chamber. Loki blinked, trying to adjust his vision. When his sight finally cleared, he saw Tivan standing in the doorway, looking down at him with an unreadable expression.
“I trust you’ve had sufficient time to calm yourself, Prince Loki”, he said in his accented drawl.
The trickster forced himself to sit upright, glaring at the man looming over him. “I suppose that would depend on your definition of ‘calm’”, he replied, his aristocratic voice a torn wreck of its former self. His famed silver tongue felt dull and heavy in his head.
Tivan gave an amused smirk, despite himself. “Shall I give you another day in here then, to meditate on your shortcomings?” He did not miss Loki’s nervous swallow at the thinly-veiled threat.
The trickster got to his feet shakily, placing his hand on the wall for support. His knees felt like jelly. “Odin’s letter stated that I was not to be harmed in any way”, he said, “Need I remind you of the conditions of your damned agreement?”
“Do not be a simpleton, princeling”, Tivan stated airily, “I am well-aware of the terms of our accord, and they have not been violated. You bear no wounds, nor do you harbor any ill effects from your time spent here.”
Loki took a small step forward. “The Allfather does not suffer liars, Taneleer, nor does he long-tolerate criminals who attempt to cheat him.”
The man gave a careless shrug. “Oh, I do not doubt that, young prince.” He turned away and cocked his head to the side, speaking to Loki over his shoulder. “You must be weary, and hungry as well. Come. Asha shall take care of your needs.”
Loki stayed where he was. “I am not going anywhere with you! This idiotic charade is over, here and now. I demand to be shown to a communication device-“
Tivan spun about, moving with the unnerving grace and agility Loki had noticed the first time he’d met him. “As I have previously stated, young prince, you do not make demands of me. Must I truly give you another lesson in basic manners?”
Loki deemed it wisest to back down, despite the effect it had on his battered dignity. He made no reply, scowling at his hated captor, before roughly shouldering his way past Tivan.
Asha met him at the door. “This way, Prince Loki.”
Loki trailed him, warily, Taneleer just a few steps behind. “Show him to the guest chambers, Asha”, he instructed. “I will come by later to check up on him.”
The strange manservant bowed in response. “Yes, master.” He turned his dark gaze to Loki then. “Please follow me.”
Stiff with anger, he followed Asha into yet another maze of narrow, ill-lit hallways. Tivan walked with them for a bit, a threatening presence at the trickster’s back. Eventually, he fell behind. Loki heard him unlock, open, then close one of the many unmarked doors. When the trickster looked back, he was gone.
His innate curiosity nagged at him, urging him to try and see what lay behind that closed door. It was a foolish notion, he knew, and one that would only cause him torment in the end. He decided to turn his attention to Asha instead, hoping to trick him into revealing something about this place and its strange inhabitants.
“You’re very loyal to him. He must be a good master to you,” Loki said, trying to sound casual, and not at all like he was trying to manipulate information out of his captor.
Asha didn’t turn around. He let out a short, breathy laugh before replying, “Oh? Do you think so?”
Loki waited. When Asha said nothing else, he responded, “I don’t know what to think. Perhaps you might tell me something about him. I find that I am at a distinct disadvantage here, after all. He seems to know everything about me, and yet I know nothing of him.”
“He will tell you what you need to know in his own time.”
Asha stopped walking then, turning to a gray door at his right. It had been carved into the surrounding wall, and did not exhibit any signs of handles, locks, or even hinges. Loki watched attentively as the manservant placed a palm onto the plain exterior. The door abruptly swung inwards, revealing a small, comfortable-looking chamber with a bed, a table, a single bookshelf, and a curtained bath area.
“Would you like to take some rest now, Prince Loki, or shall I bring you a meal?”
“I’ll sleep”, Loki replied, hungrily eyeing the inviting bed.
“Very well, then.” Asha gestured inside, shooting him an expectant look.
The trickster didn’t trust him, not for a second, but he found that he was too exhausted to argue. He entered the warmly-lit room without hesitation. Only when the door had shut firmly behind him did he take two long strides towards the bed, collapsing onto its blessedly-soft surface.
He fell asleep almost immediately, not even bothering to remove his boots or his worn, leather coat.
[xxxxxxx]
He opened his eyes many hours later. Not feeling ready to move quite yet, he stretched out and settled himself a bit more firmly into the soft mattress, expelling a blissful sigh as his joints gave a series of pops and cracks.
This was the best he’d felt in months.
“Feeling better, young prince?”
Loki sat up so suddenly that blood rushed to his head, making him dizzy. He twisted around, his startled gaze settling on Taneleer Tivan. The odd man was lounging in the corner, sitting cross-legged on a high-backed wooden chair.
“How long have you been there?” Loki asked, cagy and defensive.
“Long enough.” He smiled enigmatically. “Come, I’ve brought you something to eat.” He gestured at the small table, where a loaf of bread and a sizable bowl of warm broth sat, waiting to be consumed.
Loki’s gaze lingered on the offering. “I’m not hungry”, he protested, his voice holding little conviction.
“Nonsense,” scoffed Tivan, “It’s been days since you last ate anything. You must be absolutely ravenous.”
The trickster raised his chin imperiously. “I don’t want anything from you.”
“Such a stubborn child”, the man sighed, lips pursed in annoyance, “I suppose I’ll just leave it here then. You’ll have to eat eventually.”
Loki bristled at the “child” moniker, though Tivan didn’t seem to notice.
“To business, then”, he said, sitting up and clapping his hands together sharply, “We have some things we must discuss, if you are to stay on with me.”
“Ah, but I have no intentions of doing so.”
Taneleer ignored him. “There are certain rules that all who take up residency here must adhere to. This is as much for their safety, as it is for my peace of mind.”
Loki scoffed. “If you believe I’m going to take orders from you-“
“Let us begin,” he spoke right over Loki’s objection, “with Rule Number One. You are never, under any circumstances, to enter Level 13. It is off-limits. Do you understand?”
Loki grinned sharply. “And why might you feel the need to hide whatever is on Level 13?” Loki purred, goading him, “Perhaps the Allfather would be interested to know about this-“
“You should know”, Tivan went on calmly, “that if you ever feel the need to venture there, I will know,” he leaned forward in his seat, gaze intense upon Loki’s face, “And I do not take disobedience lightly.” The trickster felt an uncomfortable chill in the air, one that had nothing to do with the room’s temperature.
Tivan sat back, apparently satisfied that his point had been made. “That brings us to Rule Number Two: you shall not attempt to interact with any of the subjects on display. If one of them attempts to engage you in conversation, you will ignore them. If you notice sickness or injury you are to report it directly to me, and it shall be promptly addressed. Never attempt any healing on your own.”
Loki sighed dramatically, dropping his chin into his hand and affecting boredom.
Tivan appeared irritated by his prisoner’s continued lack of respect, but did not comment on it. “Rule Number Three”, he went on, “You will not antagonize Asha. I have noticed the two of you glaring at one another, and I will not abide it. You do not have to like each other, but I will not endure the petty squabbles you seem apt to incite. Settle it, or take extra care to avoid him, but do not test me in this. I have little patience, and less time, for such childish disputes.”
The trickster rolled his eyes. “Fine, fine,” he agreed, sounding very put out.
“Finally, and most importantly, there is Rule Number Four.” Tivan watched Loki closely. “You will obey me, in all things. You will not object to orders you deem questionable. You will not object at all, in fact. You will be quick to respond, polite, and efficient in completing the tasks I assign to you. Anything less will be met with retribution.”
“Such threats, Taneleer,” Loki said quietly, “You should be careful. The Allfather has eyes everywhere.” He looked upwards, gaze running over the featureless ceiling in dramatic fashion.
“If you are referring to Asgard’s all-seeing gatekeeper, I’m afraid I must inform you that he is quite blind here. No scrying methods of any kind are capable of penetrating the walls of my home, as there are powerful enchantments set upon its perimeters. I’m actually surprised you didn’t notice them before.”
“Yes, how strange,” Loki said dryly. He held up his wrists, as if to remind Tivan of the magic-blocking cuffs he’d been locked into.
“Yes. Well, then.” Taneleer stood. He rolled his shoulders and twisted slightly to the side, stretching his muscles until an audible crack pierced the still air.
The trickster scowled at him.
Tivan began walking towards the door. As he placed his hand to the locking mechanism he glanced back, speaking over his shoulder. “Tomorrow, you shall begin your work, Prince Loki. I suggest you eat, and then get some more sleep. You’re going to need your strength.”
The door swung open, and Tivan exited into the hallway, quickly shutting it behind him. The silence left in his wake drew out like a knife.
The trickster stared after him, his expression darkening.
He stood there eyeing the locked door of his prison cell (whether they chose to call it that or not was irrelevant), rage beginning to trickle in past his well-maintained defenses, slow but steady.
The strain of years spent on the run, of being forced to hide his face and live in temporary shelters on the fringes of society… it all suddenly crashed over him like a tidal wave.
And now, this; Odin had dropped him into the hands of a tyrannical despot who obviously had no qualms about torturing him, provided there was some way for him to explain it away later. Yes, the old man was surely having a laugh at his expense back in Asgard.
Enraged, Loki sprang to his feet and snatched up the bowl of soup sitting on the table, hurling it at the wall with all his strength. It smashed apart in a dazzling shower of glass and splattered broth.
Pointedly ignoring the loud rumblings of his empty stomach, he watched apathetically as the remains of the soup dripped down the wall and puddled upon the floor.
He hated this place.
He hated Odin for putting him here.
He hated Tivan for feeding into the cruel manipulations of his not-father.
He hated his mother and Thor for allowing this to happen.
He hated.
[xxxxxxx]
When Asha came to fetch Loki early the next morning, he found him curled up into a tight ball on the bed, still wearing his clothes from the previous night. His hair was a limp, tangled mess upon the pillow; it framed his pale face like a dark halo. He did not stir at the sound of the door opening, or at his captor’s entrance into the room.
Asha quirked an eyebrow, running his eyes over the gloppy soup stains coating once-pristine walls. He noticed shattered glass littering the floor, and stepped carefully in an effort to avoid the shards.
He made his way over to the bed and grabbed hold of Loki’s shoulder, shaking it roughly. “Time to get up, Prince Loki.”
Loki gave a sleep-thickened groan before rolling over, his back to Asha. His breathing evened out as he fell back to sleep.
Unperturbed, Asha loudly repeated himself. “Prince Loki, it is time to get up.”
Loki’s only reply was a near-inaudible snore.
Asha sighed, before leaning down to firmly wrap his arms around Loki’s waist. He forcefully dragged him across the bed, before pulling him off the edge of the mattress and down onto the soup-spattered floor.
Indignant, sputtering, the trickster shot to his feet. “What in the nine hells-!“
“Now that that’s been taken care of, I’ll show you to the washroom so you can freshen up”, Asha said mildly, “Quickly, please. There is much to be done this morning.”
“I should kill you for such effrontery”, Loki replied, his silken tone holding terrible promise.
“Perhaps you should. Another time, though.” Asha took a step back, towards the doorway. “We should go, Prince Loki. Time, and the master’s patience, grows short.”
“Damn his patience! Damn yours!” Loki spat contemptuously. “I will not bend the knee to that megalomaniacal-“
“Careful, prince”, came the softly-spoken interruption. A threat, if Loki had ever heard one.
The two men glared at one another for a long, uncomfortable moment.
Asha finally said, “I suggest we go. If you do stay on here, you will learn that the master greatly values promptness in his servants. He is a busy man, after all, and has little time to dally around with the help.”
“Industriousness is an admirable quality, I suppose”, Loki said dismissively, “Though, I am not one of his servants.”
Asha turned around. He opened his mouth as if to say something, before shutting it again. “We really must go, Prince Loki”, he said finally, his tone quite somber, “I would suggest that you do not make me ask you again.”
The trickster suddenly felt Asha’s peculiar magic brushing across the nape of his neck, a palpable warning that Loki knew he would be forced to heed, whether he wanted to or not.
Disgusted with his own pathetic vulnerability, he followed Asha out into the hallway.
“After you”, he sneered, mockingly indicating that the man should lead the way.
They went a short way down the hall, their destination a small, white-tiled bathing room. He was handed a simple set of clothes and told to wash and dress quickly. Grabbing up the plain attire, he wheeled around and stomped into the room like a petulant child, slamming the door behind him with all his strength.
He bathed and dressed, doing his best to make himself presentable. When he emerged from the bathing room a full half-hour later, he found Asha calmly leaning against the opposite wall, waiting for him.
They made their way back towards the main chamber, a tense silence settling in.
The two of them walked a considerable distance through the circuitous hallways of Tivan’s lair, Loki trying and failing to map their route as they went.
“Stop here for a moment”, Asha said, coming to a stop before a plain metal door that was set off to their right. The portal was no different from the hundred other featureless doorways they’d passed, and Loki wondered absently how anyone ever found their way around in this place. He pulled it open and gestured for Loki to enter.
“What’s in there?” Loki asked warily, eyeing the sinister-looking entranceway.
“Breakfast”, Asha replied simply, gesturing him inside once more.
Loki’s stomach grumbled loudly at the unexpected mention of food. He entered the room in front of Asha, walking slowly as he ran his eyes over the room’s features. There was a high, shadowy ceiling over-arching a row of large ovens, and a long, metal worktable in the center of it all.
Seven aproned workers moved mechanically about the place, chopping vegetables, stirring simmering liquids in pots, removing bread from the ovens with great flat wooden boards. Uneasily, Loki noticed that their eyes were glazed-over, as if they had been drugged, or put in a trance of some kind. No one spoke, all of them single-mindedly focused on their given tasks.
They did not seem to notice his or Asha’s presence.
Asha, unaffected by the sentient automatons working here and there, made his way over to a tray of fresh tarts that had been left to cool on the counter. He nibbled at one in an almost dainty manner, gesturing for Loki to do the same.
The trickster ate his fill, washing the tarts down with a cup of sweet tea that Asha placed before him. The entire time, he watched the men and women move about the kitchen, seemingly unaware of the presence of the newcomers.
“What is wrong with them?” Loki finally asked, smoothly stepping out of the way of a broad-shouldered cook who nearly ran him down on his way to the ovens. “They don’t seem to notice our presence.”
“The master does what he must to enforce loyalty”, Asha said, pointedly averting his gaze from the men and women laboring around them, “These people all fell out of his favor at one point or another. Now, they are docile, unquestioningly obedient.” He paused, perhaps to emphasize his next words. “You would do well to take note.”
“Would I?” Loki replied, a touch snidely.
Asha shrugged and took a sip of his tea. “Of course, you may take my words at face value or not, as you wish. But I tell you that you should not get on the master’s bad side. He will make you regret it.”
“Are you, perhaps, speaking from experience?” the trickster asked, a slow grin making its way across his face.
Asha shrugged again, expressionless, before turning to walk towards the door. “Come, we must go. We are going to be late.”
Loki followed him, secretly relieved to be leaving the room of strange, dead-eyed thralls behind.
[xxxxxxx]
Eventually, they reached the chamber where the captive specimens were caged.
Tivan, Loki saw, was back at the messy workstation he’d seen a few days prior, his attention rapt upon an ornately-carved metal sphere. It floated above the desk’s surface, contained by an anti-gravity field. Loki took an unconscious step backwards. The thing seemed to throb and pulse, as if it had a heartbeat all its own.
Tivan had not seemed to notice them yet. He was gingerly prodding at the mysterious object, his long, agile fingers making their way around its center, as if searching for something.
“What is that?” Loki asked quietly.
Asha glanced at him briefly, before turning his gaze back towards his master. “It’s not my place to know such things”, he whispered, “Nor, I might add, is it yours.”
“Indeed. Well-said, Asha.” Tivan broke in. Loki watched closely as the man whispered a quiet incantation and waved his hand over the orb, transporting it into what was probably a pocket dimension.
He turned around, his gaze falling upon the trickster. “You need not concern yourself with the particulars of my acquisitions, Prince Loki, beyond aiding in their general upkeep. The sooner you learn this, the better.”
The trickster’s smirk was decidedly frigid. “I see. Just to be clear, is that Rule Number 5? 12? 53, perhaps? I think I’m starting to lose track of all the half-baked statutes you’ll be expecting me to abide by while I’m here.”
Tivan did not reply to the trickster’s goading, choosing instead to change the subject. “Direct your attention to Sector A, if you would.” He gestured vaguely towards a row of cages somewhere above them. “You will be working there today.”
“Cleaning. It’s been almost two weeks since the interiors of those enclosures last received a proper scrubbing. They’re beginning to put off a faint smell.”
Loki scowled at this new humiliation. “What do I look like to you? A scullery maid?”
“Of course not.” Tivan’s features twisted into a smile, one that did not reach his eyes. “You look like an indentured servant to me. One who owes me his obedience.”
Loki’s mouth tightened in aggravation.
“Of course, if you would prefer it,” Tivan continued, “I could arrange another session for you in my meditation room, instead. An extended stay, of course. Nothing but the best for Odin’s son.”
Loki’s eyes lit up with indignant fury. “How dare you-“
Tivan sighed dismissively and turned back to his workstation. “I haven’t the time for this. Asha, if you would direct Prince Loki to Sector A, please.” The strange orb appeared with a sudden, sharp flick of the man’s wrist, rematerializing inside of the anti-gravity field. “I’ll come to check up on you later, prince. I expect there to be significant progress by the time I get there.”
Tivan said nothing else, immersed once more in his study of the object before him. It was an obvious dismissal.
The trickster stayed where he was, stunned by the man’s brash callousness.
When he didn’t move immediately, Asha grabbed firm hold of Loki’s upper arm and tried to usher him away. He snarled, yanking his arm out of the masked man’s grasp.
“We must go, Prince Loki”, the manservant persisted urgently, his words a frantic whisper, “Defying him now will only cause you to suffer needlessly. Come. I will show you what must be done.”
Struck dumb by his rapidly mounting rage, Loki allowed Asha to guide him towards a nearby lift that would bring them to the higher levels. He glared back hatefully over his shoulder, his gaze never leaving Taneleer’s still form.
He would not abide this insult. He would not.
Forcefully pulling his arm out of Asha’s grip, Loki increased his pace, refusing to be led about like a simpleton or an invalid.
Let Tivan think he had won for now, Loki told himself as he entered the small elevator. Let him gloat.
