Chapter Text
Lady Wanda's favorite bedtime story was, ironically, that of the Jötunn who became king of Asgard. She wasn't sure who had invented it, but it was obvious that it hadn't come from any aristocratic mother. By the gods, no. It was a slave tale. And not of all slaves, but of the weaker half. The others... The others would never want to be governors of Asgard. If in their power, they would destroy the entire city and each of its inhabitants. Those slaves, or thröll, as he had been taught to say to sound more sophisticated, had no bedtime stories. There were no children among them, at least not in the sense given to the word. Even the youngest were drowned in hatred that overflowed their crimson gaze, like traces of the blood that their people had shed so much and continued to shed.
A certain morbidity had pushed Wanda to want to know what was going through their heads, but the first —and only— time she had entered the mind of a thrall, she had found such fury, and a sadness that flooded everything until it drowned her, that she left immediately and never tried again. It was too much, even for the chaos she was used to in her own ideas. Wanda was a bit crazy, she knew it, but it was like a drop of water compared to the hurricane that hit the slave Jötnar.
Wanda liked the tale of the Jötunn king because it was, at heart, similar to what little she remembered of Midgard, her homeland. Fragmented images sometimes returned to her memory, when she forced them, forming scenes from romantic movies. There were no movies in Asgard. She remembered vague things, happy marriages in black and white, and laughter in the background. Comedies. They were comedies. Like those in the plays of Asgard, the ones she liked. She couldn't understand how her sister Sif enjoyed tragedies. Someone always died in those, and why would anyone want to see in the theater things that happened in real life?
Two Jötnar she had already seen die of exhaustion and abuse, and each time was just as horrible, even if slaves were worse than animals. She had also seen it in the eyes of Sif and Sigyn, but they knew how to hide it from the world much better than Wanda, of course. They were much better ladies than her, always perfect. Well, Sigyn more than Sif, because Sif did boy things when her mother wasn't looking, like fighting with wooden swords and climbing onto the roof to sunbathe. Wanda was very amused when Sif did that, because Sigyn came all perfect from the palace, with her silk dresses and jewels in her hair, to twist her mouth in a grimace of disappointment and lament how incorrigible their friend was. Wanda was in the middle, neither one nor the other. Sif was the boy, Sigyn the stuck-up, and Wanda the madwoman. In her opinion, being mad was the best of the three options, but she wouldn't trade her sister nor her friend for anything in the world.
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She was in the Hall of Sorcerers when Durnir, the thrall who oversaw cleaning, died. Gossip said that Yrsa had beaten him to death because the table was not completely clean. Wanda knew Yrsa, and she didn't doubt that was totally true. She had suffered Yrsa's hysteria in training more than once, and the slaves always ended up bearing the consequences, even if they had nothing to do with it.
Kåre, the chief sorcerer of Wanda's group, was tactful enough to send her to another room while they cleaned up the mess, because he knew she couldn't stand the sight of blood. Even so, that did not exempt her from having to accept when the sorcerer appointed her as the person in charge of buying a new thrall at the fair the next day. Until now she had not had to do that, but between her experience and the list of 'requirements' that Kåre gave her, Wanda was supposed to know how to choose well.
✕ ✕ ✕
Wanda planned to go to the fair alone, but Sif joined her because she had been told that Prince Thor was going to be there making a show of force, and, of course, how was Sif going to miss that? Wanda thought the sky was more likely to fall before her sister chose not to go see the prince when he appeared in public. Halfway there they met Sigyn with her two pages, and as soon as she saw them, she undid her way only to accompany them, chattering happily over the last gossip of the palace. They said that Svartalfheim had been freed from the mercantile blockade, so there would be new jewels in the next season, and magical things for Wanda, and interesting weapons for Sif. It was a win-win-win.
"The thröll market is also going to move more," Sigyn added, the joy in her voice dropping several degrees. All three shook their heads regretfully almost at once; they usually agreed on that point. "The dwarves say they plan to expand their workshops and will need a strong labor force, and I'm sure that's a euphemism for saying they'll buy Jötnar slaves in droves."
"We have seen what the simple summer heat in Asgard does to them, how will they withstand the forges of Svartalfheim?" Wanda growled, throwing her hands in the air.
"I'd rather think of happier things," Sigyn replied.
"Be realistic, featherbrain," Sif retorted, supporting Wanda. "I think with all those shines in your hair, your brain has burned. You have to discuss these issues, or you'll end up like the aristocrats who live among silk cushions."
Sigyn didn't seem to be offended in the slightest, as if the insult slipped over her like rain. She was more than used to Sif's caustic comments.
"I know very well what I believe, and don't you think I ignore all these things. But I don't like to talk about them in a time that's supposed to be enjoyable."
"It's not enjoyable," Wanda said. "In case you're unaware of the fact, we're on our way to buy a slave for the Hall."
"Do you know how to choose?"
"I guess. Agile, strong, quiet. Good cleaner. But quiet above all."
"It should be simple," Sigyn said, as the noise of the market became audible at a distance. "You can't imagine the rush we go through every time they need one for the palace. My gods, the number of requirements is impossible to meet."
Sif looked at Wanda, and the sorceress glanced back at her, rolling her eyes at the same time. High society life was very vain. And even so, Sigyn was one of the most sensible aristocrats that could be found.
They quietly walked what was left of the way, until they entered the market street. Sigyn had just been there, as she said, so miraculously she didn't go to check every store as usual. Neither did Sif, but only because all she thought about was spotting Thor, and she hadn't succeeded so far. At last they found the area of the sale of slaves. Seven Jötnar were standing in a row, chained with Svartalfheim shackles, which were impossible to break.
The first Jötunn was still a child, with very sharp teeth, who growled at Wanda as soon as he saw her. Wanda looked past him. It wasn't what she was looking for. A woman was the next in line. Wanda considered her for a moment until she saw that she had a deformed hand. Yrsa would be furious. No, thanks. The next one was a skinny and tall Jötunn. He talked to himself a lot, not looking at anyone else. Even less. Then were two average Jötnar: lean muscles, bald heads, black nails. Their eyes were so lost and dead that they seemed to be looking a thousand worlds away. Those were the kind that had lost all hope in life, and they wouldn't last a week around Yrsa. Of the two that were left in the row, one was stocky and looked angry, but he was quiet and had nothing deformed. In fact, it was what Wanda was looking for. That would be the one she'd take, for sure. Then she indolently moved her eyes to the last Jötunn, and stopped hearing and seeing everything around her.
He was stylish and tall, with markings on his blue skin that looked much more intricate than those of the rest. His features, despite being angular, had an unusual softness for a Frost Giant, giving him an appearance that was the closest thing to an Asgardian that Wanda had ever seen. Perhaps the biggest difference was the black hair that reached his shoulders, rather than the baldness that used to occur in his species. But it wasn't any of that that froze Wanda on the spot. What happened is that she looked into his eyes, and the scarlet tone of his irises caught her, and the surroundings plunged into darkness.
Then she saw him appear, but he was different. He shone clad in gold, in garments as green as his eyes were now, and his skin was as white as alabaster. He was by far the most beautiful man Wanda had ever had the pleasure of beholding. A crown girded his temples. His lips moved, and Wanda heard his voice seconds later, like a distant echo:
'Witch...'
"Wanda!"
Wanda staggered and when she blinked she had returned to reality, to the crowd and voices that filled the Asgardian market. Sif held her by the shoulders and Sigyn gave her air with a feather fan.
"What? What happened?" She mumbled, still confused.
"You lost consciousness for a moment," Sif replied. "If I didn't hold you, you would have gone headfirst against the pavement. Need water? Have you eaten this morning? Feeling sick? When was the last time you ate an Idunn apple?"
"I'm fine, I ate one the day before yesterday, and today I had breakfast like a beast," Wanda replied, putting a hand to her head. "It was nothing like that. I... I saw something."
"Premonition? Illusion? Prophecy?" Sigyn asked almost without breathing.
"I don't know. I didn't understand anything. If it happens to me again, I'll tell you."
Neither her sister nor her friend looked very convinced, but they did not insist. Wanda took a deep breath to calm her heart, which was beating as fast as if she had been running, and looked at the Jötunn again. This time nothing strange happened to her, but he looked at her with his head slightly tilted, as if observing something curious. Wanda narrowed her eyes, trying to make out something of his face that would tell her what had happened. She saw nothing but melancholy transcending his red eyes and a rictus of bitterness on his thin lips. Even so, it had also been the first time in her life that a thrall held her gaze like this, with such impudence.
"How much for this one?" She asked the slave trader.
"Isn't the one on the side better?" Sif commented. Wanda pretended not to hear her and looked at the man waiting for the answer.
"One nýta and twenty-five gjöld. I wouldn't recommend him, he's a bit strange," the merchant said, pointing then to the burly Jötunn. "This one will serve you more."
"How much?" Sigyn asked instead of Wanda.
"Three nýtir and seventy gjöld."
Wanda shook her head, wrinkling her nose at the same time.
"They didn't give me that much money to buy. And none of the others convince me. I take the 'one nýta and twenty-five gjöld' one. Does he talk a lot?"
"He doesn't say anything," the trader replied. "But he's unsettling. He behaves strangely."
"Well, let the Hall take care of that," Sigyn snorted, "if they don't want to spend more money. It's not her problem."
"So you take him?"
As the only answer Wanda counted the gold coins in her palm, a medium one and twenty-five small ones, and handed them to the merchant, making them clink. He handed them the tip of the chain that held the Jötunn's wrists. Through the touch of the metal against her skin, Wanda could sense the power of which the links were imbued. That was what allowed them to tame beings as brutal as the Giants. For that reason alone they walked like dogs behind the Asgardians. Wanda knew well that, without those thin, delicate chains around their wrists, it wouldn't take a second for the Jötnar to leave Asgard in ruins.
Sif wanted to see Thor, but Wanda preferred to leave the slave in the Hall as soon as possible. Even behind her back, she knew he was staring at her, and it made her uncomfortable. Sigyn played the role of the sacrificial friend and offered to stay with Sif, although she made it clear that, at the first sign of flirting from the prince, she would get Sif out of there.
"He takes all the women to his bed, and he won't take you as long as I'm alive," she said bluntly, and Sif mimicked her.
They left together, and Wanda went in the opposite direction with the Jötunn, because the Hall of Sorcerers was close enough to not need an escort. When she opened the doors she looked back for a moment and, just as she thought, he was staring at her.
"Stop looking at me," she snapped, and he lowered his eyes without replying. Then Wanda spoke again, because she couldn't hold back anymore. "And I'm not a witch. I'm a sorceress."
He didn't answer. Wanda felt nauseous suddenly, like a knot of nerves in her stomach, but she tried her best to ignore it and left the slave with the others to instruct him in his work. When she left, she knew that he was staring at her again, but she didn't look back to make sure.