Lower Your Eyes (A Loki Romance Fanfic)

Chapter One: Lower Your Eyes, Aila

Mother was tired. The work of a slave was arduous, so she was often tired, but this time was different. We didn't have the luxuries of palace servants since they were above us in rank, and our needs were never cared for the way theirs were. So, there would be no formal care for my mother's state—not even a diagnosis for whatever was ailing her these days.

We were the bottommost class of citizens. There was no cost for the servants' care in the hospital, while ours was cruelly beyond our means. They wore finely woven dresses for work, while we wore pants...our women's tunics had some overflowing fabrics, but they were hardly dresses. We needed the movement for harder work. The princes and nobles frequently courted the servants as well, sometimes bringing them to their chambers, but rarely did any servant marry into a noble family. We, on the other hand, were disallowed from even looking upon their faces—our very existence was graced with only the basest conditions for survival.

As I watched the kitchen bustle about in preparation for the feast, my mother struggled to hide her crippling fatigue. She had fallen ill recently, and none of the healers would see her without payment—and healing was one of many forms of magic she never managed to teach me in secret. We were hardly allowed to defend ourselves from the advances of the royal guard—use of the seidr was certainly forbidden. And it was a secret I would carry to the grave.

When I matured into adulthood, she'd spent the darkest, most secret hours of the night teaching me the basest forms of magic that she'd learned as a young girl. Projections mostly, taught in the most secluded rooms of the palace—or ones that were locked up at night, and could only be opened by magic.

I never advanced past those, never managed to, before the lessons became encumbering. A few tricks had allowed me to retain my strength, which made me an excellent worker, but I was to use them sparsely—only if I were in desperate need to carry on.

"Mama?" I sauntered to her, my chest tightening at the sight of her hunched form. Evening had fallen, and it was time to start bringing out the food. Prepare our decanters to serve wine. "Let me take that," I said, reaching for the heavy tray she hovered over.

"No," she waved my hand away. "It's alright."

"No, it's not," I insisted, placing my decanter in front of her. "You take this."

Despite our difficult life, I was not accustomed to seeing her so weak. She'd told me stories about being a woman of rank in our old world, having escaped my horror of a father when she became pregnant. He was also a renowned nobleman—though escaping him proved the lesser fortune, since she ended up captive among the enemies of Asgard.

"I'm alright, Aila—really, I am," she breathed out, though her paleness was not convincing.

"No, you're not." I shook my head. "You come find me if they give you something heavy to carry, alright?"

She said nothing at first, and then eased into a grin. "Thank you, sweetheart."

I grinned, and bent over for a quick embrace, before seeing the lead servant shoot me a glare from the corner. I dropped my gaze down to the floor, feeling my own blood drain fearfully from my cheeks, and picked up the heavy tray from my mother—leaving her my decanter instead.

One by one, the serving maids and bussing slaves gathered around the kitchen exit. We waited for a time there, while the first round of the feast had passed, and then it was our turn—to bring more food out, and more wine.

I looked over at her, panic blooming in my chest at the sight of her frailness. "Mother..."

"Lower your eyes," she whispered as we shuffled down the long hallway to the ballroom.