First Mark (3 Parts) [Fandral]
Dec. 11th, 2012 02:17 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
aa_fandral"Y' don't stop starin'," the whore observes. She has a knee up, skirts brighter than the bazaar lights hiked past her thigh. "Who's she to you?"
Fandral is deliberately slow looking at her. This woman is branded like all the Imperator's property, but the gold linking her bracelet is real and she moves more expensively than the ones who have given them wide berth since yesterday.
"She cursed me."
Her eyes sharpen, but she answers coyly.
It galls because it's true: they had never been close, but Fandral had loved Loki before he'd liked him.
They treat their horses badly. Fandral recognizes one of Asgardian stock, a grey with a broken jaw, her new brand weeping from infection. They are not kind to their women, either. On Earth, humans had spoken often of deprivation, exploitation, and poverty. Written of it, too: bold-lettered front page print proclaiming hysterical extremes of the edification or ruination Stark Industries will wreak. Business is an uglier word outside Asgard. Economical.
To be fair, the Imperator is very, very strong. Fandral can do little but hold him down as Loki saws between vertebrates; what little he could do, he will not.
Fandral gets rejected more often than he cares to admit, but he doesn't mind remembering as they journey back, bloody trophy in hand.
There was that green-skinned girl with four-hundred needle teeth, who let him kiss her and warned him not to open her cage. The woman from Iran, several poetesses. Fulla, who said, "Later," and forgot him while waiting upon the Queen.
He is not expecting pardon. Nor for the company to be easy afterward, should they survive. Still, Fandral is glad to have walked under mountains and broken trees with him, grateful for ice cream, and conversation too.
Fandral is deliberately slow looking at her. This woman is branded like all the Imperator's property, but the gold linking her bracelet is real and she moves more expensively than the ones who have given them wide berth since yesterday.
"She cursed me."
Her eyes sharpen, but she answers coyly.
It galls because it's true: they had never been close, but Fandral had loved Loki before he'd liked him.
They treat their horses badly. Fandral recognizes one of Asgardian stock, a grey with a broken jaw, her new brand weeping from infection. They are not kind to their women, either. On Earth, humans had spoken often of deprivation, exploitation, and poverty. Written of it, too: bold-lettered front page print proclaiming hysterical extremes of the edification or ruination Stark Industries will wreak. Business is an uglier word outside Asgard. Economical.
To be fair, the Imperator is very, very strong. Fandral can do little but hold him down as Loki saws between vertebrates; what little he could do, he will not.
Fandral gets rejected more often than he cares to admit, but he doesn't mind remembering as they journey back, bloody trophy in hand.
There was that green-skinned girl with four-hundred needle teeth, who let him kiss her and warned him not to open her cage. The woman from Iran, several poetesses. Fulla, who said, "Later," and forgot him while waiting upon the Queen.
He is not expecting pardon. Nor for the company to be easy afterward, should they survive. Still, Fandral is glad to have walked under mountains and broken trees with him, grateful for ice cream, and conversation too.
