Actions

Work Header

Thousandfurs

Chapter 3: Mistress of Wardrobe

Summary:

Sigyn finds that Loki's servants are the exception, not the rule.

Chapter Text

Sigyn stood nervously in her room for a few seconds, twisting her fingers together, before steeling herself and following Brynjolf out. The corridor had two ways into it, one she'd already taken through the prince's rooms. She assumed the other one was so the servants could come and go without disturbing him. She followed it to find she was right. It emptied into a discrete alcove in the golden hall outside Loki’s chambers.

Sigyn turned and walked back down the hall to the prince’s room and announced her presence with a knock on the door frame.

Prince Loki was bent over a book at his desk, Fenrir asleep at his feet. He looked up at her knock. “Brynjolf got you settled in, I see,” he said, turning back to his book.

“Yes, Your Highness,” she said, looking down to obscure her face, now that the mud was gone. “I’ve come to collect the damaged clothes?”

He gestured in the direction of a door. She swiftly opened it. It was a wardrobe, the largest she’d ever seen, and it was full of clothes. All were in need of attention, though mostly through neglect. Only a very few were damaged through wear. Sigyn frowned at what she saw. Evidence of a man who had once been fastidious about his appearance but no longer cared. She chewed her lower lip. That could mean many things, not all of them bad. In any case, it was not her place to worry over it.

She ignored the feeling, and grabbed the clothes that he obviously wore often, filling her arms with what she could carry before turning around.

She nearly dropped everything. The prince had come to stand behind her, but he moved so silently she hadn’t noticed. “Excuse me,” she said to the bundle of clothes in her arms, trying to calm down.

Cool fingers gripped her chin and forced her head up. Brown eyes met red ones, and Sigyn’s breath stopped in her lungs. Please don’t recognize me, she thought. Please don’t-

“You could be almost pretty,” he said. “If not for the fur.”

She glared at him to hide the flood of relief inside her, pulling her chin from his grasp, and turned back to close the closet door with her foot. “Great. I’ll get right on that,” she said sarcastically, escaping detection making her bold.

He snorted. “I think you should decide whether you’re going to be timid or fierce.”

“I think I don’t need to pick one or the other just so you can fit me into a neat box,” she retorted, stepping past him.

The ensuing silence lasted only three steps before the prince spoke again. “You know, you look a bit Vanir, with all the mud gone,” he said, choosing to ignore her comment.

Sigyn’s gut twisted. Her grandmother had been from Vanaheim. “I wouldn’t say so around any Vanir,” she said to distract him. “Wouldn’t want them to take offense.” With that, she stepped back into the servant’s corridor and walked back to her room.

She worked through most of the morning, using the supplies she’d brought with her to repair Loki’s clothes. She used her magic to make the colors match. Starting with the most worn and working her way back, she fixed torn hems and ripped seams. She had to sacrifice a few of her handkerchiefs to reinforce the areas that were simply worn thin. She chose to magically weave the new cloth into the existing fabric rather than the much simpler, traditional patch. Princes shouldn’t wear patched clothes.

She frowned at the shirt in her lap. Why would he hire her to repair his clothes instead of simply throwing them out and having new ones made? Sentiment, perhaps? But Loki didn’t strike her as the sentimental type.

Perhaps he just didn’t like being wasteful, Sigyn though, finishing off the hem of the shirt.

Still... she put the shirt was working on down and grabbed the first few things she had fixed, using the ruler on the table and some paper she’d found in the drawer to mark down measurements. Then, using more paper, she sketched a few designs. Mad, Jotun prince or not, there was no reason he couldn't wear fine clothes. She could design ones that complimented his Jotun form, while still being Asgardian in design. She already had several ideas.

It would be presumptuous of her, but, why not? If he didn’t like them, he could just ignore them the way he ignored the rest of his clothes.

Sigyn looked around her sparse room and chewed her lower lip. If she was really going to sew Prince Loki a whole new wardrobe, she would need more material. Using magic to unravel handkerchiefs wouldn't be sufficient for that.

She poked her head out of her room and found Tjvori in the servant's hall. “Tjvori?” she asked tentatively, and he turned to her. Now that she was looking, she could see the way his eyes did not quite focus. “Where might I get supplies? For the sewing?”

He thought for a moment. “Come along, my dear,” he said. “I’ll show you.” He started walking, and Sigyn followed a few steps behind. “Though I would have thought you’d have started your duties before now,” he said. The quiet rebuke made her scowl.

“I have,” she said. “I’ve been using my own supplies thus far, but I haven’t quite the right thread needed for the next shirt.” A lie. She wasn’t sure why she felt the need to lie to Tjvori, but she remembered what Brynjolf said about his being especially crooked.

“Ah,” the old servant said. “Well, feel free to replenish your personal supplies in the loom rooms. You’re here for your skills; not your tools, my dear. You needn’t use your own things.”

“Thank you,” she said, as he took her down several levels into a hall that was not gilt in gold. Instead, everything was plain grey stone. The hall was not as illuminated as the ones above, and it took a moment for her eyes to adjust. Even so, she knew they were very close. Sigyn could hear the sound of weaving shuttles and spinning wheels before Tjvori showed her the unassuming door.

“Ask for Gunnharda,” he said. “She is the Mistress of Wardrobe for the entire palace. She will make sure you have all you need.”

He turned to leave, and Sigyn twisted her hands, debating asking him to stay and introduce her. At least that way, she would have credibility. But she bit her lower lip and kept silent, watching him walk away. Tjvori did not know she was anything but a normal girl. It was an illusion she would like to keep, at least for a few more hours. She waited until she could no longer see the old man before she yanked open the door.

The room was filled with looms, dress mannequins, spinning wheels, sewing machines, and tables for cutting. It was also filled with seamstresses and tailors. Not all of them looked up at her, but the few that did stopped to stare, and their neighbors noticed and looked up too. It spread through the room like ripples through water or perhaps like plague through a village. Soon, everyone was staring at her.

One woman gave a little shriek and fainted.

Sigyn looked at the floor, wishing she could throw back the hood and just be normal. But she couldn’t. She could never be normal again if she wanted to live. “I was told to ask for Gunnharda," she said, wrapping her furry arms around her waist.

“And what business do you have with her, monster?” asked a sharp-faced woman, her hands at her hips and her mouth in a deep scowl.

“Prince Loki hired me as his tailor, and I need supplies to complete my work,” she said.

She expected the disbelief as the woman’s eyes grew wide, but it didn’t come in the form Sigyn anticipated. “That’s why he brought you here?” the woman asked. “To make clothes?”

One woman giggled, but a glare from Sigyn silenced her. All the blood drained from the woman’s face.

Sigyn should have expected the few servants that saw her enter would not keep their mouths shut, but she was still surprised. She vaguely wondered how the rumors explained her arrival, before firmly deciding she didn't want to know. “I have considerable skill with threadcraft,” she said, holding out her arms. “I made my clothes. I spun the thread and wove the cloth and sewed it all together myself. He was in need of a seamstress. I was in need of an employer.”

The woman came forward and reached out to grab the sleeve of Sigyn’s shirt, despite several whimpers and a hushed warning from a blond man on his knees, hemming a gown.

The woman looked into Sigyn’s eyes. “This is indeed fine work,” she said.

Sigyn bowed very slightly. “Thank you, Gunnharda.” It was a gamble, that was for sure, but this woman was the only one in the room who acted with any kind of authority.

The Mistress of Wardrobe’s eyes widened as those around them that heard gasped. “How did you know?” Gunnharda asked.

“I’m hairy,” Sigyn said. “Not stupid.”

Gunnharda looked her up and down with stern eyes before asking. “And what are you called?”

“Thousandfurs,” Sigyn responded. If that was what the prince decided to call her, the rest of them could use it too.

“Come with me, Thousandfurs,” Gunnharda said, turning.

The man who warned against coming too close stood. “Don’t trust it!” He didn't even try to keep his voice down, and Sigyn fought back the wince at being called an 'it' once again.

“Back to work,” Gunnharda told him. “That gown won’t hem itself.” He sat with a thud but glared after them. Gunnharda turned to the rest of the room. “All of you!” The room suddenly burst into a flurry of activity, none of them daring to look up from their work while Gunnharda and Sigyn walked through the room.

“Sorry about Brimir,” she said. “He’s a little overprotective of his mother.” For a moment, she sounded a little fond. Then they reached a door set into the back wall of the room. “We store all supplies in here. Mark what you take on the ledger to the right of the door.” She peered at Sigyn. “You can write, can’t you?”

“Yes,” Sigyn said, somewhat sternly.

“Good,” Gunnharda said. “If we don’t have what you need, just tell me and, if I think it’s reasonable, I’ll find it for you. This door is locked from dusk ‘til dawn, so don’t come around at night.”

With that, she opened the door, but she didn’t let Sigyn through quite yet. “Thousandfurs,” she said. “If you have indeed made those clothes, then you have great talent as a seamstress. However, have no delusions. You’re still a monster. I may respect your work, but I want you down here as little as possible, understand?”

Sigyn glared at the ground. “I understand,” she said quietly. Getting angry would not solve this issue.

“Good. Go,” Gunnharda said. “Get your things.”

Sigyn hurried into the closet and gasped.

It was not a closet. It was almost paradise. Full of everything she could ever want for any cloth project she could possibly conceive. Now, she thought, If I could just have a library right next door, I’d have my own personal Valhalla.

But she wasn’t here to gawk. There were baskets near the door. She grabbed one and got to work, pulling out bolts of cloth and cutting what she needed, mostly in black or green, though she did grab some cloth of particular texture whose colors she planned to change magically later.

She worked quickly under Gunnharda’s uncomfortable stare, noting down everything she took in the ledger by the door, and exiting with her basket full. The stares followed her until she was out of the Mistress of Wardrobe’s domain altogether. She resisted the urge to run back to Loki’s chambers, instead taking a leaf from the prince’s book and walking like none of it affected her.

It did though. It did a lot, and her stomach was in knots by the time she slid back into the corridor for Loki’s staff. Here, safe from prying eyes, she did break into a run, hurrying back to her room and slamming the door shut before flinging her mantle off and throwing it in a corner.

She stood there for several moments before taking a deep breath and getting back to work.

She was just finishing with the last of the prince’s existing clothes when there was a knock on her door.

Sigyn had not yet retrieved her mantle from where she had thrown it, but the room was too small for putting it on to be much of a delay. She took a deep breath before flipping the hood up, waiting an extra moment to be sure the charm was settled properly. She suspected it was either Brynjolf or Tjvori coming to ask her about something. Though she wasn’t sure whether they’d ask about her progress or whether she’d yet taken the nooning, she did not think it would be urgent.

She opened the door and found she was utterly, entirely wrong. It was neither servant, but two of the Einherjar, the elite guard. She stared up at them with fear, and they looked down at her with disgust.

Her heart nearly beat itself out of her chest, it pounded so hard. “Come with us,” one of them commanded.

Unable to speak, she merely nodded, and followed along meekly as the led her through the palace.

Notes:

Exposition exposition exposition. I'm sorry it's so clunky, but trying to slip all this information in the story was... also clunky.

For more explanatory purposes, Asgard is the whole planet, the Sky Citadel is the palace itself, and Gladsheim is the name of the city surrounding the Citadel. Okay?