Wrought of Iron and Silk, Book One [2014 Watty Award Winner]

Chapter 1 - The Tailor's Apprentice

         ❝When she awoke, the world was on fire.❞                                                                                                                         -  Scott Westerfeld 

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Chapter 1 - The Tailor's Apprentice

At first, he didn't want a dress suit, so he settled on a tuxedo instead. If he had to have one, it would be lined with silk, slim cut and buttoned high. The tailor had never heard of such a tuxedo, but he remarked, in German, that no matter what he intended to do with such an ensemble, it couldn't be worn for dancing. Good, then it wouldn't be worn for dancing, he didn't want to dance anyway.

Interestingly enough, his time on Earth had restored a healthy color to his skin, and little remained in his appearance that reflected the terrible ordeal he had suffered on Asgard.

He stole a glance at the tailor's ridiculous bird-themed clock. Almost six. Another hour until the opening. He had spent the better part of two hours being measured and fit into a suit of clothes that was typical of what he had seen on the street. The tailor helped him dress, making sure that the garment fit his slender figure properly, quietly assuring him that the style was modern and spry.

Loki nodded slowly, smoothing his hair before he delicately straightened his dark, charcoal gray tie in the mirror. He gazed at himself triumphantly. The figure before him reflected that of a dashing Midgardian gentleman. Well-groomed, fashioned in an expensive guise, a black silk handkerchief perfectly peeking from his left breast pocket, he certainly enjoyed being surrounded by mortal luxury. Though there was nothing of the "gentleman" about him, in spite of his desire to carry himself as one. Truly, a transformation.

A pair of fine boots was also on the god's list for his tailor. "Please, accept a glass of sweet wine while I fetch the shoemaker," the gray-haired man insisted, offering him a high stool to rest on. The man's clear blue eyes sparkled with unwavering loyalty. "Oh, and, mind the Little Bit. It took me all morning to coax the devil in here," he said, but not too unkindly as he hurried himself out the door to a reputable shoemaker down the road.

Of course, he acquiesced, out of courtesy though he was in no mood for drink.

With his back leaning against the wall facing the street, he inspected a fair portion of the parlor at his leisure. Its ceiling was hung with half-finished men's suits, the seams marked with white thread and chalk. Three low stools were on the floor next to a high stool beside a cutting table where the tailor would work on sleeves. Above this station, religious paraphernalia was fashioned onto the wall - a daily reminder to abide by false idols. He scoffed. Mortals. So protective of their beliefs, so obsessed with their faith, and so arrogant in their efforts to maintain the status quo, that they couldn't see what was staring them right in their faces. Good and evil must always coexist.

Beside the shrine, sitting in a rocking chair with her feet resting on the crossbar of the straight chair in front of her was a young girl - the Little Bit. The bastiste scarf that framed her face was black; also black was her thick hair, done up in two braids, crowning her small head; black the color of the fine iridescent wool slippers that imprisoned her tiny feet with a raised arch and a curving instep.

The little halfling was dressed in mourning, outwardly and in her heart as well, he judged from the profound sorrow revealed both by her face and demeanor. Her eyes were red-rimmed. She'd been crying. From the garments visible on the floor, on the back of the straight chair and in her lap, it was plain to see that she was sewing. A task from which she did not raise her eyes, save for a few moments when her master, similarly occupied, had risen to his feet to open the front door to usher him in.