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Chapter Text

His knees are aching – and other body parts too – but he doesn’t let up. Doesn’t dare to. He’s far too familiar with the consequences of laziness, so he trudges on, inch by inch, scrubbing the hard marble tiles beneath him until they shine from his efforts. The dull pain in his wrists from the repetitive motions are still there even after all this time, but it’s more in the background now, easier to ignore. He’s learnt that there are far worse pains to be had; the minor discomfort in his knees and hands is nothing. Or should be nothing.

Sitting back on his haunches, he dips the dirty brush into the bucket next to him to rinse it out. The water is murky, too full of floating, swirling grime for him to see the bottom. He wipes a hand across his forehead to remove the annoying sweaty strands that stubbornly insist on clinging to it. But he shouldn’t be bothered by such a tiny inconvenience, because at least it means that he still has his hair. Unlike the Aesir, the Vanir don’t shave the heads of their slaves. They don’t need to. The clothing, posture, and general demeanour of slaves in Vanaheim are more than enough to visually set them apart from free men.

Still, he had expected the head-shave as his sentence was finalized; even if a shorn scalp carries no special connotations here in regards to a person’s status, surely they were all aware of the private humiliation someone of Asgard, and a former prince no less, would have suffered at such treatment. But they had left well alone, whether because no one could be bothered or because they saw it as more subtle but potent form of humiliation – we don’t even acknowledge your way of seeing things, it only matters how we, your masters, see them – he can’t tell. But it’s one of the very few, of the almost non-existent number of things he’s grateful for these days. Well, apart from being let out of the dark Vanir dungeons, those damp and bone-chillingly cold cells, and away from the lengthy tortures he was forced to endure in that place.

The tortures that broke you, a sinister voice whispers inside of him.

No, not broke, he inwardly shouts back at the voice, but it only cackles at him before going silent, retreating to the corner of his mind it has made its own, from where it will resurface time and again to mock him. He loathes that voice with his entire being.

He shudders at the memories that have been stirred up, chilling him despite the relative warmth of the draft coming from the courtyard. It is no use of thinking of that now, better to focus on the here and now and fulfilling the task at hand. Better to focus on what will avoid further pain.

His eyes have not left the filthy contents of the bucket, he realizes, still staring into the water as if it held all the secrets of the universe. Perhaps he should go empty the bucket and return with some clean water. If nothing else, at least his knees will thank him for the short respite.

Ignoring the twinge in his back, he makes to stand up but quickly falls back into his previous hunched-over, humble position as he hears footsteps and accompanying voices come floating from around the corner. Swiftly, he grabs the bristly brush and continues to scrub at the tiles, eyes down, hoping that whoever is coming will pass him by.

No such luck.

The sharp clacking of heels against stone abruptly come to a halt, close enough to his face for the pointy ends of a couple of leather boots to be visible at the edge of his circle of vision, despite his downcast eyes. For a moment there is only silence, as he holds his breath in anxious anticipation of what is coming.

“Well, what have we here.” The voice from above is laced with scorn, and he recognises it as belonging to Lord Veidar, the arrogant courtier with the foppishly curly hair and mouth far too wide for his narrow face.

“Filth scrubbing filth. How appropriate.” He doesn’t recognise that particular voice, but it’s every bit at disdainful as that of Lord Veidar.

One of the boots withdraws from his field of vision and he steels himself for the anticipated pain. But the cracked leather doesn’t connect with his ribs as expected, but instead with the bucket next to him. It topples over from the impact, soaking him with cold, dirty water. Having spilt its inglorious contents all over him the bucket nosily rolls around on the ground a couple of times, before coming to a pathetic halt next to the wall where it proceeds to gape emptily. Drippingly wet, he closes his eyes, willing his tormentors to go away and leave him alone.

“Oh my, how clumsy of me!” Lord Veidar exclaims with fake consternation, and his companion laughs heartily as if this was the most brilliant and creative display of humour imaginable. As if this particular form of mockery isn’t something that Loki has already suffered what feels like a hundred times already.

He swallows down the anger that is rising in his throat. The anger that is only dangerous to himself nowadays. At least it wasn’t his ribs suffering the kick this time.

Hands shaking with indignation, he makes a grab for the bucket, putting it into an upright position. Pretending that nothing has happened, that everything is as it should be. Next he goes for the tattered cleaning rag lying some distance away, but as he reaches out on his hands and knees, the hand supporting his weight loses its hold in the slippery water. It is only his speedy reflexes and a stroke of luck that allow him to regain some sense of his balance and spare him the fate of smashing face first into the floor, as opposed to merely sprawling ungracefully in the grimy layers of water slowly spreading across the stone tiles.

“Yeah, you better mop that up, slave, or someone of importance might slip and fall,” Lord Veidar mocks, clearly pleased with Loki’s disgraceful display.

More laughter.

Bile rising, he curls in on himself, preparing for further abuse. But the voices are retreating now, mercifully taking their owners with them, chatting about this and that as they go. They have things to do, places to be, and he’s only good for so much fun nowadays, most of the nobles having grown tired of the short-lived amusement his presence here has provided them with.

There are words forming on his tongue, Vanir filth, honourless ergi, sons of dogs and swine, and their vehemence surprise him, that his heart is still able to draw forth such venom. That it wasn’t all ripped out from him in those dungeons, by those red-hot tweezers, those metal-studded whips, those razor-sharp metal blades.

But of course, none of those words will ever leave his lips, even if he were to find the courage and the stupidity to speak them out loud. He’s been rendered mute, as effectively as if one of his former torturers had had his tongue cut out. But it’s not a knife that’s responsible for his inability to form spoken words, no, but a magic spell, woven out of Vanir magic drawn directly from the branch of Yggdrasil where Vanaheim is situated on the World Tree, a ward so elegantly simple that he can’t help but admire it, so effective and powerful in its simplicity. Nothing like the flowery spells he liked to weave himself when he still had access to his magic.

His magic. There is nothing elegant or simple about the spell that is keeping that part of him firmly bound, though, well out of his reach. Three aged and wizened Vanaheim sorcerers had been called upon to work their spells on him, to draw forth the most ancient and powerful magic from the very roots of Yggdrasil. Not even the slightest of tendrils is able to slip through those bonds. Sometimes he thinks he can sense the power pulsating at an arm’s length, see the tantalizing green glimmer before his inner eye. But whenever he tries to reach out, there is only a wall of indeterminate darkness, like swirling smoke, yet with all the solidness of the earth’s bedrock. Impenetrable.

He doesn’t try to reach out often these days. There is no point.

Just like there is no point in dwelling on the past, on what used to be. Resolutely, he picks up the discarded cleaning rag and starts to wipe up the mess left by Lord Veidar. His pants are already soaked all the way through, so the water that keeps seeping into the fabric as he works matters little.

He settles into a steady rhythm of mopping and wringing, wringing and mopping. The water chills his hands, making them reddish and wrinkled, like an old man’s, but he focuses on the monotonous repetitiveness of his work. He’s found that it’s the best way to clear his mind, a simpler form of mediation. The emptier he can make it, the better.

A group of warriors approach through the domed archway behind him, weapons clinking and armour jingling, and Loki freezes, but they walk briskly past him without sparing as much as a word for the pathetic sight he is offering them. A former prince, mopping the floors like a simple slave.

Not like a slave. You are a slave, have you forgotten that? that sinister voice whispers in his head.

Be gone, he tells it. Despite the absence of conversation that his lowly station and enforced muteness have thrust upon him, he has no desire to engage in any bantering with that persistent annoyance.

Floor as dry as it gets, he finally scrambles upright on cramping and shaky legs, back creaking as he picks the bucket up by its rusty handle. How long ago was it that someone lifted the spell rendering him mute to force him to choke out words of regret or abasement or apologies, or whatever it was his counterpart wanted to hear at the moment? The simplicity of the weavings makes even the most humble and inexperienced of magic users able to temporarily lift the spell and then replace it as they please. And in Vanaheim a lot more people can use magic, at least on a basic level, than in Asgard.

While he’d still remained in the dungeons, he’d been allowed to keep his voice. Probably so his tormentors could hear him beg and plead for mercy that didn’t come and repeat the self-incriminating words they wanted him to repeat. But once his final fate had been brought down upon him – to serve for the remainder of his days as a slave of Vanaheim and its people, which in practice meant serving in the Royal Palace, the Crown a symbol for the realm and its inhabitants – his voice was taken, too.

Silvertongue, they had said. You don’t deserve your voice. So let every word you speak from hereon be a gift from your betters.

In the beginning of his sentence, plenty of Vanir had liked to enjoy bestowing that “gift” upon him, even if it was only to hear him beg or debase himself. But now he sometimes wonders if they have forgotten that ability, or if they have merely grown tired of his voice, preferring him mute and silent. 

Perhaps it’s just as well. Hardly anything he has been allowed to say was voluntarily spoken anyway.

He trudges down the arched hallway, keeping to the walled side and not the one facing the open courtyard. It’s still early in the day and few people are up and about yet, but the habit has been firmly ingrained into him to always make himself as inconspicuous as possible, to skulk in the shadows and stick to the walls. It’s better, safer that way.

A couple of servants scuttle by on nimble feet, neither of them acknowledging his existence. They carry covered trays whose contents are spreading the most heavenly of smells in the crisp morning air and he tries to ignore the mournful knot forming in his stomach, knowing that he will never get to taste as much as a crumb of it.

He turns his head away from the smell, the movement causing a little bit of water to slop over the rim of the bucket and wet his already soggy shoes. Glancing around for potential threats and seeing none, he deftly crosses the courtyard to the drain at the other side and empties the bucket over the moss-covered grating.

“So there you are,” an all too familiar voice huffs gruffly behind him. Loki stiffens. Overseer Ulfgrimm. The man has the most uncanny ability to seemingly apparate from nowhere, despite his impressive bulk. If Loki hadn’t retained the ability to sense the workings of other people’s magic, despite having none himself, he would have sworn that magic was responsible for Ulfgrimm’s stealth.

But it’s not. The man doesn’t have a shred of magic powers in him.

Loki looks at his feet, trying to look humble and cowed, the safest course of action as the man strides up to him and comes to a halt just inside what used to be Loki’s private sphere when he was a free man. As big as he is ugly, Ulfgrimm towers over his charge, beady eyes no doubt trying to find fault or signs of rebelliousness in the slave before him.

He hates Ulfgrimm. And Ulfgrimm clearly hates him in turn. Not that the overseer has ever mentioned anything of the sort, but Loki suspects that the man had family that were killed when a squadron of Chitauri, meant for Midgard, went astray in the teleportation vortex that was to take them to the realm of intended conquest and ended up in Vanaheim instead, where they, full of battle fury and bloodlust, proceeded to attack its unprepared people.

Of course, that news had not reached his ears when he made his daring escape from the cell he’d been stowed away in once he had been returned to Asgard after his inglorious defeat in Midgard. He had been naïve enough to believe he could find shelter in Vanaheim, that smallish, inoffensive realm on the outskirts of Yggdrasil’s branches. No one would ever find him there.

But he was found out. And Vanaheim had no intention of returning him to Asgard, no, they decided to meet out their own brand of justice for all the death and destruction caused by the rampaging Chitauri, ultimately sent on his orders.

He had never imagined the Vanir as a particularly vindictive people, not until he ended up spending what felt like eons subjected to the most creative tortures imaginable.

But he’d rather not think about that. At least his current situation, no matter how lowly, is preferable to being back there. Especially now that most Vanir in the royal castle seem to have lost their interest in personally taking part in his torments and humiliations.

Well, apart from Ulfgrimm, that is, who still seems to revel in it.

A meaty hand on his shoulder roughly pushes him forward and he stumbles, grateful that at least the bucket is empty now. “Make yourself useful and go help the stable slaves,” the overseer orders, his foul breath noticeable even at this distance. “Lazy ingrate.”

Resigning himself to another long day of toiling and dirt and sweat, Loki hurries in the direction of the royal stables, cursing Ulfgrimm inwardly as he goes.

Chapter Text

He has long since lost track of how long he’s been here, the days are so similar that their passage has merged into a grayish muddle, the seamlessness only intermittently broken up by minor mishaps or sometimes by a more serious misfortune. But it feels like forever. As if this has always been his existence and his old life in Asgard was but a feverish dream, barely remembered now.

Every day starts the same, without exception. The slaves gather at the edge of the inner courtyard, the sun only a glowing smudge on the sky struggling to make it past the horizon. The faces around him are worn and haggard and they all wear the same expression, those sunken eyes and hollow cheeks, making them eerily indistinguishable from each other. He wonders if he’s sporting the same nondescript, characterless look nowadays and surmises that he is. As much as he initially wanted to believe himself apart from this broken rabble, he knows better now.

He’s no different from them in any aspect that matters.

A few of the slaves – they do this in shifts, taking turns – have readied the water barrels, filling them to the brim with cold water from the well. The Vanir price cleanliness and dislike having to put up with dirty, smelly slaves in their close vicinity. So everyone washes, as well as one can possibly wash with nothing at hand but a ladle dipped a few times into a water barrel. Well, that and a shaving of coarse soap that feels more like sandpaper than a washing product and never makes any lather, no matter how persistently he rubs it between his palms.

It’s springtime, but despite the mild days the mornings are still freezing and he shivers where he’s standing naked in line, waiting for his few turns with the ladle. An eternity ago, or what certainly feels like it, he resented this procedure and the indignity of it, having to undress in full view of everyone. But he soon realized that no one cared one sliver about his or anybody else’s nakedness, all that those shivering unfortunates were focused on was to get it done with as quickly as possible so they could reclaim the marginal warmth of their tattered clothing. Pride and dignity have no place here.

The water chills him to the bone as it runs over his skin, icy fingers tracing meandering patterns over his body. At least it serves to wake him up, to clear the muddle that keeps threatening to settle into his mind so often nowadays. It doesn’t do for a Vanir slave to be inattentive. He has to keep his wits about him, as much as the repetitiveness of his existence and the monotonousness of his assigned tasks are conspiring to turn him into a dull-minded thrall for whom the highest goal is the mere absence of suffering.

It’s a small relief when he’s able to pull his shirt over his head again and shield his body from the biting drafts that always seem to gather in this particular corner of the courtyard.

Then he gets into the next line, this one leading up to a sullen-faced slave sitting next to a pile of brick-like bread, doling out far too small pieces to the eager hands held out before him. Loki doesn’t think he’s heard this particular slave speak as much as a single word to anyone; he merely hands out the meagre portions in silence, mechanically. Whether the silence is by choice or due to muteness Loki has no idea.

Having received his share, he settles on the ground like everyone else to nibble at the hard, blackish bread, as the overseers impatiently mill about. There are only men in the group, the female slaves being kept apart from the males whenever they’re not working. He sometimes encounters them in the kitchens or the castle halls on his way somewhere, but they ignore him and he’s happy to ignore them in turn, those silent, unobtrusive shadows hurrying by.

There is little talk, though it’s not forbidden for the slaves to speak quietly among themselves during mealtimes. But what is there to talk about, with every day being the same as the one that preceded it? And why bother wasting one’s breath on idle chatter when it will soon be needed for far more demanding tasks?

The bread in his hands gone, he closes his eyes, leaning against one of the mostly empty water barrels, its splintery wood chafing through the thin fabric of his shirt, until Ulfgrimm orders them all up for another day’s hard toiling.

“You, you, and you,” the overseer barks, each pronoun accompanied by a sharp stabbing motion of his pudgy finger, “go and draw water for the kitchen. “You over there,” he points at another group, “to the stables.”

The slaves shuffle off as soon as they have their orders, knowing that to linger is to draw Ulfgrimm’s wrath. Another group is directed to the laundry rooms, another is to form today’s cleaning squad. Loki ends up in the team assigned to load some carriages with goods to be transported to the outskirts of Vanaheim. Could have been better, could have been worse. Loading is heavy work, but at least he gets to labour in the open air as opposed to the dark and oppressive laundry rooms.

Ulfgrimm takes charge of Loki’s group; even though the overseers change from time to time it seems like Ulfgrimm is almost always leading whatever group Loki happens to be in. Not that the other overseers are lenient, but no one seems to have it in for him the way Ulfgrimm does. So now he can look forward to another day of snide remarks with the odd punch or kick thrown in. Or worse, if he screws up.

But he’s determined not to screw up today. His body is still aching from the beating he received a few days ago after Ulfgrimm decided he was slacking off.

They are marched outside the inner castle gates where their works is waiting for them. Loki knows this process well by now. Huge supply wagons have already delivered and unloaded their goods, and the towering piles of crates on the castle grounds are now to be put into smaller carriages for distribution to other, more remote parts of the realm.

They work in pairs, one of the men delivering the crates up to his partner who is poised inside the carriage and stacking the crates as they come. After a while they switch. And so it goes. It’s mind-numbing and Loki’s thoughts wander. He can feel the gentle stirring of seidr in the man working with him, a slender youth with dark blond hair tied back with a leather string and uneven specks of facial hair on his cheeks. Even after all this time it startles him to feel it in his fellow slaves, or the overseers, or the haughty nobles walking past with their noses upturned, to say nothing of the mighty warriors with their muscle and brawn, so alike their Asgardian counterparts in everything but this.

Yes, magic abilities are nothing unusual in Vanaheim. But more importantly, here it is nothing to be ashamed of. It’s not beneath anyone nor is it considered unmanly. Here it is a skill to be fostered and nurtured like any other talent a young man might show a particular promise for, no different from archery or weapon forging. Most of the magic potentials he senses here are quite modest, in his former glory he would have considered them pitiful, but now even these small amounts of seidr are enough to make frustrated jealousy tear at his insides with sharp claws until there is only sadness left, a sharp, biting sorrow over all that he has lost.

Of course, the young man working next to him has surely never received any magical training or practice whatsoever, his position in life dooming his powers to useless dormancy.

What a waste.

He picks up another crate from the humongous pile in front of him and heads with his heavy load towards the half-loaded carriage. There are already several splinters in his palms from the rough wood and he yearns for a pair of gloves, just another wish in the long line of things he will never have. His partner grabs the crate from his hands without a word as Loki offers it up to him, his boyish slenderness belying the stubborn, unyielding strength beneath.

The magical stirring is a little stronger so close, and Loki quickly pulls away, not wanting to be overwhelmed by its tantalizing call. He finds himself wondering, not for the first time, what his life would have been like if he had grown up here in Vanaheim instead of Asgard, with its acceptance, even encouragement, of magic. If it had been Sturli, Vanaheim’s king, rather than Odin who had found him on the frozen plains of Jotunheim and decided to take him in.

But it’s a silly, childish thought. Sturli would have had no reason to claim a Jotun runt as his, no reason to play political games with Jotunheim and its king. Vanaheim has never been on bad terms with Jotunheim, not like Asgard. Any wars fought out between the two realms are in the distant past, remembered by no one. There is nobody to be appeased, no rift to be healed. Nor is there the history of fear and hate and mutual mistrust that Asgard and Jotunheim have harboured against each other since time immemorial.

No, the hate against him here is not because he’s a frost giant or a magic user, but because of what he has done. The destruction and carnage that he has caused.

Still, he can’t help but to wonder what it would have been like growing up here and not in Asgard where martial prowess is valued beyond all else. Of course, Vanaheim is a land of warriors like Asgard, but it is also a land of poets, magic users and fops. While all their males learn the basics in the art of fighting as part of a well-rounded education, many grown men wear their weapons like women wear accessories, for decoration and not for practical use. They have found other ways to make themselves useful, to earn the respect of their peers.

He envies those men.

Frustrated, he tries to wrench his mind loose from the destructive path it’s heading down. That way lies only misery. Better to focus on the crates, at least they lack the capacity to hurt him. He grabs hold of the next in line, this one considerably heavier than the previous ones, and he has to use his knee for support before he manages to hoist the thing into a carrying position.

A few stumbling steps towards the carriage, and then it happens. His foot slips on something wet, probably only morning dew on the grass, but it’s enough to make him stumble and the crate go flying out of his arms.

It’s too late to avert disaster and he can only watch feebly as the crate traces a horrifying aerial arc in the slow-motion that nightmares are made of. Please let it only be foodstuff. Please, he pleads to no one in particular but his vain hopes are crushed as the crate lands on the ground with a whole series of ear-shattering, unmistakable clatters.

Glassware. And he’s ruined a whole create of it. Oh norns, no.

“What in the nine realms is going on here?” Ulfgrimm’s face is contorted by rage as he comes stomping forth like an avenging Einherjer, drawn by the ominous crunching noise. Nostrils flaring, he only needs a second to take in the situation before reaching the unfortunate but correct conclusion. “You!” he bellows, his accusing finger pointing right at Loki, like it has done so many times in the past. “You have single-handedly managed to ruin an entire shipment of Leidur’s finest glassware! You worthless lowlife scum!”

There is a kick at Loki’s midsection, and another one, a whole series of blows. He tries to shield his head with his hands and his ribcage with his drawn-up knees, but Ulfgrimm’s onslaught is merciless and he has to bite the inside of his cheeks to stop himself from whimpering in pain. Not out of any misplaced sense of pride, but because he knows from past experience that any whimpering is only apt to draw forth more, not less, violence from the overseer.

A whole set of bruises later, the assault stops, and a hand reaches down to crumple the front of Loki’s shirt in a firm grip, pulling him upright so abruptly that his teeth clatter.

Ulfgrimm’s ugly face is mere inches from his, eyes narrowed and specks of spittle flying as he addresses Loki in something between a growl and a hiss. “I will teach you a lesson what happens to clumsy, worthless slaves like you!” A rough shake, like Loki is a rag doll. “You will seriously regret your appalling lack of effort!”

He knows what is coming even before the overseer starts to drag him off towards the whipping post. And it’s at times like these that he is grateful for his enforced muteness; for what little it is worth, at least he won’t dissolve into pitiful pleading and begging, the way he did in the dungeons.

“Back to work!” Ulfgrimm shouts at the few slaves who have stopped in their tracks to watch. Most are still working, though, heads down, as if nothing has happened; this is not a rare kind of scene after all. “Or I’ll have you dealt with too when I return!”

The post looms large before him as they approach their destination in the backyard, and his stomach makes a terrible roll at the sight, threatening to spill its meagre contents. Darkened wood with iron inlays and rings, from which hangs a pair of black manacles. It’s not the first time he’s been chained to that post, and this surely won’t be the last, and the dread this prospect fills him with is nauseating. He might have suffered worse in those dungeons, but that was when he was still strong and defiant, not… weak like this.

Ungentle hands shove him towards the pole, almost knocking him into it face first, and then his shirt is torn from his back, seams splitting with a ripping noise. He hates Ulfgrimm even more for this; he could have just ordered Loki to remove the garment himself, but he chose not to, so now Loki has to mend the shirt afterwards if he still wants to wear one. Which he probably won’t for quite some time after what is coming.

Next, the manacles are fastened around his wrists, the chains pulled upwards so that his body is stretched taut. And then he waits, sweat running down his back despite the briskness of the air against his naked skin.

Norns, let it be over quickly.

Chapter Text

Ulfgrimm is in no hurry as he leisurely steps behind Loki, surely wanting to drink in every moment of this. Yes, overseers are allowed to punish slaves as they see fit, but making wanton violence for personal pleasure on the property of the Crown is not acceptable behaviour, of course, so opportunities like this is something to be treasured. This is justified. Sadism disguised as punishment, vengeance masquerading as disciplinary measures.

The edges of the manacles are digging into his wrists and he wiggles his shoulders in a mostly futile effort to ease the pressure a little, to lessen the discomfort. Which is ridiculous, considering the inferno of pain awaiting him where any such minor inconveniences won’t even register anymore. He swallows as he hears the unmistakable rustle of Ulfgrimm unhooking the whip from his belt. All around him there is a deafening silence; even the birds that were chirping happily moments ago seem to have retreated into the woods, leaving him to face his tormentor alone. There is only the sound of his own blood rushing in his ears and the ragged breaths catching in his throat.

And then the sharp swish of supple leather cutting through the air.

The pain suddenly flaring up in his back is every bit as red-hot as he remembers it from last time, making him gasp and stumble despite the tautness of the chains. He grits his teeth, wiling himself to stay strong. Ulfgrimm hasn’t proclaimed the number of lashes of his sentence, he usually doesn’t unless he has an audience watching who might want the benefit of knowing how long they can expect the spectacle to last. For Loki, it’s just another part of the torment, being denied the small comfort of anticipating the end of his punishment as it draws near, knowing he has soon made it through.

Another crack, pushing the air out of his lungs. And then a third, a forth, and a fifth, all in quick succession. As the sixth lash falls, criss-crossing several of the existing welts, he screams, unable to stop himself any longer. The muteness spell has only taken away his ability to form spoken words, it has never prevented him from screaming incoherently.

Another stripe of fire across his back and his knees buckle, as if he suddenly weighs a ton. You’re weak, the voice inside him whispers, and Loki can only agree with the unfavourable judgement as he feels the trickle of pathetic tears that have already started to stream down his face.

Mewling like a babe. Before he came here, he would have been mortified at the idea of crying openly. Now he’s mortified at the realization that he doesn’t even care that he’s crying openly, or who might see.

It hurts, so horribly; the pain is enough to blot out everything else. All other sensory input but the excruciating burning of his back has ceased to exist, his mind transformed to a blank that is now being filled with red and fire. He tries to focus by counting the lashes, but loses track somewhere after twelve.

The whip cracks down again, leaving another agonizing welt. Blood is running freely down his back now, soaking the seam of his pants. He would have given anything for a drink of water, even though he doesn’t remember being thirsty when he was shackled to the post.

Crack. Crack. Crack.

He gasps for air, his lungs strangely uncooperative. How many now? Twenty? It has to be at least twenty.

For a while the worlds spins, ground and sky wobbling as if they were trying to shift places with each other, and he thinks he might be about to black out. Prays that he will black out, for blissful darkness to claim him and grant him some respite, no matter how brief, from this hell on earth.

But no such reprieve is forthcoming, the ground and the sky both settle back into their respective positions, leaving him panting with his sweaty forehead leaning against the brown-specked wood of the post.

Another ragged shriek is torn from his throat as the whip opens up another cut. He twists in his bonds, futilely trying to avoid the lash as it strikes down again. Surely there can’t be any undamaged skin left on his back by now. It seems a miracle that he’s even alive for all the pain that is consuming him. Is it possible to die from pain? If so, he must be close.

Time has turned into an endless loop – the whip, the unbearable pain, his tortured screams. For a long, long time there is nothing else.

Until the next lash doesn’t even draw a scream from him, a pitiful whimper is all he can manage.

Please let it be over. I’ll work harder, I’ll do better, just please, please let it be over.

And then it’s over. For a long, blissful moment, nothing – nothing at all – happens, and he just hangs in his chains, praying it is not about to start all over again.

There’s a soft crunch of boots against gravel and he’s vaguely aware of Ulfgrimm swaggering over to stand in front of him, whip still in hand, fingers caressing the handle as if it were the furry head of a beloved pet. Loki is too weak to move so he merely remains in his slumped position with his head hanging down, unable to keep himself upright and far beyond caring. Still, he shudders at the sight of the long strand of leather trailing on the ground inside his field of vision, glistening wetly with fresh blood.

Something presses against his chin, pushing his head up. It takes him a moment to realize that it’s the handle of that accursed whip and a second later his eyes meet with the piercing gaze of Ulfgrimm. Quickly he averts them, lest he might give the overseer a reason for additional punishment; slaves aren’t supposed to look free men in the eye. Besides, he doesn’t want Ulfgrimm to see more of his tear-stained face than he already has.

“Well, slave, have you learned you lesson?” The voice is every bit as sharp as the lash, and Loki flinches.

But he nods, as well as someone can nod who has a whip handle pressed against his chin.

“And you agree you deserved you punishment?”

No. It was an accident.

Another nod.

“Good.” Ulfgrimm straightens himself up, biceps bulging and leather vest creaking. He smells, the way a hunting dog might smell after a hunt, after the thrill of the chase. “I will leave you here to think about your actions and the well-earned punishment you suffered because of them.”

With that, Ulfgrimm stalks off, leaving Loki to his world of pain.

------------

The first hour is often the worst, then a certain numbness tends to set in. He tries to console himself with that thought first and then distract himself by mentally reciting spells, history lessons from childhood, even old nursery rhymes. Anything to take his mind off the all-consuming pain of his lacerated back.

The sun is directly above him now, and there is this odd sensation of being simultaneously too hot and too cold. Perhaps he has a fever setting in and he’s not sure how he feels about that. Slaves obviously too sick to work are exempted, which would be a boon in his current condition, but they also get much smaller rations to eat when they’re not pulling their weight.

Speaking of food, the rest of the slaves must be taking their midday meal by now, most likely thin gruel and another slice of the tack-like bread they had for breakfast. He envies them, getting to eat and drink and rest while he’s hanging here as a warning to any slaves passing by. See what disobedience brings. In a way this is worse than being sent back immediately to work, at least then there would be something else to focus on.

All moisture in his mouth is gone, making his tongue stick unconformable to his gums. If he could have a drink of water, even just a few drops… His unhelpful brain responds to this by conjuring nothing but waterfalls and rainstorms and gushing rivers for a long time, not caring that it’s only adding to his torment.

The hours pass. He no longer feels cold, only hot. His back is burning, and so is his forehead and wrists from the chafing manacles.

Someone walks past him, not stopping to stare or to taunt him. Probably another slave, then. Not that it matters, he’s beyond caring about looks or words, no matter how caustic. All that matters now is water, relief, laying down before his shoulders rip from their sockets.

He’s starting to drift in and out of consciousness; one moment he sees Thor standing before him, then the air flickers and it is instead Odin’s single eye that is staring inscrutably at him. But as he blinks in surprise, the mirages vanish, leaving him alone in his misery.

The sun is low on the horizon, now, a burning orange sphere casting its last rays on the world below. Why is he so thirsty? Why is his back hurting so much? He must have done something wrong, but he can’t quite seem to remember what.                      

I’m sorry, he tries to murmur, but no sound comes out.

He’s only vaguely aware when uncaring hands finally unlock the manacles and release him, barely notices himself collapsing into an ungraceful, pathetic heap on the hard ground.

-----------

He heals, of course, little by little. He always does. But the next few days are still pure agony and he resolves himself to being more careful, more attentive in his work.

The other slaves don’t comment. They have all suffered the same at one time or the other and there is nothing to say about it. It’s a fact of life.

So he goes on as he always has. There is nothing else to do.

Then the rumours start buzzing around the castle – a dignitary of some sort is coming to visit, and important negotiations are to take place. It’s a wealthy nobleman with special connections. No, it’s a mighty sorcerer wielding fantastic powers! No, a warrior who has single-handedly slain two scores of dragons! The servants are chattering, as always speculating wildly about whatever tidbit of gossip reaches their ears to add flavour to their drab lives.

Like the other slaves, Loki cares little. He knows what this visit will herald for him and his unfortunate brethren, the same thing as all visits from important people – lots and lots of cleaning. The Vanir are a vain people, laughably concerned about appearances and eager to leave the most favourable impressions possible on their guests. So the castle will be polished until every nook and cranny shines like a mirror, so that their visitor will speak breathlessly of its splendour for a long time to come.

His predictions come through. For the last few days, now, he’s spent his waking hours scrubbing floors, polishing the giant mirrors lining the hallways, dusting every piece of furniture and gaudy decoration that the Vanir are so fond of.

Sighing, he rubs his cleaning rag against a very persistent smudge staining the snarling, hideous face of a marble griffon. The overseer, who is thankfully not Ulfgrimm this time but a bald-headed owlish man with a nervous twitch in his left eye, struts among them, critically inspecting the results of the cleaning and smacking the offending slave over the head if he finds their efforts insufficient.

“How do you think you will be finished in time working at this snail’s pace? Faster, you lazy bunch of slobs!” he yells, eye twitching.

So Loki works faster, head down.

It’s the best, most pain-free response.

-----------

And then, when Loki thinks he’ll lose his mind if he lays his eyes on another cleaning rag again, the big day is upon them.

The castle is bursting with activity, even the usually so idle nobles are strutting around with new-found self-importance, wanting to be at the centre of action. Vanaheim’s warriors have dressed in their finest parading armour, gold-inlaid steel plates glinting in the sun, plumes swaying. Useless for battle, of course, but impressive on the eye. The atmosphere is one of festivity and anticipation, with children running around laughing excitedly and teasing each other until the adults yell at them to run around somewhere else. Even the dogs sense that something is going on and add their barking to the chaotic mixture of sounds.

As for Loki, he’s been assigned a light task for a slave, running errands for the kitchen as it prepares for the lavish feast that will be served tonight in honour of their guest. It’s something he doesn’t mind so much, and he’s grateful for the small amount of freedom to be had in working without having an overseer hovering above him, waiting to pounce on the tiniest of mistakes.

He hurries on light feet across the busy courtyard and then down three different hallways before he reaches his destination. The kitchen doors are open to let out the heat generated by the royal kitchen staff working at full capacity, so he can sneak inside without having to first put down the heavy load in his arms. From his right wafts the heavenly smell of bread baking in the huge iron ovens, and he places his delivery in the nearest corner, a large basket of carrots and sweetroots.

There are more baskets waiting to be delivered so he scurries out the doors again before someone notices the slave with empty hands and decides to task him with a more arduous chore. The courtyard is crowded when he reaches it, and rather than making his way through a throng of people who will brusquely push him aside if they think he’s in their way, he decides to take the scenic route along the inner parapet. Hardly anyone is ever up there save for a few symbolic guards, spending their days mostly leaning against their crossbows with bored expressions. So he rushes up the narrow spiralling staircase leading upwards, glad this idea occurred to him.

Just as he reaches the top of the staircase, the air reverberates with the sound of trumpets blown by the royal heralders, a rising four-tone sequence familiar to him by now. So the visitor is heading though the gates, then. Despite his non-existent interest in this dignitary, he can’t help but to sneak a glance at the scene unfolding below, at the teeming mass of people in their finery drawing closer for a peak at the much-vaunted guest of honour.

First comes a well-chosen section of the Royal Guard, Vanaheim’s finest warriors. They march in tandem, steely eyes staring straight ahead as the milling mass of people separate before them like butter yields to a heated knife. The swords slapping at their sides are on the ridiculous side of humongous and Loki wonders if the guardsmen are at all able to wield them or if they’re just for show. Probably they have more practical weapons hidden beneath their armour.

Then comes a whole entourage of fawning courtiers with the crest of Vanaheim emblazoned on their chests, the ugly snarling griffon whose various incarnations can be seen everywhere in the castle, be it on stone carvings or embroidered curtains or even the china dinner plates.

And in the middle walks--

He squints at first, and then his eyes fly open in utter, terrible shock.

No, it can’t be.

Please, please don’t be.

In the middle walks Tony Stark.

Chapter Text

Well, perhaps it’s no big deal. Maybe Stark doesn’t even know he’s here. Maybe no one’s told him of Loki’s presence, of his sentence and ill fortune.

Oh, who is he trying to fool? Of course Stark will have been told everything. If that man is here and Midgard and Vanaheim have somehow established relations with each other, surely Stark will already know of all that has transpired in this realm in regards to the Chitauri and Loki’s fate. Tonight he and his Vanir hosts will laugh together at the tales of his torture and subsequent servitude, of his being brought so low and suffering so many humiliations. Of his going from prince to slave.

His cheeks burn in shame at the mental image of Stark chuckling with mirth, clinking his drinking glass together with the Vanir at his side in approval. And here he thought that his old pride had been ground to nothing, that he was beyond embarrassment over his lowly position. But Stark’s arrival has made a tiny something stir inside of him and it’s not a pleasant experience.

Hopefully he will be able to avoid the man during his stay here. There is no reason why a simple slave should have anything to do with a foreign visitor of Stark’s importance. No, they will send their finest, best trained servants to wait on the man, not a thrall like him. And besides, Stark is surely here for an exchange, his technology and inventions for their knowledge of magic and the arcane. With such an important trade ahead of him, he will have more pressing matters to occupy him than the pathetic fate of an old enemy.

He tries to comfort himself with that thought, but his stomach continues to roll obnoxiously as he goes about his duties, constantly looking over his shoulder in the highly unlikely case that Stark should come strolling around the corner.

Someone does come strolling as he’s polishing the golden knobs of the carved staircase banister leading to the second floor, but it’s not Stark. Instead the clacking footsteps heading his way turn out to belong to Ulfgrimm, the man’s face scowling with disdain as he stops and leans against the banister to regard Loki.

“Enough with your useless swabbing,” the overseer sneers, swatting Loki’s hand with the rag away. “You have more important tasks to tend to.”

The evil glint in Ulfgrimm’s eyes should have been enough to warn him of what’s coming, and yet Loki’s veins fill with ice at the overseer’s next pronouncement.

“You will be responsible for keeping Lord Stark’s chambers clean and tidy for the remainder of his stay here.” He leans closer, breath reminiscent of a dead animal. “And if even the tiniest of complaints reaches my ears from our Midgardian guest about your behaviour or performance…” He doesn’t finish the sentence, doesn’t need to. The image of the whipping post flashes before Loki’s inner eye, and he shudders, the memories of his last stint there vivid. Only this time, Stark would no doubt be there as audience, having graciously been offered the opportunity to watch the proceedings.

He shudders, the lashes on his back still not fully healed.

“After all, you have a certain… familiarity with Midgard, don’t you.”

Loki ducks his head, the reminders of what went before, seldom as they are nowadays, still as stinging. A thorn in a festering wound that refuses to close.

“So it makes sense that you are the one to take care of his chambers,” Ulfgrimm continues, nonchalantly studying the fingernails on his right hand. “Maybe Lord Stark has brought foreign belongings with him that need special tending to, or might even be dangerous to someone unfamiliar with their proper handling. You would know better of such things than the other slaves or servants who have never set a foot in Midgard.”

And oh, how hollow that explanation rings in Loki’s ears. He knows full well that his marginal expertise of things Midgardian has nothing to do with his new appointment as cleaner of the royal guest chambers. No, this is Ulfgrimm’s plan to humiliate him yet further, to force him to come face to face with his old enemy and suffer the consequences of that encounter.

But he merely nods his understanding, his stomach filled with lead.

Liquid, burning lead.

“Well, off you go, then.” Ulfgrimm waves impatiently in his general direction, a slight upward curling tugging at the corner of his lips. Loki doesn’t think he has ever seen the man smile before and the wolfish effect is disconcerting. 

----------

He knows full well where the guest chambers are, has even cleaned them twice or thrice before, even though that was after their most recent occupants had left the castle, so he never had to come face to face with them. This time is different, though. His knees feel wobbly as he enters the opulent corridor leading to the guest rooms.

There are several doors on each side, but none of them carrying the discreet marking meant for the servants to inform them what rooms are currently occupied by guests. Not until he has reached the end of the corridor is there such a mark, on the door leading to the finest, most luxurious guest chamber in the castle.

Of course Stark would be housed there. After the Chitauri surprise attack, Vanaheim must have been made painfully aware of their own vulnerability and inadequacy to protect themselves, and Stark’s weapons and armour, used with great effect against the very same enemy, must now be greatly coveted. Only the best is good enough for a man bearing such offerings.

It takes three attempts before he’s able to lift his shaking hand and rap his knuckles against the massive oaken door. Then he holds his breath, waiting for that familiar cocky voice to tell him to come inside. He doesn’t want to imagine what will happen next.

There is no response but silence, though. Slightly emboldened by this, he knocks again, harder.

Still no response.

Relief washes over him. Stark must be away on business, then. It makes sense; the man didn’t come all the way from Midgard just to lounge around in a guest room, no matter how luxurious. If he’s lucky, he might be able to avoid Stark completely.

Gingerly, he pushes the handle down and the door swings open, surprisingly easily and soundlessly for its massive frame. No one is there as he peers inside, and another wave of relief floods his innards.

There is no doubt that the chambers are occupied by Stark; the signs are spread out all over the place. From the typical Midgardian garments slung across the back of a chair, to a garishly coloured bottle standing on a table, no doubt containing one of those artificially smelling hygiene products that Stark’s kind are so fond of, to the long tubes of rolled-up papers lying on the desk. He gives those papers a longish glance but no more than that. No doubt they contain blueprints of inventions that the man intends to trade with.

Not wanting to spend any more time in here than he absolutely has to, he heads over to the closet to bring out the cleaning supplies. There are some hints of bootprints on the floor, but otherwise no obvious signs of dirt or other uncleanliness. Hopefully he can take care of this quickly and leave before Stark even knows he was here.

Bucket in hand, he heads to the bathroom to collect some water from the bathtub tap, studying the array of bottles fighting for space on the sink as the bucket fills up. Why Midgardians need so many of those things, and their men no less, he has never been able to wrap his head around.

Bucket two thirds filled, he turns the tap off and returns to the main room. He adds some liquid soap into the water and then sets his mind to the task ahead. After he has scrubbed the floor, he will make the bed, clean the bathroom, and wipe the furniture surfaces. That should be enough, and none of those tasks should take all that long. If Stark can stay away for another half an hour or so, Loki should be in the clear. For now, at least.

He scrubs at the mud on the area of floor in front of him. It dissolves easily. Half the floor is covered with thick carpets which makes his job easier as there is no need to bother with those parts. And then he can--

“You know, I thought these Vanir were pulling my leg when they told me all this stuff about you, but I’ll be damned if they weren’t telling the truth.”

He whirls around, wild panic beating in his chest. Oh no oh no oh no…

Like in a nightmare, he finds himself face-to-face with Stark, staring up into that easily recognizable face from his humble position on the floor. How come he didn’t hear the man as he entered? How could he be so unforgivably inattentive?

Not that it would have made any difference. He would still be here, alone with Stark staring down at him with arms crossed over his eerily glowing chest. That glow that was partly responsible for… what happened.

He swallows and places himself into a proper kneeling position and bows his head, the best course of action for someone in his position having to face the anger of a free man. His heart is beating so wildly that it’s a miracle it hasn’t jumped out of his throat yet.

Stark circles him like a predator evaluating its prey. “Anything to say for yourself? Huh?” The repressed wrath lacing Stark’s voice is almost physically tangible, and Loki is impressed that the man is still in control of himself. He must be furious.

“Well? What happened to that famed silvertongue of yours?”

So the Vanir haven’t told him about the spell, then.

Not quite meeting with Stark’s eyes, he tries to gesture an explanation of his predicament, pointing at his mouth and shaking his head.

“Gone mute? Or are you simply not allowed to speak?” From the clipped words he can tell that Stark is about to lose his patience and he braces himself.

Trying to salvage what can be salvaged, he makes an ornate motion of his hand, to any magic user immediately recognizable as signifying the use of magic. It’s a gesture commonly used by novices to help them focus and channel their powers, wholly unnecessary for those more experienced having long since advanced beyond such beginner’s crutches, but that many wizened wizards retain nonetheless. Some merely out of long habit, others for its dramatic and showy effect. He also used to employ it, though in his case mostly for the latter reason.

But of course, Stark isn’t more familiar with magic than a sludge and the gesture is meaningless to him.

“Actually, I don’t give a shit either way, because I have a lot to say and you might as well listen.” With that, the last shred of Stark’s patience is gone. A hand snatches hold of Loki’s hair, ungently turning his head up so he meets with the man’s ice-cold eyes. It stings, but he makes no sound.

“You have any idea how many people you killed in New York? How many were injured for life? How many kids were orphaned?” The hand grips tighter as Stark’s enraged face looms closer. “Do you like being the one kneeling for a change? Huh? Tell you what – I think it suits you.”

For a lingering moment he is certain that the man will hit him, but no blow comes. Definitely not for lack of wanting on Stark’s part, but more likely out of apprehension of doing violence on property belonging to someone else. Disciplining other people’s slaves who have been sent to serve you is fully acceptable in Vanaheim, but perhaps it’s considered inappropriate conduct in Midgard. Maybe it’s expected there that the offended party defers to the master or overseer when it comes to the mode and severity of punishment to be meted out. And considering the Vanir treasures that will be on the bargaining table later, Stark will no doubt want to play it safe and avoid any possible offence to his hosts.

Maybe he’ll just tell Ulfgrimm that Loki disobeyed or acted disrespectfully and have him punished that way instead. His stomach churns as he remembers his last whipping, and he turns his eyes away, unable to meet the man’s hard, disdainful gaze any longer.

With that, the tense atmosphere in the room deflates a little. Stark’s hand mercifully lets go of his hair and the man takes a few steps back, turning away.

“Get out,” he says, the ice in his voice having not thawed even one degree. “I don’t want to see you in here ever again.”

Loki doesn’t need to be told twice. He stumbles clumsily to his feet and makes for the door, half-expecting Stark to call him back, to tell him that there is still unfinished business to settle between them.

But no voice orders his immediate return, so he runs out of Stark’s chamber and down the corridor outside, past the gleaming mirrors and ornate intarsia and golden inlays. It is only several turns later that he dares to stop, panting as he leans against a stone wall carved with scenes from ancient Vanir history.

His first meeting with Stark, and he’s still in one piece. Next time he might not be so lucky, though.

And there is guaranteed to be a next time, he realizes. Ulfgrimm has ordered him to clean Stark’s chambers for the duration of his stay, and he doesn’t dare to disobey the overseer. But now he’s under conflicting orders and how he will be able to resolve that predicament without even being able to speak, without being punished, he has no idea.

His stomach makes an uncomfortable roll and he slowly lets himself slide down the wall and into the corner where he huddles for a long time, arms wrapped around his shaking legs and forehead resting against his knees.

Chapter Text

Of course, he has no choice but to go back the next day. As he goes about his other duties, which consist mostly of cleaning now that their important guest is here, he anxiously tries to figure out what time of the day will be the most likely to see Stark away from his chambers.

It’s still fairly early in the morning and Stark gives the impression of a late riser, someone who works well into the late hours of the night and then spends the entire morning sleeping. Maybe even until midday. Servants or slaves cleaning the guest rooms are expected to perform those duties before midday, however. He doesn’t think he will be able to sneak into Stark’s chambers and clean them without waking him. While Stark may be a late sleeper, he also seems like a very light sleeper.

But perhaps here in Vanaheim the man has abandoned his usual routines in favour of other activities. Maybe the room is long since empty and Loki is fretting needlessly.

Midday comes and goes, though, without his being able to bring himself to return to Stark’s chambers. He keeps putting it off, hoping that Ulfgrimm hasn’t gone to inspect the guest room and found it in its current unkempt state. That would be… bad.

Eventually, common sense gets the better of him. There is no way to tell when Stark will be here or there, and he’s just risking needless punishment by neglecting the duties he will have to perform regardless.

So he finishes polishing the last piece of silverware before him and then heads for the guest room area, heart heavy in his chest. Far too soon, he’s standing before that ominous door again, staring at the smooth, dark wood, unable to think of a place in Vanaheim where he would want to be any less. Well, except for the dungeons, but he prefers not to think about that now.

Holding his breath, he knocks on the door, the sound echoing like a hammer against an anvil in the silence of the empty corridor.

He almost jumps out of his skin when, contrary to his expectations but well in line with his fears, there’s an answer from inside.

“Step right in!”

No mistaking who that voice belongs to. For a panicked second, he considers running like a rabbit but reason gets the better of him before he can take such ill-advised action. Even if he flees now, he has to come back later and Stark might still be there and the man is smart enough to put two and two together, realizing who it was at the door the first time. Who had the audacity to disturb him with his knocking and then run off.

He has no choice but to face this. Face the wrath aroused by his presence when the orders were for him to never return here. But disobeying Stark is better than disobeying Ulfgrimm; in a few days Stark will have left for Midgard, taking his resentments with him, while Ulfgrimm will still be here.

The handle is slippery – no, not the handle, it’s his sweaty hand that’s slippery – and his stomach churns as the door swings open.

The room looks like it did when he last saw it, even the cleaning supplies from yesterday are still lying around where he left them, and his blood runs cold. Oh norns, he actually left them there? What if Ulfgrimm were to find out about that?

But the overseer isn’t the one he should be worried about now. In the middle of the room, standing on the lush carpet, is Stark. And he is clearly not pleased at the sight that has greeted him.

“You again?” Brown eyes narrow in angry displeasure. “Didn’t I tell you I didn’t want to see your face in here again?”

He takes a step in Loki’s direction, and Loki instinctively takes a step back, quenching the voice inside yelling at him to make his escape while he still can. While there’s still time.

“You seem to have a serious problem following orders.” The elegant, no doubt expensive shirt that Stark is wearing rustles slightly as the man moves.

Loki looks to the ground, suddenly uncomfortably aware of his own shabby clothing. If only he still had his voice, maybe he could appease Stark. At least he could explain that he has orders to be here, that he’s not intentionally disobeying.

He desperately hopes that if Stark is about to throw him out again, he will at least be allowed to put the cleaning supplies back into the closet before Ulfgrimm comes here to inspect the quality of Loki’s work. The overseer finding them in the middle of the room would spell utter disaster.

Slightly emboldened by the urgent need to avoid such an outcome, he makes a small gesture towards the bucket, hoping to indicate what his voice cannot. Please. Let me put it back. Things will not go well for me otherwise.

“Still not talking, huh?” There’s a tiny hint of a smile playing on Stark’s lips, and Loki isn’t sure whether that’s a good thing or not. “Come to think of it, I find that it’s actually an improvement.”

Loki’s face flushes but he can’t really blame the man for the sentiment, considering the words he had spoken during his brief stint in Midgard. Words about kneeling and ruling. Words that now seem like they must have been spoken by someone else, a long time ago.

“But, tell you what, since you seem so eager to be here, I might as well give you something to do.”

Swallowing hard, Loki closes the door behind him. It falls shut with a menacing click, like the door of a cell.

Like the door to the dungeons.

Unsure of what is expected of him, Loki hovers uncertainly as Stark disappears into the bathroom. The room is almost oppressive in its luxury, heavy curtains made of embroidered, expensive fabric covering the wall farthest from him. Groups of furniture, in massive oak with skilfully carved details and soft silk cushions, have been tastefully arranged and from the ceiling hang elaborate chandeliers, their light cascading forth from between a thousand pieces of polished crystal. Stark’s Midgardian possessions, transplanted from another world and scattered across the room, seem oddly discrepant in their foreign practical simplicity, like they don’t belong here.

He hears Stark rummage around in the bathroom, looking for something. He shifts his weight nervously between his feet as he waits, unable to find a position that feels comfortable or natural.

Then Stark returns, holding a smallish object in one hand. “Good thing I brought an extra,” he says, whether to himself or to Loki unclear.

His next words, though, are obviously aimed at Loki.

“So, since you seem so intent on scrubbing my floors, I have the perfect job for you.” With that, he hands over the implement to Loki, who gingerly accepts it.

It’s a toothbrush, Loki recognizes, a Midgardian invention for cleaning teeth. Something that has no real equivalent either in Asgard or in Vanaheim where tooth decay is an affliction unheard of.

“Go ahead,” Stark says with a toss of his head. “Scrub.”

There’s a brief stab of humiliation piercing his innards, the image of their encounter in Stark’s penthouse rising unbidden. Of himself, sceptre in hand, striding and speaking confidently, even arrogantly, when he still had his magic. When he was still a warrior bent on conquest, fearsome and nigh unstoppable.

But he is no longer that person, so he merely accepts the item from Stark’s hand and sets to work.

----------

He keeps hoping for Stark to leave the room for more important business; having the man so close is unnerving and distracting. Even if he’s acting as if Loki did not even exist, fully occupied with his Midgardian technology as he is.

Stark has activated a gadget that projects ghostly images into the air and he rearranges them as if they were physical objects, moving a cluster of lines here, another one there. Loki only throws the odd surreptitious glance at the display lest Stark should find his cleaning efforts lacklustre, but he can tell that the images form a kind of blueprint. Perhaps he is modifying it to suit the specific wishes of his Vanir trading partners.

Stark’s face is one of razor-sharp concentration, eyes never wavering from the display as he keeps moving parts in what occasionally approaches a frenzied pace. Loki’s fingers clench harder around the toothbrush handle as he realizes that this is the mirror image of what he must once have looked like back when he was struggling to perform a new spell, hands moving and face locked in an expression of intense focus, the world around him having long since faded into the distant background.

It is with a discomfiting sense of hollowness that he returns his attention to the toothbrush and the ground. He isn’t sure which option he would have picked, had he been allowed to choose – Stark’s current indifference as Loki is toiling on his hands and knees mere yards away, insignificant and of no consequence, not worth a second of Stark’s time, or the man instead comfortably sitting back to watch as Loki worked, delighting in the humiliation and degradation of his old enemy. Well, he would probably have picked the first, but after the hours spent here he’s not so sure that the second alternative wouldn’t have been preferable. At least then, he would have gotten some sort of acknowledgement, a recognition that at least his former self was of such significance that his current humiliation meant something.

But no. He truly is nothing here.

When he finally finishes up the last patch of floor his knees are aching and fingers cramping, but it’s nothing worse than what he’s used to. Stark is still occupied with his project, and Loki prays that he will be able to sneak out unnoticed, having finished the task he’s been assigned. Slaves are supposed to move unobtrusively, not drawing any attention to their finished work, the successful completion of which is taken for granted.

So he empties the bucket in the bathroom and puts it back, together with the toothbrush and the actual floor brush, in the closet, relieved that at least that problem is out of the way. Next he picks up the discarded cleaning rag, about to stove that away too, when Stark suddenly addresses him.

“All done, huh?” The projection has been turned off, the eerie floating images gone. The man is now lounging in one of the armchairs, a hand stroking the soft red satin that is covering the plush armrest.

Loki’s pulse quickens and he huddles slightly in on himself. He can tell that Stark wants something else from him now that the first task is done, but he can’t guess what it might be.

“Since you have that rag,” Stark continues, indicating the piece of cloth that Loki is still holding, “I’ve got something else for you to clean.” With that, the man crosses his legs and wiggles his topmost foot in Loki’s direction.

And Loki understands immediately. This is a test, to assess if Loki is truly as cowed and broken as the Vanir have told him. If he shows defiance now, Stark might very well decide to discipline him himself, the trade he came here for be damned. But if he believes Loki sufficiently subdued already he might be content with that, even if the preceding punishments weren’t administered by his own hand.

But he will want proof first.

So he makes his way over to Stark and kneels at the man’s feet, ignoring the twinge in his stomach and the heated flush of his cheeks. He immediately sets to work, polishing the black leather that doesn’t even need polishing. At least Stark didn’t order him to lick his boots clean, which he’s grateful for. He has some experience of that from the dungeons, after all, and has no desire to revisit that particular degradation.

“You know what, Loki? Back then, in Stuttgart, when you ordered all those people to kneel, I thought you were pathetic. And I always thought you really deserved a taste of your own medicine. So tell me, do you like kneeling in front of others? Do you think it’s fun?”

Stark is still angry, then. Loki slightly adjusts his position so that his face isn’t in the direct line of Stark’s foot, in case the man decides to kick out. But he doesn’t, only continues his livid rant above Loki’s head.

“Did you get off on having such power over all those people who could do nothing to defend themselves? Of having them beneath you, at your feet, just like this?” He sweeps out with his hand, to indicate their relative positions. “You think it’s fun?”

Loki bows deeper over the boot in his hand, grateful for his muteness.

Then Stark suddenly leans back, a burst of air going out of him. “You know what? I don’t really think this is fun at all.” With that, he pushes Loki aside even though he’s only barely gotten started on the second boot and stands up. “And that’s the difference between you and me.”

Two heartbeats go by. Loki looks at the rag lying forlorn on his lap.

“Now, get out of my sight.”

-------------

It’s the warmest day of the year so far; several of the men and women milling by have left their coats at home and are walking around in their shirts, glad for the mild temperature. The trees flanking the main roadway to the castle are already dappled with green, sprouting with new life after the long winter. Overhead, a couple of starlings are flying by, their chirps an upbeat greeting of the long-awaited spring now upon them all.

And with spring comes the tedious work of replacing the parts of the stone paving of the delivery road that have cracked since last year. It’s heavy work, digging up the large slabs of stone and having others put down in their stead, then filling the spaces in between with hard-packed earth. Even with tools to help them, they have to be three men to take on the largest slabs.

And it doesn’t do to be inattentive, an hour ago one of the slaves was taken out of the labour team with a broken arm after a jimmy slipped and a stone slab fell back down into its hole, right onto the unfortunate man’s forearm.

Loki’s torso is slick with sweat and he has long since taken off his shirt and hung it across a nearby fence. The drink of water he had minutes ago has evaporated already, but he knows he won’t be allowed any more until the next break. So instead he pushes down with the iron jimmy, wiggling to get it pried in underneath the smallish slab he’s currently trying to replace, but the stone is stubborn, refusing to let the tool slip beneath it.

Frustrated, he leans back on his haunches to wipe at his slick forehead and stop the rapidly forming rivulets of sweat from getting into his eyes. Then he blinks, the sharp glint of sunrays striking metal from somewhere above him having temporarily obstructed his vision.

Instinctively he looks up, trying to locate the source of this annoyance.

His eyes widen in surprise. On the overhang walkway crossing the delivery road in mid-air, not very far away from him at all, stands none other than Stark, along with a couple of Vanir escorts, gazing at the proceedings below. Their eyes meet for the briefest of seconds and Loki immediately looks away from the inscrutable stare, wondering how long Stark has been standing there watching him.

He is uncomfortably aware that he isn’t wearing his shirt and that his back is not fully healed yet. From his position above, Stark cannot have missed the welts covering it; no doubt the man has been revelling in the sight. Probably wishing that he was the one to put them there.

A hard kick to his midsection brings him back to the present.

“What are you doing slacking off like that? Back to work!” the overseer of the hour barks at him.

So he picks up the discarded jimmy and continues his prying. The next time he looks up, Stark is gone.

Chapter Text

He doesn’t encounter Stark at all during the next couple of days. The guest room is mercifully empty when Loki comes to clean it. Stark’s muddy boots are standing in the hallway – or rather, one of them is standing and the other one is lying – and he makes sure to polish them studiously as well. Hopefully the man will notice their cleanness when he returns and take it a sign that Loki has learned his position in life, that he’s no threat and can be safely left in peace. And that if Stark wants Loki to clean his boots, he will clean them.

Because an uncomfortable hunch is telling him that Stark isn’t done with him quite yet, despite Loki’s shows of servility and humility.

The rolled-up papers with the blueprints are gone, no doubt taken to whatever meeting Stark is currently in. Otherwise the room looks mostly the same as last time. There are some clothing items lying haphazardly discarded in a messy pile on the bed and he debates with himself whether to fold them properly. If this had been the room of any other guest he would have done so without hesitating, but he’s not so sure that Stark would appreciate Loki handling his clothes.

In the end, he decides to leave them unfolded. Even if Ulfgrimm were to inspect the room later, there is nothing to indicate that its occupant left the clothing there before Loki made his cleaning round. He should be safe.

Throwing a last look at the interiors to make sure he hasn’t made any oversights, he walks back out with the usual pang of relief in his chest that he gets when he closes that oaken door behind him.

His next order for the day is the kitchens, so he heads into that direction. It’s a rather rare occurrence for him to be wanted there for something other than delivering goods to the servants and cooks, but yesterday he heard a couple of milkmaids chattering about how there was another big feast to be held in honour of their Midgardian guest this evening, so he supposes that the main activity among the castle staff will be concentrated down there today.

A fat overseer immediately directs him to the scullery when he enters. He has to bow his head to get inside as to not hit his forehead on the doorframe, and then finds a place to sit among the other slaves busying themselves with peeling potatoes and vegetables. No one speaks when he sits down, the only acknowledgement of his presence some shuffling to make sufficient space for the newcomer in their midst.

Someone hands him a knife with a dullish blade, and then he peels carrots and beets and potatoes and sweetroots until his palms hurt. The big pile on the ground disappears with excruciating slowness as the baskets next to them fill with the results of their efforts. He wishes there were windows in the scullery so he had some sense of the passage of time, but there are none, the only source of light being the smoky oil lamps bolted to the walls.

As he finally picks up the last carrot from the now non-existent pile, it’s with no small sense of relief. He can feel several blisters forming on the skin of his hands, which is red and chafed from all the peeling.

Having finished their appointed task, the slaves mill back out into the kitchen to let one of the overseers guide them to where they are needed next. Some are told to gut the pale, silvery fish lined up on one of the kitchen counters, their mouths gaping stupidly, others are ordered to peel a basket of apples. Loki instinctively rubs his aching palms, silently thanking his tiny twinkle of a lucky star that he wasn’t selected for that task.

There are only a few of them left now still awaiting their orders. The overseer starts to bark something but stops himself mid-sentence, a finger thoughtfully tapping the side of his nose as he considers something.

“Hey, Sigrid,” he yells over his shoulder to a large shape shuffling around in the main kitchen. “Didn’t you say that you needed more servers for tonight?”

A woman with bulging arms covered in meal up to the elbows comes waddling out of the doorway. Her hair has been braided and twirled into tight buns at the sides of her head, but there is still a considerable fuzz of unruly gray around her temples and forehead.

“Yeah, we are a bit short and could use some more people up there. They just have to carry some trays.” She gives a cursory examination of the slaves in front of her, and then waves an enormous hand, pieces of dough clinging to it. “They’ll do fine!”

The overseer nods, jowls wobbling, before turning back to his charges, nose wrinkled. “Alright, you rabble, you heard her. Go wash yourself up and put some clean clothes on; you have work to do!”

------------

Loki tells himself that it’s nothing to be worried about as he stands in the courtyard splashing himself with cold water from the water barrel. Like the kitchen orderly said, he will just be carrying trays with food up and down the stairs. Most likely, he will not be allowed at the actual tables to serve the guests.

And even if he is, he tells himself as he puts on a set of non-descript, but clean, clothes, he knows how a server is supposed to carry himself at a lavish feast, having attended many such in Asgard during… another time. Not that he’s ever been on the serving side, but he knows he would be able to handle himself properly in that capacity, should the need arise.

Not that it ever will, he tells himself as he trails the overseer back to the kitchen. They have trained servers to attend at the table. They don’t need him there.

The muted sound of voices and bursts of laughter are drifting down from upstairs; the dining hall is situated right above the kitchens for easy access. So the feast has already started, then. He can imagine Stark poised regally at the head of the main table as the guest of honour, drinking to his heart’s content and entertaining the fawning nobles at his sides with tales of dangerous adventures and grand battles.

His throat thickens as he realizes the likelihood of those tales detailing the very battles that ended with his defeat, and that Stark will probably spend most of the evening telling and retelling those stories, laughing at Loki’s disgraceful downfall. Everyone is sure to be eager to hear all about that.

Then there is suddenly a tray filled with smoked sparrows and mushroom in his hands, interrupting his trail of thoughts.

“Get a move on,” someone shouts at him in irritation at his slowness, and he hurries up the stairs, jostling with a throng of servants and slaves struggling to get up or down as quickly as possible.

The dining hall is breathtaking its splendour as he enters it. The domed ceiling would admit twenty men standing on each other’s shoulders, the height giving the impression of infinite spaciousness. One of the long sides of the room consists of almost nothing but gigantic arched windows, framed in gold, their glass panes patterned out of the most exquisite mosaics in bright colours detailing the long history of Vanaheim. The floor is gleaming white and pink marble, and so are the gigantic columns stretching all the way up to support the ceiling, their surfaces covered with carvings of leafy garlands. Everywhere there are golden inlays and edges, glittering in the light cast by the countless chandeliers laden with diamonds. In each corner a huge, lifelike statue of one of the four founding kings stands guard over the proceedings, sword point resting at the ground and hands gripping the hilt decisively.

And then all those sturdy oaken tables laid out with the whitest linen, silver candelabras and arduously hand-painted china. Everything gleams and glitters, dazzling in its beauty.

But Loki has no time to admire the magnificence before him, nor the many guests seated at the tables in all their expensive finery. The serving of the first courses has already started, and he sets his tray down at one of the smaller tables meant to hold the food until a server can get to it.

The atmosphere is cheerful and people seem to be enjoying themselves and the cooking. A man to his right laughs heartily, his guffaws floating above the murmur of voices and clattering of cutlery and Loki throws a surreptitious glance in that direction. And there, just like he expected, at the end of the main table, in the seat of honour, sits none other than Stark, at the centre of attention of his table companions.

Stark is wearing one of those suits so strikingly ubiquitous in Midgardian males; Loki well remembers wearing one himself several times during his… stay in that realm, to blend in. He never understood how the simplicity and uniformity of those garments could confer them their status as something commonly worn even by rich men on the most festive or solemn of occasions.

Only that there is something setting this particular suit apart from those he saw so many times in Midgard – this one is made out of pure gold, its fabric competing in its gleaming splendour with the glimmering chandeliers above.

Loki is familiar enough with Midgard and all its fake make-believe products to realize that the suit has probably not been woven out of real golden threads, like such a suit would have been in Asgard or Vanaheim, but the effect is still the same and the Vanir are suitably impressed. With a twinge of sombreness, he wonders if Thor has helped Stark to pick that particular outfit, with his better knowledge of what would be considered appropriate dress in Vanaheim for a man of Stark’s standing.

But there is no point in dwelling on that, so he heads for the stairs again to bring up the next tray in line before one of the overseers standing discreetly at the sides to keep watch notices his dawdling and decides to help him along.

---------

There are many courses and many guests, so there are correspondingly many trips up and down the stairs. He runs as fast as he dares with his hands full, carrying baskets of freshly baked bread, tureens with leek and onion soup, trays with roasted beef, pots with butter-glazed vegetables, casseroles with steam-cooked fish, dishes with honey-stewed chicken, plates with venison filets, and bowls with boar and carrot stew. His stomach makes a sad twist at each new dish, full well knowing he will never get a taste of any of it.

Breath in his throat, he’s about to head down again after putting down a plate of pork pies, but someone grabs him by the arm, halting him mid-step. As he whips around a huge carafe of wine is thrust into his face by a harried server.

“We need more people to pour the drinks.” He gestures towards one of the tables. “You take that one, and hurry up, the guests are thirsty!”

And of course – of course – the table the server is indicating is none other than the one where Stark is seated. Out of all the…

But there is nothing to it, he has been given his orders and he can’t refuse. Besides, why should it bother him? He has already polished Stark’s boots with the man still in them, if Stark wants Loki to serve him a glass of wine, what does it matter?

He catches Ulfgrimm’s staring at him from across the room. The overseer has noticed the order given, and his hand goes to the whip at his side as a silent warning. If you screw up, you know what is coming.

He swallows, but the warning is wholly unnecessary. He won’t mess this up.

There are already several guests sitting with their glasses held up next to them, the standard signal that one wishes for a refill. The carafe is filled to the brim and very heavy, but no worse than he can handle. He fills glass after glass without incident, without spilling as much as a single drop on the white linen. He refuses to look directly at Stark, pretending that the man isn’t there, though he still keeps track of him out of the corner of his eye in case he should lift his glass. If so, Loki is expected to serve him immediately before anyone else, as the guest of honour.

He pours wine into the awaiting glass of a lady who has had her blond locks done into one of the most elaborate hairdos Loki has ever seen. It must have taken hours to prepare. Then he serves one of the noblemen who have participated in his torments most actively, imagining that he’s pouring the wine over the man’s head instead.

Then Stark raises his glass.

And Loki hurries over, determined to serve Stark properly to a fault. Ulfgrimm will be watching him, after all.

Too late he realizes that the leg at the end of the table, unlike those supporting the middle, is elegantly curved outwards so that its foot is deviously sticking out, its protruding presence unfortunately obscured by the long linen. His foot smashes into the wood and he stumbles, losing the carafe along with his balance. The remaining wine goes flying and lands with a soft squelch on the golden jacket in front of him.

“Oh for fuck’s sake,” he hears Stark grumble before his world transforms into pure terror.

He’s ruined Stark’s suit with his clumsiness. The guest of honour. The man whose goodwill Vanaheim might be dependent on for their protection from the Chitauri. Oh sweet norns. Of all the failures in his life…

And then his insides turn to ice as he sees Ulgrimm come stalking towards him where he’s sprawling ungracefully on the floor, white-knuckled hand already grabbing the handle of the whip. “You,” he hisses, low as to not make more of a scene than Loki has already caused, but enough so Loki and the closest guests can easily hear him, “you will regret the miserable day you were born.”

No no no. He knows full well what is coming as Ulfgrimm grabs his arm to drag him away for punishment; his last time at the whipping post will seem like a breeze in comparison to this.

And his back isn’t even fully healed yet. He can’t take this. He can’t.

It was a mistake, he tries to plead with his eyes. Sorry. Please. Please don’t.

But he knows it’s useless. Nothing can save him now.

Then there is flash of gold, and a hand on Ulfgrimm’s arm.

“Hey buddy, I’ve got a better idea. How about you have him delivered to my chambers and let me deal with his punishment, since it was my outfit that got ruined?” Stark makes a show of grabbing at one of the soggy lapels of his jacket with two fingers. “You know, pure gold and all.”

Ulfgrimm makes a low, obsequious bow. “Of course, Lord Stark, the slave shall be punished at you see fit. I will have him delivered to your chambers as soon as you wish to retire for the evening.”

And with that, the matter is settled. But for Loki begins one of the most excruciating waits of his entire life.

Chapter Text

Loki waits along the wall next to one of the now empty food tables, kneeling. This has been one of the longest evenings he can remember. Every second drags like an eon, every minute like an infinity.

Normally he never has to wait for punishment, it’s meted out immediately. To make things worse, unlike with Ulfgrimm and the other overseers, he has no idea what Stark considers appropriate consequences for an offence like this. Even if the suit isn’t real gold and worth next to nothing for a man of Stark’s immense wealth, Loki has embarrassed him in front of his Vanir peers, made him lose face, and that is surely a worse transgression than some ruined clothes.

Still, Stark doesn’t seem overly concerned about his wine-soaked garments as he indulges in the drinks poured for him by better servers than Loki, talking and laughing with the other guests at the table as if nothing untoward has happened.

He looks down at the hands lying in his lap. They’re shaking. And to think that only a few hours ago he had thought that the worst inconvenience of today would be some blisters from all that vegetable peeling. What he wouldn’t give to be back there in that scullery, peeling until his hands bled dry, if that could help to avert the fate awaiting him.

He watches as the empty plates are collected and carried away, the last dish – cooked apricots with lemon cream – having now been served. His orders, however, are to wait here until Stark decides to retire for the evening. It won’t do to have Loki down in the kitchen or running in the stairs when that happens, hence this enforced idleness despite the other slaves and servants scuttling around to tidy everything up and put away the leftovers after the marathon meal.

Drinks are still being poured, though, and the evening won’t be over for quite some time. Especially not for a man like Stark who seems to take to alcohol like a fish to water.

Ulfgrimm is hovering nearby, waiting for the first sign that Stark is about to retire so he can immediately be at his side to escort the recalcitrant slave to the guest chambers. Probably hoping to salvage whatever might have been lost through Loki’s unforgivable lapse with a sycophantic show of readiness and eagerness to cater to Stark’s convenience.

Loki doubts that the trade has in any way been jeopardized, though. Stark will be far too eager to get his hands on what the Vanir are willing to offer him. The ways their knowledge of magic could complete and enhance his Midgardian technology would be a far too precious chance to waste. He can’t help but wonder if Stark has made a similar deal with Asgard as the one he plans to make here, but he knows that the magic that flows from the Asgardian branch of Yggdrasil is more rigid, more incompatible with Stark’s science. Vanaheim’s more fluid brand of magic, for what limited familiarity Loki has with it, would be more suited to Stark’s endeavours.

Besides, Asgard’s martial prowess is greater than that of Vanaheim; they have less need for Stark’s inventions. And the Aesir are a prouder race, unlikely to acknowledge that they would have any use for foreign technology in the defence of their realm.

He looks towards the main table again. Stark is regaling the other guests with some sort of story, his hands gesturing expressively as the Vanir are hanging onto his every word, mesmerized. If Loki concentrates, he can hear parts of the conversation and with nothing else to do, he listens.

“… and then Thor says – you have to hear this – ‘wow, that’s a huge drinking bowl,’ and I say to him, ‘dude, that’s a Midgardian toilet’…”

Roars of laughter. Of course, the story is made up – Thor is neither stupid nor so ignorant, nor are Midgardian toilets so visually different from their Aesir counterparts – and the Vanir know it too, but they delight in it nevertheless. As a smaller realm on the outskirts of Yggdrasil, they’re used to living in Asgard’s shadow and hence sensitive about their own comparatively minor importance. Stories that illustrate the supposed lesser intelligence of the Aesir are popular here. Stark has done his homework well. Probably he got that particular piece of information from Thor, who is intimately familiar with the nature of the relations between the two realms, though Loki doubts that his brother suggested that specific story to tell.

He keeps watching Stark from afar as the man fluently switches to another tale, this one with a smudge more truth in it. Stark is skilful and has his audience eating out of his hand, lapping up his every word. Loki wonders if the man is equally talented around the negotiating table and surmises that he is. Even if he’s putting on a light-hearted show now, he is here for a reason and intends to leave with what he came for. When it comes to business, Stark is sure to be ruthless to the core.

And perhaps in other situations too.

He shudders.

He recalls the short time he spent in Stark’s penthouse and his initial confusion as he entered the high-rise dwelling. He had expected a big commotion to greet him, that all the slaves and servants that such a wealthy man was sure to be surrounding himself with would be running in panic and fear as he appeared, but there had been no one at all. At first he had thought it was a trap, that the building had been vacated in expectance of his arrival, but as he walked through the rooms he could see no sign of any live-in staff whatsoever. There were only a couple of mindless robotic workers that seemed to take his presence with good grace, and that strange disembodied voice in the ceiling that did not take quite so well to his being there.

Stark must harbour a very strong dislike for servants and slaves if he refuses to keep any himself.

Another circumstance most decidedly not in Loki’s favour.

He swallows a couple of times to get rid of the unpleasant taste in his mouth. Stark has now launched into a detailed exposé describing his suits, and not the golden ones, impressive as the Vanir might find them, but the ones made out of steel and deadly weapons, the ones they are so greatly coveting.

Yes, such a weapon that won’t put the defender into any danger is sure to fit the martially inferior Vanir perfectly.

He quenches the thought as quickly as it has surfaced in his head, lest it somehow be seen on his face. These kinds of disrespectful and unslave-like thoughts seem to appear more often nowadays. He hugs his knees tighter. No wonder he’s in this situation. If only he had been more attentive, acted more like a slave was supposed to…

The evening drags on as Loki waits in his terror, the smallest movement of Stark’s enough to send his stomach roiling in fear. Is this it? Is Stark now intending to stand up and retire for the night?

But the man continues to drink and talk, laugh and drink.

And then, as Loki is starting to believe that the night will never end, Stark makes a show out of stretching his limbs and then pushes his chair back.

“Well, fair ladies, brave gentlemen,” he nods at each of his companions in turn, “I have greatly enjoyed myself in your gracious company, but the hour draws late and I believe it is unfortunately time for me to retire for the night.”

There are some disappointed ohs and awws at that.

“So, I wish you all a good night.” He bends down to kiss the hand of the nearest lady, a youngish woman with a décolletage that is daring even by Vanir standards. She inclines her head and titters stupidly.

Then Stark raises his glass, some red still sloshing around inside. “To Vanaheim!” he toasts. “The realm with the best wine by far! Not like the weak stuff you get in Asg… I mean, in some other places.”

He winks and they laugh again, pleased, and lift their own glasses in turn, bestowing their guest with all sorts of fawning well-wishes for his health and wealth.

Ulfgrimm is immediately at Stark’s side to pull the chair out for him, throwing Loki a harsh look that brokers no argument. Loki has no choice but to stand up and follow meekly, the overseer’s grip on his arm hard enough to leave bruises.

Another eternity passes by as they make their way to the guest room area. It’s not very far from the dining hall, the placement designed to be convenient for visitors, but tonight the distance stretches for miles and their footfalls echo between the walls like the drum beats accompanying a doomed man to his public execution.

And then they’re standing in front of that accursed oaken door. Stark enters first, followed by Ulfgrimm half-shoving, half-pushing Loki inside.

Heart pounding like a steam hammer, Loki watches as Ulfgrimm unhooks the whip from his belt and demonstratively places it on the nearest table. “At your discretion, My Lord,” the overseer says and gives another deep, toadying bow in Stark’s direction before making his leave, scowling viciously at Loki as he walks by.

And then it’s only the two of them. Loki holds his breath for what is coming, the pooling dread in his stomach making his entire body tremble pathetically.

“Sheesh, I need a drink,” Stark comments, rubbing his face into his hands. For all he’s been drinking tonight, he seems remarkably sober. And with that, he disappears into the bathroom, turning on the tap, leaving the water running for a long time.

Anxiously, Loki kneels on the plush carpet to await Stark’s return, listening to the muted sloshing and splashing in the bathroom. He tries not to look at the whip lying on the table a mere arm’s length away. Probably he will be made to scrub his own spattered blood off the walls and floor once Stark is done with him.

The sound of water suddenly stops, and a minute later Stark steps out of the bathroom. He walks past Loki where he’s kneeling, taking off his soiled jacket as he goes and throwing it across the back of the nearest chair.

And then Loki watches in confusion as Stark continues to remove the rest of his clothes, even his undershirt, all the way down to his underwear.

Ice fills his veins as he realizes the implications of this – what Stark has in store for him will be so bad that the man first wants to undress as to not ruin his clothes with Loki’s blood.

Was his misdeed really so dire?

But it’s not about a spilled drink, he understands now. No, this is about the pain and suffering he brought to Stark’s realm, for very nearly taking the life of the man before him. Stark has not forgotten and he intends to make Loki pay.

And to think that Loki was naïve enough to believe that Stark found his displays of humility and cowedness sufficient. No, he has surely waited for this, for Vanaheim’s official permission to punish their property as he sees fit, to make Loki suffer by Stark’s own hand.

Oh norns, how is he ever supposed to make it through this?

He looks down at his trembling hands, knowing there is no rescue to be had.

Then something hits him over the head and the world goes dark.

He blinks a few times in confusion and then pulls the blanket off his head that Stark has thrown at him. And watches as Stark pulls the opulently decorated bed cover aside and crawls beneath the expensive silks.

“I’m not going to deal with this shit at this time of night,” he mutters. “Go to sleep, Loki.” His hand reaches out for the light switch and the room is flooded in darkness. “You could probably need it.”

Sleep.

So Stark is saving it for tomorrow, then.

He shudders, the butterflies that have occupied his innards swirling around in elaborate dances. But it makes sense. The man must be tired after a long evening of drinking and conversing and being on his best behaviour. He will want to save his revenge for a time when he can properly savour it.

And Loki has to wait the whole night for it.

Sleep, Stark had said.

As if.

Chapter Text

It takes a long time for him to fall asleep that night. Despite his both mental and physical exhaustion, he remains lying wide awake on his spot on the carpet, huddled beneath the blanket, listening to the regular sound of Stark’s light snoring.

Occasionally, he dozes. At those times, his dreams are filled with blood and terror and vile monsters with foam dripping from their mouths.

When he wakes up, he’s bathed in cold sweat. One time, after a particularly vivid nightmare, he’s terrified that he has screamed out loud and awoken Stark, but the soft sounds coming from beneath the covers of the majestic bed remain unchanged. Maybe it was only in his dream that he was screaming.

It’s ironic, despite having the most comfortable sleeping arrangements since his sentence – a thick carpet beneath him and a soft blanket to wrap around himself, as opposed to the hard ground and nothing but the nearby bodies of the other slaves for warmth – he hasn’t slept this bad in a very long time.

Pulling the blanket tighter around him, he prays for obliterating sleep to claim him and save him from his own nightmarish thoughts until morning comes.

-----------

He’s awoken by a smart, three-rap knock on the door. For a moment he’s confused, nothing making sense. What is he doing sleeping somewhere where people knock before they enter? Why is there something soft beneath him?

Then the pieces rearrange themselves at the sound of Stark’s voice.

“Come in!”

And in steps Ulfgrimm. He stops respectfully in the hallway and makes a sweeping bow.

“My sincere apologies for waking you, Lord Stark. It was not my intention to disturb you needlessly. However, Loki has not reported for his duties this morning, so I thought I’d… check up that everything is in order.”

He’s overslept, and probably a lot too, if Ulfgrimm is here. His stomach sinks; another thing he will be punished for, then, even if he could hardly have walked out of here before Stark was done with him.

“It’s just peachy, thanks for asking,” Stark responds as he sits up, hand rubbing his temple in a way that clearly belie his words. All that wine from yesterday is bound to still be making its effects known.

Ulfgrimm eyes Loki but makes no comment on his still prime condition. “Well, when you’re… finished with the slave, perhaps you would be so kind as to send him back to the barracks so he can care for his duties of the day?”

“Yeah, about that.” Stark sits up a little straighter, more alert, now. “I figured it would be great to have a… hmm, now, what is the correct term?” He rotates his wrist in a horizontal circle as if the movement will cause the word he’s looking for to materialize out of thin air. The he snaps his fingers in a show of sudden insight. “Ah, should we call it a personal attendant, for the rest of my stay here? You know, someone to fetch my stuff and polish my boots and that sort of thing.”

Ulfgrimm looks a little taken aback by the request, but he quickly collects himself. “But of course! Our apologies for not thinking of this ourselves. I will immediately have one of our finest servants sent to personally attend you.”

“I really appreciate you guys being so accommodating and all, but I already had someone particular in mind for this position.” His gaze drifts towards where Loki is huddling beneath his blanket and he raises his eyebrows in indication of his choice. “I figured that after everything, with his whole trying to invade my home world and making my people kneel and all, it would only be fair.”

“It is fair indeed, and it shall be as you wish,” Ulfgrim agrees, the hint of a sadistic smile playing on his face that he tries his best to hide by bowing again.

And with that, the overseer wishes Stark a good day with the most flowery words a man of his limited intellect can think of, and then excuses himself.

And Loki is alone with Stark. A very much awake Stark who seems to have no intention of going back to sleep again now that he’s been woken up.

Again, though, Loki is made to wait for his fate, as Stark first busies himself in the bathroom, taking his time. There’s water running and Loki thinks he can feel the fragrance of at least three different Midgardian hygiene products drifting out from beneath the bathroom door.

He frets where he’s kneeling, his fears of what is about to happen having risen full force, and when Stark finally steps out fully dressed, a cloud of hot, misty damp accompanying him, his heart makes a double beat. This time, Stark doesn’t just walk past him but stops at an arm’s length away. Loki holds his breath as Stark reaches out to pick up Ulfgrimm’s whip still lying on the nearby table. So this is it, then.

He watches as Stark inspects the implement, weighing the handle in his hand and touching the leather. Then he looks directly at Loki.

“Something tells me that you’re rather familiar with this.”

It’s not quite a question. Loki looks away.

Stark continues to fiddle with the handle, twirling it in his hands.

“Guess this hurts quite a bit, doesn’t it?”

Loki shudders involuntarily, hating his own display of weakness.

Stark twirls the handle again. Then he places the whip back on the table and reaches down to grab hold of Loki’s shirt with both hands, yanking him up so that he’s standing on his knees, Stark’s face staring down into his.

“And tell you what. I’m not going to be using that thing on you ‘cause I’m not a fucking barbarian. But that doesn’t mean I will stand for any bullshit coming from your general direction. Honest mistakes I might be gracious enough to overlook, but not any intentional disobedience or shit-making.” He gives Loki a shake, but it’s not all that rough. “Are we clear?”

Is Stark serious? Hesitantly, he nods his understanding, if not quite his belief.

“As for your punishment for yesterday’s screw-up,” Stark continues, as he lets go of Loki and picks up the wine-spattered jacket from the chair it’s currently occupying. Its golden lustre is oddly dull in the dimmed light of the room, nothing like the brilliant sheen he remembers from yesterday. He throws the garment at Loki’s feet, where it lands with a dull thud. “It’s to clean this thing up. You spilled on it, so you wash it.”

Is Stark joking with him? That is supposed to be his punishment?

But Stark is already heading towards the door, apparently having said what he intends to on this matter. “Alright, I have important stuff to attend to. Meetings and shit.” He snorts, muttering to himself, now. “And here I thought you space-aliens did things differently, but you’re just as creative as humans when it comes to inventing meetings with the sole purpose of wasting as many people’s time as possible.”

Stark’s hand is on the door handle before he turns around to address Loki again.

“Oh, and take a bath and wash your hair while I’m gone. It stinks.”

-----------

Like he suspected, the gold is artificial, that much is obvious when he scrubs and rinses the fabric, struggling to get the reddish stains out. No wonder it wasn’t such a big deal to Stark.

Still, the man didn’t take the chance, despite how perfectly it had been presented to him, to have Loki beaten. He’s still not quite sure why, considering how angry Stark had been at him during their first encounter. But perhaps he simply finds the sight of his old enemy cowed and forced to humbly serve on him more rewarding and pleasing than simple acts of violence. Not even all of the Vanir who so enjoyed tormenting him did physically assault him, after all, some took their pleasure merely in gloating and revelling in his humiliation. Perhaps Stark is the same. It would certainly explain why he asked to have Loki personally attend to him. And if so, Loki can deal with that. What pride does he have left anyway?

Critically, he examines the result of his scrubbing, holding the jacket up to the light. He thinks the stains are finally gone, or at least as good as. Perhaps he can detect a very slight difference in shading if he squints, but for someone not knowing where to look, it’s as good as invisible. And as good as he can make it, unless he wants to put a hole into Stark’s jacket with his insistent scrubbing.

Satisfied, he hangs the garment on a nearby hook to dry. That takes care of the first problem, but there is now the next one to consider – Stark’s order to tell him to bathe and wash his hair.

There is a large bathtub in splendid green marble standing on golden clawed feet right next to him, but of course he can’t utilize that. A slave making use of a bathtub like a free man would be unheard of. And very, very much not allowed. Slaves are directed to the water barrels in the courtyard for their washing needs, no one would for a second entertain the thought of having a slave splashing around in a bathtub.

Except that now Stark has ordered him to, and that’s a problem. Loki doesn’t dare to think about the consequences of his sitting in Stark’s bathtub if one of the overseers comes in to inspect on things. Even if Loki were to make it quick, thereby reducing the risk of direct discovery, his wet hair would still give his illicit activities away for hours afterwards. He has no way to explain that it was on Stark’s order, and it will do him little good to have the man vouch for him once his punishment has already been meted out.

He could have snuck out to use the water barrels in the courtyard, hoping the resulting semi-cleanliness would be sufficient to please Stark, if it hadn’t been for two reasons, the first being that by this time of day the barrels have long since been emptied. And the second being that he doesn’t dare to leave the room. Stark specifically said he wanted for Loki to serve on him personally, and what if the man returns here to find Loki gone? Unacceptable. He would surely regret his previous lenience.

Perhaps Stark gave him this order as a more subtle form of torment, to have Loki fret and worry while he’s gone? Surely he knows full well that slaves aren’t permitted to use the bathtub; things are most definitely not any different in Midgard. Or maybe it is a test, to see whose authority Loki will defer to, Vanaheim’s rules or Stark’s contradicting orders?

Of course, the overseers may not come in here at all today. And if he decides to disregard Stark’s order, he will only needlessly draw Stark’s certain wrath with his disobedience. Either way, his choices consist of either risking a possible punishment from an overseer, who will most likely be Ulfgrimm, if he obeys Stark, or submitting to the guaranteed punishment from Stark if he follows the rules.

The first option would seem like the better one. At least that way there is a chance of avoiding punishment altogether. But Stark said he wouldn’t take the whip to Loki, which an overseer would be guaranteed to do.

There’s not even a contest. He shuts the bathroom door behind him and returns to the main room. If someone comes in, he can’t be found here lounging around in idleness, so he brings out the cleaning supplies from the closet again and gets to work. He will have to worry about Stark’s return later.

-----------

The chambers are large, but not large enough to occupy him for a full day of cleaning. Still, it won’t do to be caught doing nothing, so he wiles away the hours wiping at invisible dust, polishing already shining surfaces. His stomach growls occasionally, having not had anything to fill it since yesterday. Probably the slaves’ evening meal is being served now, or if not now then soon, but he doesn’t dare to go collect his ration, in case Stark should return while he is gone. His absence would be bad enough if the man wants immediate service, but now that Loki has also deliberately disobeyed a direct order it would spell disaster.

As he puts down a heavy ten-candle candelabra, non-existent dirt meticulously cleaned away, the door handle makes a soft click and a second later Stark enters the hallway. He’s whistling softly, and Loki relaxes a tiny notch. At least the man is in a good mood.

Stark throws first Loki a look and then the table where he has just put the candelabra. “You missed a spot there,” he comments, pointing.

Fretting, Loki looks to where Stark has pointed, but can see neither dust nor dirt.

“Just kidding,” Stark says and then halts in his tracks.

“Didn’t I give you an order before I left?” There’s a steely edge in his voice, now, a sharp contrast to his previous joviality.

Loki has already fallen to his knees at the first sign of Stark’s wrath, hoping his show of submission might serve to deflect some of it. He nods miserably from his lowly position on the floor.

“Then how come your hair is still as greasy as before? Forgotten how to wash?”

Tentatively, Loki points at himself, then in the direction of the bathroom, and shakes his head. If only he had his voice…

“You mean to say you’re not allowed to?”

A wave of relief washes over him that Stark seems to comprehend the source of his predicament so quickly. He nods eagerly in response.

“Huh.” Stark considers this for a few moments. Then, “alright, how about if I’m still in here?”

The image of such a scene unfolding is nothing short of ridiculous, Loki sitting in the bathtub like a free man while Stark is explaining to a gaping Ulfgrimm that indeed, it’s all on his orders. But no one would question their guest to his face; the overseers would merely whisper later in the evening among themselves about the odd, impenetrable ways of Midgard that no sane person can be expected to understand.

He nods gingerly.

“Well, then,” Stark says with a shrug and then points toward the bathroom. “Go wash.”

----------

The feeling is difficult to describe. It’s somewhere between awkwardness and wrongness. But also with an underlying tinge of pleasure.

The water laps softly all around his body, like he’s a rock in the middle of the ocean and it’s trying to lull him to sleep. It feels good against his bare skin. Undemanding, somehow.

But he knows that the bath isn’t meant for his enjoyment; he’s in here because Stark finds his current hygienic state offensive and wants to remedy the problem. So he grabs the bottle of washing cream from the little hollow at the far end of the tub – it’s still full; Stark hasn’t used any of it, clearly preferring his own cleaning products – and rubs a generous helping of the contents into his hair. The lather is amazingly rich and smooth between his fingers, like liquid silk. A small, soft sound escapes his lips.

Leaning forward, he ducks his head beneath the warm water to rinse. He then repeats the whole process, to make sure to get all the grease out.

And then once more, just to be sure it’s all gone.

Chapter Text

His stomach wakes him up, hollow and aching. Perhaps he should be used to this, but he’s not, not any more. In the dungeons, they would deprive him of food for long stretches of time, but since then he’s been given his usual rations three times a day like all the other slaves. Well, unless he did something that merited them being taken away as punishment, but he’s always endeavoured to keep that from happening and, furthermore, virtually all punishment is corporal here anyway. So despite the meagreness of the portions and the never-quite-fullness of his stomach, he has for the most part at least eaten regular meals.

But Stark hasn’t allowed him any food yet. Perhaps he wants for Loki to make himself useful before being deserving of any. What more use he could possibly be in here other than making Stark’s bed and scrubbing the floor, he doesn’t know. Or maybe Stark simply believes that it’s a waste to let slaves eat every day. Obviously, going a few days without any food isn’t going to kill him.

He wonders if he should get up, but then again, what should he occupy himself with? Stark is still asleep and any activities louder than dusting likely to wake him up. Besides, Loki already spent most of yesterday – for the most part needlessly – cleaning the chambers and their state of tidiness won’t have changed overnight.

So he simply remains lying there on the carpet, rolled into his blanket, listening to the sound of Stark sleeping.

-------------

There still have been no specific instructions issued in regards to his activities for today. Stark is away for the time being, having left with his blueprints and gadgets.

So Loki dusts for lack of better things to do. Then he drinks from the tap in the bathroom, enjoying the feeling of fresh, cold water in his mouth. He’s feeling oddly light-headed, so when he returns to the main room he sits down on the floor to rest for a little while until the spinning in his head has stopped.

His behind has barely touched the ground, however, before the door opens; Loki expects Stark, but it’s not. It’s Ulfgrimm.

And Loki is slacking on the floor, idle and unoccupied, everything a slave should not be. He curses his bad luck; the overseer must have encountered Stark just recently and realized the man wasn’t in his room, or he would never have entered like this without knocking.

“So, taking a vacation, are you?” The deep voice of the overseer is deceptively sweet but mocking to its core. He circles Loki a couple of times, like a predator. The man certainly has the breath of one.

“You always were a lazy one. But I will make one thing clear to you – if Lord Stark requests you as his personal slave, then you will work for him! And that includes when he’s away on business!” With that, Ulfgrimm punches him square in the face. Loki falls backward, sprawling, a hand going to clutch at his throbbing cheek.

“Don’t let me catch you slacking off again,” Ulfgrimm warns. “Or I will make you regret it.”

----------

When Stark returns, Loki is on his hands and knees, scrubbing the already spotless floor.

The man’s first action after removing his shoes in the hallway is to throw his things on the bed and then himself, stretching his arms above his head the way someone who has spent the day sitting in a chair might do. Then he goes still, studying Loki from a half-sitting position, elbows behind him to prop himself up.

“You just get into trouble everywhere, don’t you?”

Obviously he’s referring to the black eye that Loki is currently sporting from his encounter with Ulfgrimm. He’s seen his own reflection in the surfaces he’s spent the day polishing, and the bruising isn’t something one misses, even with a cursory glance. Of course Stark would notice it.

He merely shrugs in reply.

Stark makes no further comment, but Loki can feel Stark’s gaze hovering over him for a long time. He doesn’t particularly like that gaze.

-----------

Again, Stark is busying himself with making modifications on his enigmatic air blueprints. Loki wonders what would happen if he were to walk through the projections, if he would feel anything at all, or if they would somehow be ruined, but he has no way of asking. And wouldn’t ask, of course, even if he had a way. Slaves don’t ask questions if they’re not directly pertinent to the tasks they have to fulfil.

Probably they’re like his own magical illusions, without form or substance, of which he wouldn’t feel a thing if he were to touch them.

Then again, unlike Loki’s illusions, Stark can actually move his projections with his fingers, making them respond to the real world, so there is something more to them than just a mirage. Perhaps it does feel like something to touch them.

There’s a bluish flicker and a second later the lines and little numbers and geometric figures are gone, Stark having turned his machine off.

Rather than putting it aside, though, the man starts to turn the gadget around in his hands with an absent-minded look on his face, forehead creased and eyes gazing at an indeterminate spot in the distance. Probably he’s thinking about the next step of the project he’s busying himself with, or some problem that still lacks a solution. His fingers swipe over the screen, as if trying to remove a smudge, and Loki wonders if he should offer to wipe it with his rag, to showcase his attentiveness and readiness to serve.

But he decides not to, in case he manages to break the thing. It’s not worth the risk.

“You can still write, can’t you?”

The non sequitur throws Loki for several seconds. Then understanding dawns of what Stark is getting at.

He nods, of course he can still write. The spell only took his voice from him.

“Well, I thought so.” With that, Stark finally puts the gadget aside and goes to rummage in one of his large suitcases. He resurfaces a few moments later, holding a piece of a paper and a Midgardian pen in one hand. He hands both implements over to Loki who gingerly accepts them.

“So tell me, how did you end up here in the first place?” Stark asks as he sits back down on the bed again, the springs creaking softly as they take his weight. “Yeah, the Vanir obviously told me about it, but I want to hear your version as well.”

It’s not really a question he cares to answer, but Stark has asked, so he has to offer a reply. He starts to jot down an answer, hoping to be able to leave out the more… shameful parts, but then lets the pen fall before he has even completed the first sentence.

“What, you done already?” Stark asks, a tinge of annoyance in his voice. Probably he expected a lengthy exposition to follow and now suspects that Loki is trying to dodge the order, so Loki quickly hands over the piece of paper to showcase the problem before the annoyance can turn to anger.

Stark takes a look, his brow furrowing at the sight. “Runes, huh? Can’t you write, like, you know, normally?”

Loki shakes his head no. The Allspeak only translates languages, not writing systems or alphabets. True, he did learn Midgard’s alphabet shortly before travelling there, but he has mostly forgotten it by now, having only used it very briefly.

“Hmph,” Stark mutters as he crumples the paper, his disappointment obvious. Too late Loki realizes that he should have written his communication in Vanir rather than Aesir runes – unlike most, he’s familiar with both writing systems – because then someone here could read it out in Allspeak to Stark. Only dedicated scholars and the most advanced of magic users normally learn the runes of the other realms, and there are precious few of those.

But then again, what would be the point of that? They want him silent, so why should anyone care about translating any of his written communications correctly? They’d immediately understand who had written the note in Stark’s possession and probably mistranslate it into something unfavourable so that he’d get into trouble with Stark as punishment for trying to circumvent the speaking ban they have laid on him.

The man tosses the crumpled piece of paper between his hands, the look on his face still one of disappointment. “I’m sure there’s a way around this problem somehow, but I just don’t see it right now.”

And Stark is right; there is a way around this, but Loki knows it’s never going to happen, so he makes no acknowledgement of Stark’s assertion.

------------

Stark has left again for his third meeting today, and Loki surmises from the man’s demeanour and a few muttered comments that he and his Vanir counterparts are reaching the final negotiating phases. Whatever deal it is they’re making, they’re now down to ironing out the details.

But he’s not as interested in those details as he is in getting something to eat. It’s been two days since his last meal, and he’s gone from merely hungry to positively ravenous. But he still doesn’t dare to sneak out during meal times – what if Stark comes back from an important negotiation and urgently needs Loki to do something for him? He can’t imagine what that could possibly be, but he doesn’t want to risk Stark’s wrath after all that has transpired.

Besides, if Loki’s hunch is right, Stark’s stay here is coming to an end and he will soon be back in Midgard. And that means that Loki will be back to his normal tasks, and to eating normally again. A couple of more days without food won’t kill him. Especially not when his duties here are so light in comparison to his usual working schedule, requiring little in the way of physical exertion.

No wonder Stark doesn’t think it’s necessary to feed him.

Still, his thoughts stubbornly keep returning to the lavish feast two nights ago and all the food he carried up the stairs, of which he got to eat nothing but could still smell perfectly fine. All those fine meats and tender vegetables and creamy sauces and sweet pastries and…

Stop it, he tells his brain, but it doesn’t care one bit about his impotent orders, instead taunting him with the most delicious images it can conjure.

He’s grateful when Stark returns. At least the man’s presence will serve to break the monotony somewhat, giving his obsessive mind something else to think about than the complaints of his shrivelled stomach.

Then his heart sinks miserably as Stark enters the main room.

No. It’s not fair.

The man is carrying a wooden basket and from the lovely smells surrounding it it’s clear that Stark has taken a detour to the kitchens to pick up some freshly prepared dinner.

And he obviously plans to eat it right here in Loki’s very presence.

Why couldn’t he just have had dinner with his Vanir friends like all other nights? Why, why, why?

To make matters worse, Stark hands Loki the basket, obviously expecting him to go ahead and set the table for him. Which is stupid, because guest rooms aren’t made for eating in, dining halls are, there are no plates or cutlery here. He can’t prepare a proper dinner table in here for Stark, and the food smells so wonderful and…

“It’s for you,” Stark says. “I thought you might want to eat something.”

What?

There must be a mistake. Slaves don’t get to eat food like this. This is good food, not thin porridge or stale bread or tasteless gruel.

“Not hungry?” Stark inquiries at Loki’s frozen passivity in face of the meal handed to him. Instinctively, Loki takes a step back, clutching the basket possessively to his chest. Totally improper behaviour for a slave, thinking he’s entitled to claiming something for himself, but he can’t help it.

“Well, you’re free to have it.” Stark says with a shrug. “I’ve already eaten.”

It’s unbelievable. And better than anything he’s had since coming here, much better. A creamy stew with meet and mushrooms and carrots. And bread still hot from the oven, softer and whiter than a summer cloud. He just can’t believe that this feast is his.

As he eats, each morsel melting on his tongue like butter, he wonders if Stark’s magnanimity is because he has everything in his hand, now, the deal about to close. But as he surreptitiously watches the man fiddling with one of those gadgets that are his constant companions, a deep crease on his forehead that wasn’t there before, Loki realizes that no, that can’t be it. Stark seems uncharacteristically subdued, cowed even. Something must be wrong.

Maybe the negotiations aren’t going so well and there has been an unexpected setback. Perhaps the Vanir aren’t keen on sharing as many of their secrets as Stark had been hoping for.

Well, whatever it is, it is of little consequence to him. He picks up the last piece of bread and uses it to wipe the inside of the pot clean, making sure to get to every last little bit of stew.

He remains sitting on the floor for a few heartbeats after the food is gone, partly to savour the remaining taste and partly because he’s not overly fond of what comes next, but he knows full well what’s expected of a slave having had something like this bestowed upon him.

So he gets up and heads over to where Stark is sitting. The man looks up as Loki kneels down before him.

“What do--“

He reaches out to grab Stark’s hand and then presses the knuckles against his lips. There. That should convince the man that he knows how to behave; he knows their relative places.

For some reason, and contrary to expectations, this course of action does not seem to please Stark, though.

“Loki, don’t… do that, okay?” Stark appears oddly flustered as he pulls his hand back, looking at the empty space next to Loki’s head rather than directly at him.

He’s confused at Stark’s reaction, but surmises that it really doesn’t matter. He’s just had the best meal in ages, and that’s all that matters for now.

Chapter Text

The next morning, he’s ordered by Stark to come along as he leaves for today’s business. Apparently, the man needs someone to carry some things for him.

“Bring that, that, and those,” he points at the rolled-up blueprints and the projecting gadget.

And then they’re off, Loki loaded with Stark’s cumbersome items. He hasn’t been outside the guest chambers since he was brought there on Stark’s wishes, and it feels nice to be outside. He was starting to feel rather constricted in there.

After a few turns and twists along meandering corridors and long hallways, Stark having already learnt his way around the castle, Loki realizes where they’re heading. The court hall, where important deals are finalized to give them the official royal stamp of approval.

So he was right in yesterday’s hunch that the deal was about to close, then.

The hall is already full when they enter. Important people dressed in the formal garments of court officials and learned scholars are mingling or standing together in clustered groups, talking among themselves. From the walls hang giant banners with the crest of Vanaheim and the standard of the ruling king to remind the parties that the deals agreed to here have the endorsement of the Crown and will also be enforced by it, if necessary.

On the table in the middle of the room are several books bound by thick leather covers. Even from a distance Loki can see that they are old, the edges of the paper yellowed with age, but they have clearly been well cared for, precious as they are. He recognizes them well. Magic books.

He has to clench his hands tightly to keep them from twitching, lest someone decides to interpret it as an obscure form of rebellion. What wouldn’t he once have given to be allowed to leaf through even one such book at his leisure?

Of course, they’d be useless to him now, the arcane secrets held between those leather covers of no practical consequence to him in his current magic-less state. Reading them would only be a painful experience, having all that knowledge at his fingertips and yet being impotent to make use of it.

Still, he can’t help but feel a twinge of bitter jealousy at Stark who will soon have these tomes in his possession. And he will be able to make use of their contents too, even if not in the same ways that Loki would once have been able to. Of course, the ancient texts will be written in Vanir runes which Stark can’t read, the Allspeak only rendering spoken words intelligible, but Loki has no doubt that the man will be able to make that disembodied voice in his service translate them into his Midgardian tongue.

The head negotiator, recognizable by his gold-lined white robes and red stole, its long gryphon-embroidered ends hanging down his chest, hurries over to greet Stark profusely.

“Lord Stark, I wish you welcome! May prosperity and success follow you and your kin.” He follows the formal greeting with a sweeping bow which Stark returns. It looks smooth and practiced. Loki can’t help but wonder if Thor has helped him to perfect that in preparations of his visit; he knows that Midgardians don’t bow to each other in greeting, regardless of any differences in status.

“Head negotiator Brynhjalf. I’m honoured to be here in these halls.”

Yes, someone has definitely been giving Stark instructions.

“No, we are honoured to be graced with your presence among us.” Brynhjalf, his beard as white as his robes and half as long, gestures towards the table where Loki has discreetly placed Stark’s things before retreating to kneel along the wall, well out of the way of the proceedings. “Despite the long history of this court hall and the many agreements settled upon here, only rarely have we seen such marvellous items on display as you have brought.”

Yes, the deal is, for all intents and purposes, already done, if the head negotiator is tipping his hand like that. What is to take place here is merely the formalities, to give the official approval of the Crown and lend the deal the royal glory and lustre that it deserves.

“Well, to be honest, your books are pretty darn impressive too. For all the rain forests we Midgardians have turned into paper pulp, nothing like that ever came out of any of our printing presses.”

Stark is slipping back to his usual informal speech, but Brynhjalf doesn’t really notice. The official seems a bit flustered, which is understandable. As the head negotiator, he has a highly trusted position with the authority to make binding deals on behalf of the Crown and will be the one held personally responsible for the outcome of a trade of this magnitude of importance. If all goes well, he can expect his standing in the court to increase significantly. If not, he might well find someone else bearing the title of head negotiator tomorrow.

“I am glad our offerings are pleasing to you, My Lord.” The benevolent smile following that statement makes Brynhjalf’s already wrinkled face resemble a shrivelled prune.

“But now,” the man exclaims, voice raised as he addresses the entire auditorium, “let us proceed to finalize our dealings, to the satisfaction and benefit of both involved parties.”

The scattered conversations die down as everyone turns their attention the Brynhjalf, the leader of the ceremony.

“Lord Stark has come bearing great treasures from Midgard.” He indicates the papers and the projector, none of which looks like they would fit Brynhjalf’s description with their mundane, undecorated exteriors. “The designs of powerful defensive weapons, modified to fit the specific conditions of our realm, the likes of which have never before been seen on Vanaheim.” He makes a pause for dramatic effect. “Behold!”

And Stark turns on the gadget in his hand, its display suddenly projecting a life-size image of one of his suits, rotating slowly in the air.

There are shocked gasps from several people. Some must have seen this display in previous sessions, though; they are the ones who stand around smiling smugly, no doubt enjoying their comrades’ stunned disbelief while remembering their own initial reactions.

Stark discreetly swipes at the screen, and the suit swiftly goes into fighting mode, hidden weapons springing forth from beneath the armour plates. It moves as stealthily as any trained warrior, rolling, jumping, and twisting in all dimensions as it fights invisible enemies. Brynhjalf accompanies the display with a detailed enumeration of all the suit can do, all its impressive powers and capabilities. Loki only listens half-heartedly; it’s not on this side of the bargain his interests lie. When the show is over, the suit goes still and the floating image changes into a detailed blueprint, showcasing the inner and outer workings of the suit.

“Lord Stark has the original blueprints here,” – he gestures as Stark rolls out one of his paper blueprints – “and his image projector furthermore contains the recent modifications done according to our asked-for specifications. He will let us keep the projector, but since its powers are limited in time, he advises that the royal surveyors copy the design down onto paper.”

Of course, the projector runs on electricity, a Midgardian invention that fulfils many of the functions that magic does in the other realms. Loki knows that electricity can be stored in a device like that, apart from its source, but not indefinitely so.

“You have now seen for yourself what Lord Stark has to offer, and why Vanaheim is willing to part with some of its most highly prized knowledge in turn, knowledge that is very rarely given to outsiders.”

Now they’re getting to the interesting part of the deal, and Loki’s attention is snapping back from where it’s been straying.

Brynhjalf picks up the topmost book from the pile, the bound leather creaking slightly at his touch. “In exchange for these designs, Vanaheim offers some of its most treasured writings on magic and the cosmic forces. The books you see here have all been written by Vanaheim’s most brilliant and educated minds, of magic users famous across the realms, both for their powers and for their wisdom.”

Scribes have no doubt already copied down the texts contained within those ancient tomes so it’s not like Vanaheim will be literally parting with any of its knowledge, but the fact that they’re willing to share it at all speaks volumes of how highly they prize Stark’s technology. Vanaheim, like all realms, jealously guards its magic secrets from outsiders; Loki has bitter and frustrating experiences of that from his own magic-using days.

And then the head negotiator starts to list the titles of the books on offer. It’s quite an impressive one, and Loki listens with a little stab in his innards for each title read out. The Principles of Elemental Magic by Garm the Wise. All five volumes on spell-casting written by Embla of Ravnaby. Then comes Matter and Chaos. A Treaty On the Space Between the Realms. Magic of the Ancients.

Loki is familiar with several of the titles, but has only read excerpts from a few. Each book is held up and presented, its pages briefly leafed through as if to prove that the books are real and not props with empty pages.

Several of the officials in the audience make impressed little gasps at some of the titles, though Loki doubts that they have heard of them before; they’re merely putting on a show to make themselves look learned and knowledgeable in front of their peers. As if they have a clue about the worth of the items or rarity of their contents.

He wonders how aware Stark truly is of the value of what he’s getting. Any sorcerer in Asgard would have killed to get his hands on such books. Of course, Midgard is not Asgard and Stark is not a sorcerer, but still.

He watches as the last book is put down on the table, its contents having received their share of praise. Brynhjalf nods slightly, as if to acknowledge to himself that all that should be said has been said, before turning to Stark.

“As I understand it, you do not require any assistance from our scholars with the interpretation of the Vanir runes?”

“I appreciate the offer, but that won’t be necessary. I have a… translator working for me back home who will be able to help out with that.”

Like Loki thought; the voice in Stark’s ceiling will take care of what the Allspeak cannot.

“Very well. Then, on behalf of King Sturli, rightful and benevolent ruler of Vanaheim, I, Brynhjalf, son of Arnvall, head negotiator at the Royal Court, accept the terms as laid out in these sacred halls today.” He pauses briefly, gaze gliding over the assembly as if to ascertain that they have all heard and understood. There are no written contracts, no signatures to be put anywhere; such mundane things are for transactions agreed upon by common merchants and the like. The gravity and significance that these halls lend an agreement is enough to make it inviolable. It is the same in Asgard – whereas business deals supported by written contracts signed by both parties are frequently and squabblingly brought to the court arbitrators for settlement, verbal agreements made in the court hall are never contested.

“Lord Stark, do you accept the terms as laid out in these sacred halls today?”

And with Stark’s affirmative response to that, the deal will be binding.

All eyes turning to Stark, the man draws himself up to his full height – which, admittedly, is not all that impressive, but still with the poise of someone who is used to being at the centre of attention.

“Well, actually, there is one more thing that I want.”

And with that, the hall goes deathly silent in an instant. Brynhjalf’s mouth hangs slightly open and several people twitch uncomfortably, casting nervous sideway glances among themselves at this unexpected turn of events, worrying that the coveted trade is about to slip from their fingers.

And they’re right to be worried, of course. If something is brought up this late when the deal is all but closed, it’s bound to be something valuable that’s being asked for. Something that the party in question could not have asked for earlier in the negotiation without being immediately denied. Perhaps something more than what even the head negotiator has the authority to offer.

But of course, Stark is shrewd, a businessman to the core. He knows full well that he is less likely to be denied at this point.

Brynhjalf fiddles nervously with the frays of his stole for a few seconds, adjusting its already symmetric ends, but then quickly collects himself.

“Well, then, what more is it that you desire?”

Stark turns to point, and Loki blinks in confusion as he realizes that the finger is suddenly pointing in his direction.

“I want him as well.”

Chapter Text

The room remains in silence as Stark’s words are sinking in.

Then there is a broad smile from Brynhjalf, full of beaming benevolence and relief. What Stark is demanding is of negligible value and consequence. As head negotiator, the man is fully authorized to bequeath such insignificant property of the Crown’s in a trade bargain. Stark might as well have asked for one of the decorative but ubiquitous crystal flower pots standing in the corner.

The recently so tense atmosphere is immediately lightened, like the gathering of black thunder clouds giving way to a clear blue summer sky. The deal is saved and Vanaheim will have their coveted weapons.

“But of course, Lord Stark. The slave is yours, should you wish for him. We will include him in our deal as well.” Brynhjalf inclines his head in acknowledgement of this change of conditions. “Will you then accept the terms as previously laid out, with this addition?”

“I accept.”

And with that, the deal is closed. The blueprints and projector now belong to the Vanir, and the books – and Loki – to Stark.

And Loki’s heart is beating wildly where he’s kneeling in his corner. He did not see this coming at all. Why has Stark asked for him? Does he believe that Loki in his magic-less state will somehow still be able to assist him in making use of the knowledge contained in those books? Or is it simply Stark’s vengeful side that has made this decision, loath to forgo the continued opportunity to have his old enemy serving meekly at his feet?

Loki’s mouth is suddenly very dry.

The formalities are now over and done with, Brynhjalf having spoken some final words of good wishes for the fortune and their continued amiable relations and friendship. People still mill around, though, as they often do on occasions like this, conversing lightly with each other or waiting for the opportunity to exchange a few words and further well-wishes with Stark.

A fat middle-aged man, almost as wide is he is tall, comes waddling over to Stark, the sword at his side – which he probably has no clue how to use – bumping rhythmically against his thigh as he walks.

“Ah, Lord Stark, let me congratulate you on a bargain well made. Vanaheim will be treasuring your ingenious defence inventions for generations to come.” His manifold chins wobble excitedly.

“Thanks. Glad to be of service and all.” Stark is patient and polite with each well-wisher, the experienced professionalism born from frequenting these kinds of settings shining brightly, even though he’s no doubt aching to return to his chambers to start leafing through his books. Not that he will be able to read them without his disembodied servant to help him, but still.

“And let me also say, I think Loki being handed over to you is very fair. He might still not have paid his debts to Vanaheim, but the debt he owes your realm is even greater.”

“Yup, I totally agree he should be doing the rest of that paying in Midgard.”

Loki isn’t so sure exactly how Stark is planning for him to do that paying, but he supposes he will find out soon enough.

Next comes Lord Veidar, and Loki feels a surge of anger that he quickly stifles, still remembering their last misfortunate encounter when the man soaked him with the contents of Loki’s cleaning bucket.

“My best well-wishes, Lord Stark.” He bows curtly. “May both your books and your… other acquisition serve you well.”

Stark offers him a toothy grin. “Well, I’m sure the books will, at least.”

“I hope you don’t take offence to a small recommendation, made with the best of intentions.” Lord Veidar glances towards Loki, a disdainful grimace marring his already unpleasant face. “I fully understand why you asked for that particular slave, of course, but let me warn you that he is disobedient as well as disrespectful. He should be kept on a tight leash and disciplined frequently.”

Stark’s grin grows toothier. “Thanks for the friendly warning, but I don’t think I’ll have too much of a problem keeping him in line.”

Loki’s hands twist where they’re lying in his lap. No, Stark won’t have any problem with that. He’ll be good. He won’t dare to be anything else.

Other well-wishers file by. Thankfully they all address Stark only; no one offers him any insults or mockery, like many would have in the past. Because now he belongs to Stark.

Except that it’s not Stark for him anymore. It’s Master Stark. 

The thought is disconcerting, that he actually has a master now. There are of course plenty of privately owned slaves in Vanaheim, but here in the castle all the slaves belong to the Crown and are part of the general staff, working where they are needed. While any free person, including the servants, may give a slave an order and expect it to be obeyed, he has never been expected to cater to the personal wishes and desires of a specific individual. Never had a master.

He wonders how different that will be from his previous life. From now on, there will be no overseer to hover above him with no other task than to make sure that the slaves under his command are kept in line. There will only be one person he has to please, whose orders he will have to follow.

Of course, that servant voice will still be able to watch his every doing and report any misdemeanour of his to their master. But he resolves that there will not be any misdemeanours for it to report. He can’t afford that.

Then there is a hand on his shoulder, giving him a shake. Startled, he looks up.

“I said, get up. We’re done here,” Stark says and then points towards the table. “And you get the honour of carrying my books back to my room.”

-------------

There are so many things he would have liked to ask Stark now that they’re back in the guest chambers, the man studying the books with rapt attention. Not that he’s likely to understand anything, but perhaps he can still on some level sense the power imbued in those runes, despite his lack of magic.

But he has no words to form for Stark, neither in speech nor in writing. He resolves that once he gets to Midgard, he will relearn their alphabet. If Stark allows him to, of course. He might not look favourably on the idea of his slave wasting time on any learning endeavours when there is real work to be done.

And in a dwelling as big as Stark’s, there is bound to be plenty of work to do. Especially if the only source of labour in his continual employment consists of a couple of inefficient mechanical servants.

The thought of his immediate future is making him nervous. He wonders if slaves are handled any differently in Midgard. If expectations are different.

He would have liked to have asked Stark. If he had had the words.

If he had dared.

---------------

They leave the next day. Stark is anxious to return to Midgard and whatever business he left behind there.

Loki is anxious too, but for other reasons.

Servants are handling Stark’s luggage, leaving Loki feeling superfluous and not quite sure what to do with himself. He has no possessions to take with him. No one to say good-bye to. If he had been allowed to, that is, which there would have been no reason to. Slaves don’t postpone their masters’ business with their own insignificant private dealings.

He imagines that he can feel the magic thrumming through the sturdy brown paper that’s been wrapped around the books for their protection during the journey. That the runes call out to him like they would have before… well, before.

There is nothing he will miss here, he thinks as they pass through the massive gates of the castle entrance, a whole Vanir honour escort surrounding them, Loki trailing two steps behind Stark. Still, it’s a strange feeling to know that in a few moments, he will have left this realm for good.

And while he has no regrets about leaving anything or anyone in this place behind, it doesn’t mean that what is awaiting will be an improvement. He is still uncertain about Stark’s plans for him, and why he decided to claim Loki in the first place.

They reach the teleportation platform, situated some distance away from the castle in case the spells encapsulating the extremely concentrated magic needed for travel between the realms should let some straying tendrils loose when the platform is activated. Such accidents are rare but have been known to happen. This time, he can feel the immense power of the spells woven around them, and he knows that Stark feels it too, the way his head keeps turning and his eyes darting around to locate the source of what must be an eerie sensation for one unaccustomed to it.

Then there is a drawn-out pseudo-ceremony of goodbyes and mutual assurances of the possibilities of further trading in the future. And a few words of warning concerning the power of the arcane spells in the books.

As they step into the centre of the platform and the air around them starts to flicker with a shimmering of vibrant hues, Loki can only think of one thing. One thing that no one else seems to have thought of. Or perhaps not cared about.

While the runes blocking his magic have been drawn from the deepest roots of Yggdrasil and will of course hold in any realm, the magic blocking his speech has been drawn only from the branch on which Vanaheim is situated on the World Tree.

Once they’re in Midgard, far away from the source of that magic, Loki will be able to speak again.

Chapter Text

There’s the familiar surge and pull of teleportation magic. He’s always associated this feeling with freedom, with coming and going as he likes. But this time, he will only be going from one form of servitude to another.

The colours spin faster, creating a dizzying kaleidoscope, then for a flickering second there is nothing but darkness, and then they’re standing inside of what is clearly a Midgardian dwelling.

He blinks, looking around to get his bearings. It takes him only the briefest of moments to identify his immediate surroundings as Stark’s living room; even if it has been remodelled since his last visit, the floor plan is still recognizable. There’s a sense of unease in his stomach at this; he really would have preferred a room not quite such a vivid reminder to them both of what once transpired here in Stark’s own home.

But he has a more pressing concern to deal with now. Just like he anticipated, the muteness spell has been lifted from him; he can feel its now conspicuous absence like a long-time pressure suddenly taken off his chest. And more importantly, he should immediately inform Stark about this changed state of things. It’s his duty to tell Stark and it’s Stark’s right to know.

Still, he hesitates as he stands irresolutely in the middle of the living room, his toes digging into the soft carpet beneath his feet, watching as Stark unpacks some of the luggage. He can think of a hundred ways that this could be used against him once Stark finds out, as another tool of humiliation.

But he won’t be able to hide this forever. Eventually he will slip and give himself away, and Stark will then know that Loki has deceived him. What happens then is not something he cares to consider in detail.

No, he can’t start his servitude here with lying to his new master.

He takes a deep breath. “Master?” he says, not quite recognizing the sound of the voice breaking the silence. It’s hoarse from disuse, but also uncharacteristically hesitant and tentative compared to how he remembers it. “Do you wish me to help you with your luggage?”

Stark goes still as a statue. Then his head snaps up from where he’s digging around in one of the open suitcases, pieces of clothing randomly scattered about him, and he stares at Loki like he’s just grown another head.

“What the fuck?” he exclaims, standing up, eyes not wavering from their intense focus on Loki. “I don’t know if I just dreamed things up, but weren’t you mute just a minute ago?”

“I… I…” he begins, fumbling for the words he’s not used to speaking anymore.

Stark takes a step in his direction, eyes narrowing. “Don’t tell me you fucking stood there right in front of me pretending that you couldn’t speak!” He sounds angry. Loki can’t blame him.

“No!” he quickly counters. “I did not pretend! The Vanir did put a spell on me that prevented me from speaking.” The words come more easily now that he needs to deflect Stark’s budding anger. “But it has no power here, so far away from Vanaheim.”

Stark seems to consider this and from the rapidly changing expression on his face Loki can tell what thought has just materialized in his head. Before Stark can speak his concerns out loud, Loki quickly addresses them.

“The spell blocking my magic is much stronger, though. I still have no access whatsoever to it, even here in Midgard.”

“Hmm.” Brown eyes boring into him, no doubt searching for signs that he’s lying, that he’s not telling the whole truth. “Is that so.”

It’s not quite a question, but Loki nods anyway, desperate for Stark to believe him. If Stark thinks he’s still dangerous, that he can still call forth even the tiniest shred of his seidr…

“Hmm,” the man repeats, his lack of trust in Loki’s capacity for truth-telling obvious. Again, Loki can’t blame him.

Stark walks up to him, stopping at a distance that is just on the wrong side of uncomfortable. “Alright, since we’ve already breached the subject here, we might as well have a little talk about the merits of telling the truth versus lying.” A brief pause, then Stark’s finger comes up to jab at his chest. “Whenever I ask you something, I expect you to tell me the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.” The finger jabs again. “And that includes withholding any information that you think there’s even the slightest chance I might want to know. I’m serious. Do not lie to me, Loki. Ever. Do I make myself clear?”

He would have swallowed if his mouth hadn’t been so dry. Despite the absence of any explicit threats of consequences, he’s fully able to imagine them. “Yes, Master,” he says, voice barely above a whisper.

“Good.” Stark takes a step back, giving Loki a cursory once-over and from the slight wrinkle of his nose, he can tell that the man does not find the sight before him pleasing.

“Then we can take care of the next order of business. Wait here.”

And Loki waits as Stark leaves the living room to… wherever the doorless exit at the end of the room leads. He’s not quite afraid, but apprehensive nevertheless. Perhaps Stark is fetching a pair of shears to cut Loki’s hair, if Midgard is like Asgard and not like Vanaheim in their opinions on slaves and hair. His heart sinks a little at that prospect. His hair was really the only thing they left him back on Vanaheim and he would be loath to see it go now.

Then Stark returns, carrying a wrapped-up bundle of indeterminate content.

“I found some of my old clothes. They might not be a perfect fit, and the pants are probably kind of short, but at least they’ll be better than those rags you’re wearing. They make you look like a… ” Stark fumbles around for the appropriate word to end the sentence.

A slave.

“A vagrant,” he decides. With that, he hands the bundle over to Loki, who hesitantly accepts it.

“Get changed.”

Understanding slowly dawns on Loki as he turns Stark’s words over in his head. The bundle in his hands are Stark’s old clothes.

He can’t wear that. Slaves don’t wear the clothes of free men, no matter how old and worn. It’s not allowed.

So this must be another test, then. To gauge how Loki will react to the suggestion of something so presumptuous, to see if he knows his place here or not.

Stark will not be an easy master to please, he can tell that already.

The man returns to his previous activities, which consist of hunching down in front of his suitcase and rummaging around in its contents. Loki remains welded to his spot on the floor, trying to think of how to express himself in a way that will let Stark know that he’s aware of what is appropriate for his station while not making it sound like he’s disobeying an order, even if that order has only been issued as a test.

Then Stark stops, his eyes going up to glare at Loki over the edge of the open lid.

“Got a problem?”

He hesitates. “I… I can’t wear these clothes.”

“What do you mean you can’t wear them?” Stark is clearly annoyed now, but he’s not moving from his position in front of the suitcase.

“I… it wouldn’t be appropriate for me to wear your clothes. Not with my… standing,” he says, hoping he has passed the test.

Stark sighs loudly. This time, he does get up and walk around the suitcase to stand in front of Loki. 

“Alright, I think it’s time for another little talk. I get a hunch that there’s going to be a few of those in the near future.” He makes a short pause before continuing. “Now, Loki, where are you? In what realm?”

“Midgard?” he says hesitantly. The answer to the question is obvious and he’s not quite sure what Stark is trying to get at.

“Yeah, Midgard. Except here in Midgard, we call it Earth. Might want to remember that.”

Earth. Of course he’s aware of the native term, but didn’t really recall its existence until now that Stark has reminded him. He files away a reminder in his head to use it in the future.

“And to who were you handed over as part of yesterday’s deal?”

“To you,” he answers, anxious. Stark is trying to make a point, but he doesn’t see it yet.

“Correct again.” Another pause. “And that means that you will be following whose orders from now on?”

“Yours, Master,” he says. The answers are obvious, the questions are not.

“Exactly. And that means that when I tell you to get changed, you get changed. Unless you have a damn good reason not to, and I don’t see one here.”

He bows his head, throat constricting. It’s clear that’s he’s failed this test, if that’s what it was.

But he has his orders, so he obeys, trying to be quick about it. The shirt fits him well enough, even if the pants are a bit on the short side, just as Stark predicted. The fabric is strangely soft against his skin after his having grown used to the abrasive cloth that his previous garments had been made out of.

He’s still not comfortable with the idea of wearing Stark’s old clothes, but customs are clearly different here on Midgard. Perhaps there’s simply a pragmatic, money-saving reason behind this particular practice – rather than having to buy or have specific clothes made for their slaves, their Midgardian masters instead give them their own discarded clothing to wear.

Ill at ease, he wonders what else is different here in regards to slaves and what is expected of them, and how many of these differences he will discover once it’s already too late.

He jumps slightly when Stark closes the suitcase, the lid falling down with a sharp smack.

“Come to think of it, we might as well have another one of these little talks. Just to iron some things out.” With that, he heads over to the black leather couch dominating the farthest end of the living room and sits down on it, legs spread. “Get over here.”

Loki obeys. He kneels down in front of Stark, glad that so much of the floor is covered by soft carpet. It will make his life here marginally more comfortable.

Stark watches him in silence for a long time. Loki can feel the man’s gaze on him, even though he’s looking at the floor.

“You know why I asked for you back there?”

Loki shakes his head. It’s still hard to keep in mind that he actually has a voice now.

“Care to make a guess?”

“You… wish me to help you with the books you brought back?” Of course, that is bound to be mere wishful thinking on his part. Stark doesn’t need his help. Most likely he won’t even let Loki near those books.

“Wrong. Guess again.”

He doesn’t like speaking his next guess in line out loud, that Stark simply found the idea appealing of having Loki serve him in this lowly position, in case it makes Stark sound petty. So he goes for a blander, more neutral version.

“You… needed someone to serve you?”

Stark moves slightly in his seat, the leather creaking beneath him. “No. I took you because I felt fucking sorry for you. How about that, huh?”

With that he leans forward to look Loki in the eye, gaze hardening. “And I suggest you don’t do anything that will make me change my mind about that.”

Chapter Text

They left Vanaheim in the evening, and it’s even later in the evening here in Midgard, the circadian rhythms of the two realms fairly close but not entirely in synch. Loki wonders where Stark will have him sleep. He eyes the plush carpet of the living room, hoping he will be allowed on it during the night. Stark did let him sleep on the carpet in the guest chambers back in Vanaheim, but of course that wasn’t his carpet. Maybe he’ll feel differently about it here in his own penthouse.

As if hearing his thoughts, Stark closes his book with a dull thud. Magic of the Ancients. He has set his disembodied servant – Jarvis, he called him – on the task of analyzing the texts, so they’re still not of any use to the man, but he’s nevertheless unable to keep his hands off them.

“I think it’s about bedtime for you. You look like you’re about to keel over.”

Loki makes no reply to that, but while he’s happy to be allowed some sleep – his body as well as his mind feels utterly exhausted, despite the fact that he has not performed any labour worth the name for several days – he’s not happy about Stark’s comment. He doesn’t want his new master to think that he is weak and easily fatigued.

“Come on. I’ll show you where you’ll be sleeping.”

So he won’t be sleeping in the living room then. As he gets up to follow Stark, he can’t help but give the lush carpet one last longing look. The man leads him down one corridor and then another, and then they’re standing in front of a door that Stark pushes open.

“This is your room. Now try not to get into any trouble and I’ll see you in the morning, alright?”

With that, Stark is gone. Tentatively, Loki takes a step inside, feeling along the nearest wall for the switch that should be around somewhere. His fingers find a protruding square and he presses it.

The room lights up at his touch, flooding the space with light. The first thing he sees is a bed lining one of the walls. His breath hitches a little but then he frowns. He had not expected that and wonders if it’s alright for him to use it. Stark had said that this was his room, which of course only means that this is where he’ll be sleeping and spending his time if Stark wants him out of the way, but still. It should mean that he’s allowed to utilize what’s in here, right?

Besides, he’s not a slave belonging to a faceless castle staff anymore, two interchangeable and replaceable hands among many, no, he’s private property now. And masters often treat slaves serving in their homes better than the overseers treat the slaves working the premises of their employers. Unlike the overseers, the masters have paid good money for the slaves under their command. Well, not that Stark has paid anything for him – he just came along with the rest of the deal – but the point is still the same. It’s not unheard of that slaves in private households are allowed to sleep in a cot or even in a bed, even if it’s not the usual arrangement.

And perhaps Stark considers it a potentially useful tool to ensure Loki’s good behaviour, to give him privileges that can of course be revoked anytime if he doesn’t behave according to expectations. 

He eyes the bed longingly, then decides to risk it. Come what may tomorrow, at least he will have had the glorious luxury of sleeping in a real bed for one night.

------------

He wakes up in the morning feeling fairly well-rested. A thoughtless, irresponsible part of him wants to remain in the wonderful bed beneath the covers and just savour the amazing feeling of getting to luxuriate in all this warmth and softness.

But he knows better than that. Even if Stark has thankfully not awoken him yet – and what a disaster that would have been, a master having to wake his own slave – he should be up and running before the man wakes up, ready to serve. Reluctantly, he pulls the cover aside and gets out of the bed, then spends a minute arranging the bedding properly. Just in case Stark should come in here today, the carefully made bed will serve as a testament to Loki’s neatness as opposed to making him look tardy.

Then he goes into the attached bathroom, grateful that Stark has seen fit to grant him the use of such luxuries. Of course, there is no courtyard and no real outside attached to Stark’s penthouse, so there’s really no other option than for him to wash inside, but still.

There’s a sink, a toilet, and a shower. He steps into the latter and turns the water on. It’s an ingenious Midgardian invention, one he’s used several times during his previous stay here, so he knows how to operate it. The warm water splashing down on him from above feels wonderful.

Having dried himself off and dressed, he walks back into the living room. Stark is not in here, which he is grateful for, since it means he will not have to explain himself as to why he thought it was a good idea to sleep longer than his master. Looking around, he wonders if he should start cleaning so he won’t look idle when Stark arrives, but he doesn’t know where the supplies for that are kept and besides he wants to wait for Stark to come around to give him his orders for the day. It might seem presumptuous of him otherwise, as if he knows better than his master what tasks need to be done.

So instead, he simply stands there staring out of the huge windows offering him a magnificent view of the city below. There are no signs left of the destruction he once brought upon it, and he’s glad for that.

Some time later, Stark enters, his arrival heralded by soft footfalls echoing in the corridor.

“Good morning, Master,” Loki says, inclining his head respectfully.

“Morning,” Stark replies. He comes to a halt in the middle of the room where he studies Loki for a few seconds. “Well, at least you don’t look worse than yesterday,” comes the final verdict.

He has no response to that.

“I’m heading out. Got some stuff to take care of after that long visit to Fairyland.”

Loki remains silent. It’s no business of his where Stark is going. But he does hope that the man will provide him with some form of instructions for the day before leaving. He can’t read Stark’s mind and trying to do so will most likely not end well at all.

“So, before I leave I just want to give you a little reminder.” He points at the big screen in the corner. “Take a look. Jarvis?”

Just like that, the screen is turned on. It shows the corridor leading to his room. After a couple of seconds of nothing but what looks like a still image, he and Stark come walking into view. Footage from yesterday evening, then. The screen freezes as they’ve made it half-across and Stark turns towards Loki.

“See that, Loki? Whatever you do here, Jarvis will be watching you. Now, I’m not going to be using him to peek on you in the shower or whatever, but if you get up to any shit in here, I will find out. And you don’t want that. Do we understand each other?”

He nods, swallowing. There will be no way of hiding any ill doings from Stark. Firmly, he resolves not to do anything that Stark might not approve of.

“So, any questions before I go?”

“What… tasks do you wish for me to perform during your absence?” Surely Stark doesn’t expect him to figure that out on his own? If so, he will be an even harder master to please than Loki previously thought.

“Tasks? Oh, right. Yeah, I’ll figure something out for you to do later, but I don’t have the time for that right now. So your task for today is one thing – behave.” He crosses his arms, as if daring Loki to challenge this wholly needless instruction. “I’m usually not here a whole lot, but if Jarvis tells you to do or not do something when I’m not around, you obey him like you would obey me. Clear?”

“Yes, Master.” So perhaps it will not be entirely unlike Vanaheim then, with an overseer hovering above him. He wonders if Jarvis is planning to lord him around a lot in Stark’s absence.

“Good. See ya later, then.”

“Goodbye, Master.”

He had been hoping for Stark so say something about breakfast, but then recalls that he’s the only slave here so the man may not have any appropriate food for him in his stocks. Someone of Stark’s wealth is bound to eat well, of course, and definitely not of the kind of food one might consider giving to a mere slave. He hopes that Stark is considering stocking up, though. Hopefully today, or Loki will have to resign himself to going without food for the entire day.

Stark has already turned his back to walk out, but then seems to reconsider.

“Oh, by the way, if you get hungry, just help yourself to the stuff in the refrigerator or cupboards or wherever.”

He feels a wave of relief washing over him. At least he’ll get to eat something today.

“And… which foods am I allowed?”

Stark shrugs. “Just take whatever. I don’t eat at home that often so there’s not going to be that much to choose from.” Loki’s face must have given his reaction away, because Stark follows up his words with an exasperated sigh and crosses his arms. “Alright, care to tell me what the problem is?”

“I’m not… supposed to eat the same food as you.”

“Says who?”

He gapes stupidly for a few seconds. It’s such an obvious notion that he’s not sure how to answer the question.  

“Look, Loki, I thought we went over this yesterday. If I tell you to do something, you do it.” Stark is getting irritated again, and Loki hunches in on himself. “I’m not going to be making any changes in the items on my grocery lists just because you’re here, so you eat what I eat. Or don’t eat, your choice.”

“I understand,” he says meekly.

But he really doesn’t. Is this another test? He’s still trying to figure it out several minutes after Stark has left. But he realizes that in the end there’s only one way to find out – eat some of the food from Stark’s stocks – Jarvis will watch him do it – and see what Stark’s reaction will be once he gets back home. At least then Loki will know where he truly stands on the issue.

-----------

He gingerly opens the door to the refrigerator, peering inside. Stark was right, there’s not a whole lot of food in here, but there’s plenty enough for him. He looks at each item – some of them are easily recognizable, apples, eggs, and the like. Others are stored in colourful little boxes with words on them no doubt describing their contents, and he tries to recall the alphabet he once learned.

He was unable to write in the Midgardian alphabet when Stark wanted him to, but reading a foreign script is always easier than writing in it. It goes slowly, but it’s gradually coming back to him as he’s turning the containers around in his hands, trying to decipher their markings. A couple he’s not able to figure out no matter how much he tries, but he finds one smallish plastic container whose contents he eventually manages to decode as something called chocolate pudding. He has no idea what chocolate is, and the Allspeak offers no translation for that word so it must be a uniquely Midgardian ingredient, but he remembers sometimes being given rice pudding to eat back in Vanaheim, a bland, tasteless concoction that stuck to his gums like glue. This might be something similar and hence appropriate for someone of his station him to eat.

Satisfied with his line of reasoning, he peels off the metallic lid. The contents staring back at him are a muddy brown instead of dirty-ish soggy white and look highly unappetizing, more like cow dung than food. He finds a spoon in a drawer and scoops up a mouthful, hoping it won’t be as disgusting as it looks.

The sugary flavours that explode on his tongue are a shock and he almost chokes on the little morsel, wholly unprepared for its sweetness. It’s the most delicious dish he’s eaten in a very long time. And so he gobbles it all up, unable to stop himself. Having scooped out the last spoonful, he sticks down his finger into the container to scrape off the remnants sticking to the insides and then licks it off.

He remains in his sugary bliss for a few seconds but then realizes with dawning horror that such a delicacy could not possibly have been meant for him, no matter what Stark had said earlier. A bolt of misery pierces him as he ponders his grave mistake. Jarvis will of course have seen him, so Stark will find out about what he has done. Or maybe he already has, if Jarvis has been quick enough to already convey this information to him.

But he will have to confess his mistake to Stark regardless, even if the man already knows. Confessing after Jarvis has informed Stark is still better than not confessing at all.

-----------

When Stark returns it’s late in the evening, and Loki is still undecided on how to best address the issue as to arouse as little of his wrath as possible. But it turns out he doesn’t need to make a decision as the man offers him an opening right away.

“Why the long face? You look like your goldfish just died.”

He takes a deep breath. “I ate your… chocolate pudding,” he manages, glad his voice comes out loud and clear enough so he won’t have to repeat this incrimination.

Stark looks up from the phone in his hands and then down again. “Yeah well, good for you. I do hope you ate something else as well, ‘cause you’re looking mighty thin to me.”

“N-no, no, I didn’t,” he stammers, confused about Stark’s non sequitur reply.

“And why is that?” Stark is no longer looking at his phone and that is not a good sign.

“I thought you… would be mad about me eating the pudding, so I didn’t want to take any more of your food.” His reply comes out sounding more like a question than a statement, as if trying to ascertain that he has Stark’s approval of his line of reasoning. Which he senses he doesn’t have at all right now, for reasons he can’t understand.

“Sheesh.” Stark has put the phone down, now, and is busy rubbing his face into his hands. Then he stalks over to the couch and throws himself down on it with a loud sigh. “I can’t believe we actually have to go over this again. Get over here.” He snaps his fingers, as if calling for a dog. “Now.”

The voice brokers absolutely no argument whatsoever and Loki obeys, kneeling down in front of Stark, tense like a drawn bowstring.

Stark leans down over him, uncomfortably close and it’s all Loki can do not to flinch. “I thought you were a smart one, but it seems I might have been wrong about that, so let’s repeat this again. What did I tell you about the food before I left?”

“That I could take some of it if I was hungry?”

“Yeah. And did I tell you there were any restrictions on what stuff you could take?”

“No, Master,” he all but whispers to the hands in his lap.

“Then what’s the problem? Do you think I’m going to give you orders and then expect you not to follow them? Are you even listening to a single fucking word I’m saying to you?” Stark’s voice is like a whip. And now that he’s putting it that way, Loki seems recalcitrant and stupid, unable to follow even the simplest of orders.

Stark is angry with him. Already on his first full day here Loki has managed to mess up, and now, Stark is mad.

He’s started to tremble, and what’s much worse, he can feels tears of helplessness and powerlessness starting to well up into his eyes. He has no idea how to act here, everything he does turns out wrong. “I’m sorry,” he manages, voice breaking pathetically.

Stark exhales, voice somehow softer, now. “Sheesh, stop it, Loki. It’s… fine. It’s just some food.” He pauses for a long moment, and then makes a crooked grimace. “Though right now I kinda feel like I’ve gotten stuck with a puppy that can’t look after itself. And there’s no Animal Rescue League to hand it over to.”

Loki looks at him in confusion, not sure what Stark is talking about. He has no idea what an Animal Rescue League is.

“Alright, tell you what we’re going to do to salvage this mess,” Stark continues, pointing at him. “You’re going to go into the kitchen, get a plate and put a decent dinner on it. Then you’re going back here to show it to me for approval. If I don’t like it, you go back and put some more stuff onto it. Clear?”

Chapter Text

“Good morning, Loki. I wish to inform you that Master Stark requests your immediate presence in the living room.”

His eyes snap open at once, Jarvis’s voice cutting through the whirling fogs of his uneasy dreams like a knife. A second later, he’s sitting bolt upright, cursing himself. Stark is already awake, and has had to call upon his servant to arouse Loki from his sleep. Unforgivable.

It takes him mere seconds to dress, then he’s out of the room and half-running down the corridor leading to the living room. Stark must be livid by now. And he might not have punished Loki for his missteps since his coming here, but this is by far the worst he’s done so far. There will definitely be punishment this time.

“Hey, Loki, what--“

He quickly throws himself down at Stark’s feet before the man can unleash any of his anger. “I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to! I wasn’t--“

“Alright, so what is it about this time?” Stark sounds harried. “What did you do? Or perhaps should I say, what do you think you did?”

So the man wants him to first confess to his crime, obvious as it is. Well, he can do that. “I overslept and wasn’t here to serve you when you woke up.” Then he holds his breath, waiting for the expected punch to the face.

“Uh-huh. And how are you supposed to know at what time I get up each morning? Did I tell you to get up at a specific time today? Or even hand you an alarm clock to start with?”

He flinches when Stark walks up to him, an arm automatically going up to shield his face from the expected blow that must be coming. But Stark stops in his tracks and doesn’t approach further. The sigh that leaves him is the deepest Loki has heard from him yet. “Alright, so I can tell there’s another one of these little talks that we need to have right there. But we’ll deal with first things first.”

A beat of silence.

“Now, I asked you this once before, but I’ll repeat the question. What realm are you currently in?

“In Mi-- on Earth.” At least he remembered to use Stark’s preferred designation, for what little good it will do him.

“Yup. And that means, whatever the deal was back in Vanaheim, forget all that shit. It’s my rules that go here.”

“I don’t understand your rules!” he suddenly hears his own voice yell. “I don’t know what you expect of me!”

Too late, he realizes that he has raised his voice against his master and his insides freeze up in fear.

But rather than Stark slapping him so hard that his head spins for his insolence, there comes a strange sound from somewhere above him. Shocked, he looks up, realizing that Stark is laughing.

“Well, I’ll be damned. Do I detect a hint of the old Loki somewhere in there?”

Loki shrinks back, horrified. The old Loki was the one who attacked Stark’s world, who brought an entire alien army down upon it. Why would Stark find the resurgence of that version of him funny, as opposed to doing his utmost to strike it down by force? Just like the Vanir had?

“Okay, as I have much better things to do than stand here harping on you, I’ll keep it short and simple – if I need you up at a specific time or to do something specific, I will have Jarvis wake you up. And then I will also expect you to get up. Otherwise I don’t really give a shit how long you sleep in the morning.”

Stark makes a longer pause after that, seeming to consider carefully what to say next.

“Now, for the next order of business,” he finally continues. “We’re going to discuss a subject called ‘punishment’”.

A shiver goes down Loki’s spine; he full well remembers what he had to endure in Vanaheim. Even if he doesn’t think it will be as bad here, Stark has yet to show his hand in that respect.

“Come along,” Stark gestures at him in a come-hither motion before heading towards the elevators, and Loki hesitantly stands up to follow.

As they’re inside, Stark presses the down-most button, the one marked with the Midgardian letter ‘B’. One of the letters Loki does recall, now.

There’s a soft whooshing sound and a sudden surge in his stomach, not wholly dissimilar from the kind teleportation causes. A little while later, the carriage stops, having reached the bottom, wherever that is.

“The basement,” Stark says, as if reading Loki’s thoughts. On cue, the doors part to reveal a dark, dank chamber. Even standing inside the elevator, Loki can feel a draft of musty staleness reaching his nose.

The man steps out and into the chamber. There are other corridors and rooms connecting to it, leading off to unknown places in the darkness. The walls are covered with a whole network of pipes, some big enough for a man to crawl through, and others no thicker than his wrist.

“This is basically where all crap from upstairs passes through before going on to the public sewers. These ones here come right from my workshop.” He walks up to one of the widest pipes and knocks on it a few times for demonstration, making the air reverberate with the clang of hollow metal. “Let’s take a look, shall we?” With that, he turns a tap to the side and then grabs a wrench lying on the floor on top of a small collection of other tools. Whistling, Stark proceeds to screw the pipe apart, working on separating one section from its connecting neighbour. They disengage from each other with a dull plopping sound, and a foul stench wafts up from the open ends.

Stark looks down one of the pipe ends, as if there was something interesting down there and not just a thick disgusting sludge of greenish brown sticking to the insides. The overpowering reek emanating from it has Loki wrinkling his nose in revulsion, not sure how Stark can remain so wholly unperturbed, as if his entire sense of smell had suddenly gone non-existent.

“Nasty, huh? Nothing dangerous, though; thanks to those Health and Environment goons I have a whole separate system where all the stuff goes that makes fish grow three heads and what have you.” He throws one last look down the filthy, dripping pipe and then turns his attention back to Loki.

“So, to get to the point, in case it’s not clear already. You mess up enough to piss me off –and believe me, I’m not that easy to piss off – I will have you down here spending the day cleaning the insides of these pipes. And, that’s as bad as it’s going to get for you.”

Loki frowns, not sure he’s understanding correctly. Sure he would hate to have to clean these disgusting pipes, but it’s not--

“Corporal punishment? I don’t do that. There will be no hitting, biting, or pinching. Well, or whipping, but I already mentioned that.” His rather flippant tone changes to something a notch sharper. “I think I have a pretty good clue of what went on back there in Fairyland, but I’m not someone who gets my jollies from beating up on other people, especially not people who are… uh, who have…” He gestures vaguely somewhere in Loki’s general direction. “Yeah, whatever. Anyway, I’m not sure how much these talks are really helping or how much is getting through to you. Sometimes I kinda wonder if I’m just talking to myself here.” He shrugs. “Perhaps things just have to grow on you for a bit.”

And with that, Stark continues with screwing the pipe back together, Loki watching him dumbly. A few moments later Stark draws himself up and wipes his hands on his pants.

“Now, we’ve got some actual work to do!”

------------

He has no idea what Stark’s idea of ‘actual work’ is, especially not when it seems to involve both of them, but he soon finds himself standing in the man’s workshop, staring at the impressive array of tools and gadgets strewn over the room in what seems to be no particular order at all. And on the nearest table lie the books from Vanaheim. He feels a little thrill at that; Stark must have already started the work with incorporating the knowledge held therein with his own scientific endeavours.

“So pouring over this it would seem that even though you don’t have your mojo anymore, I could still probably get some interesting and hopefully useful data readings out of you. That magic stuff seems to leave some kind of residue that can still be measured.” He points towards a chair. “Have a seat.”

Loki sits.

Stark walks over to him carrying a flat device with a large, golden-ish metal ring attached to its underside. He connects the cable at the end with one of the screens standing at the table next to them. The screen flickers and then starts to display several rapidly changing sets of numbers that eventually slow down and settle on specific digits.

“Just calibrating,” Stark says, eyes glued to the screen as he waits for the last numbers to come to a halt. When the screen is finally frozen and nothing further happens, he turns towards Loki, raising the device in his hand.

“This is a scanner, and it’s going to take some readings from you. Nothing dangerous at all. But I have two instructions for you during this, so listen up closely. While I get a feeling the first one is not going to be much of a problem, I’m a bit worried about the second one.” ¨

Loki waits, resolving to do his best even on what seems to be the more difficult set of instructions. He will not displease Stark again.

“Okay, first of all, you keep as still as possible while I run this. That means no nose scratching, no ear flapping, no thumb fiddling. Makes for more exact readings. Think you can manage that?”

Loki nods. For all his abject failures to comply with Stark’s wishes so far, even he should be able to manage this.

“Good. Now for the more difficult part. If this starts to hurt, I want you to tell me and I’ll turn this thing off. Got it?”

“Yes, Master.”

“Now repeat the last instruction I just gave you.”

“I’m to tell you if it hurts.”  

“Right.” He looks Loki right into the eye. “Next question. Are you actually going to tell me? Because if you’re still gonna have as much trouble following orders as you’ve had up until now, we’re not doing this.”

“No, I will tell you.” He’s not sure why this is so important, but orders are orders.

First it only tingles as Stark runs the device over him in slow-motion up and down his torso. The numbers on the screen start to rise almost immediately and then there are suddenly three meandering graphs showcasing… well, whatever it is they’re showcasing.

“Huh,” Starks mutters to himself.

After a while, it’s starting to get vaguely uncomfortable, the tingling having changed into prickling. But it’s still not so bad.

“Well, look at that,” comes Stark’s assessment of whatever it is he’s seeing on that screen.

Then it’s starting to burn a little, but nothing too unpleasant. Yet.

“I’ll be damned,” Stark comments, his eyebrows going upwards.

Then comes the first lance of actual pain, a sharp stab that takes him by surprise.

“Holy shit,” Stark exclaims, leaning forwards, his eyes now glued at the screen.

And Loki realizes the conundrum he’s suddenly stuck in. When whatever readings Stark is getting from him are apparently so enthralling, Loki shouldn’t disturb the proceedings with his admittance of pain. But on the other hand, Stark had issued him instructions, and for once he thinks he knows what the right course of action is here.

Another lance of pain, more intense this time, pierces his body.

“Master? It… hurts a little bit. Nothing much, just some--”

And with that, Stark simply turns the machine off, those clearly so fascinating readings flickering once and then dying right in front of him.

Chapter Text

The warm water from the shower is like liquid crystal against his skin. He doesn’t think he will ever grow tired of this. Nor of the rich lather from the Midgardian washing product that makes his hair smell like artificial fruit but feels wonderful as it covers his hands with fluffy softness. Nothing like the pathetic sliver of coarse, slimy soap and cold water from a barrel he had to make do with in Vanaheim.

Still, he doesn’t dare to stay in the shower for too long in case his presence in here is timed by Jarvis and then reported to his master. It won’t do to indulge, or Stark might think that Loki is getting above himself and his position.

Once he’s dry and dressed he heads out into the kitchen, already marvelling at the breakfast that will be awaiting. Stark is nowhere to be seen but his dirty dishes are in the sink, so probably he has already left for business outside the building. He’s unable to stop the twirl of unease in his stomach that this sight automatically produces since it means that his master was up and around making his own breakfast while Loki was still sleeping lazily as if he had no duties whatsoever to take care of.

But Stark did tell him that it was alright, so…

The concept will definitely take time to get used to.

To soothe that twirling unease, he immediately sets to work doing Stark’s dirty dishes before preparing his own breakfast. Jarvis has instructed him on the usage of the dishwasher, but he’d rather do this by hand. It feels more like real work, more like he’s actually doing something useful as opposed to merely delegating the task to a machine.

Having conscientiously dried everything off and put it back on the shelves and in the cupboards, he heads towards the refrigerator, his mouth already starting to salivate at the thought of the contents inside. Contents that he’s free to actually eat, as opposed to merely deliver or serve or prepare for others.

He picks out a couple of eggs from their paperish container and then stands there watching them as they boil on the stove. His old self would have laughed at the mere suggestion of there being any pleasure to be had in watching eggs boil, but knowing that he will get to eat them after so long of subsisting on the most unappealing and tasteless of fares makes all the difference.

When the eggs are finished, he takes two slices of bread from the freezer and defrosts them in the microwave oven, a genius Midgardian invention without any equivalent in either Asgard or Vanaheim. He even goes as far as smearing a layer of butter on them, in his head repeating Stark’s words that he could eat anything in here, despite the inherent discrepancy of a slave eating buttered bread.

Having put his luxurious meal on a plate and filled a glass of water, he sits down on the floor with his back against the pantry door to enjoy his little feast. The eggs are creamy as he bites into them, and the slices of bread sweet and soft, nothing like the hard bricks that passed for bread back in Vanaheim. He savours every bite, pushing back the instinct that tells him to wolf it all down before someone comes to take it away from him.

When the plate is empty, he leans back for a few moments to revel in the feeling of satedness, of merely sitting here with a full stomach without futilely wishing that there was more food to be had. He never much used to think about it before, always assuming he would soon be able to eat whenever he was hungry, but after all that time in Vanaheim, this is now nothing short of a luxury.

But he can’t sit here lounging around uselessly for the rest of the day. Stark told him yesterday to tidy up around the house while he was away, so that is what Loki will spend the day doing until the man returns with perhaps some new set of orders for him. So he cleans up after his breakfast and gets to work; Stark has already shown him where the necessary supplies are kept, and if there’s something he’s good at after his stay in Vanaheim, it’s cleaning. As much as he’d rather never touch another cleaning rag again, it’s a relief that the task is a readily understandable one. Stark could have easily given him entirely different orders on the assumption that Loki’s familiarity with things Midgardian is more extensive than it really is, a situation that would likely not have ended well.

So he scrubs the floor, cleans the windows and dusts the furniture, careful to do away with every hint of uncleanliness. It’s an unusual feeling to be working without having an overseer hovering in the vicinity, ready to strike down at the slightest show of tardiness or slowness. Even if Jarvis is no doubt constantly on the watch-out, the voice makes no comment on the quality or speed of Loki’s work and he feels himself relax more and more, settling into a steady rhythm of wiping and scrubbing.

And for the first time since coming here, there is enough time and space for his thoughts to wander and truly consider his position here. Why he’s here. Somehow that why still seems like the most mysterious part, despite Stark having clearly enumerated the reason he decided to take Loki with him when he left Vanaheim.

I felt sorry for you.

Yes, somehow Stark seems to feel genuine pity for him. A long time ago, in another life, he would have hated pity. Hate, resentment, anger – all those would have been feelings he could have dealt with had they been directed at him. But not pity.

But now he realizes that it’s not a bad feeling to be the recipient of. For someone in his position, it’s better than he could have hoped for. He’s lucky to receive it. If he hadn’t, he would still have been in Vanaheim, eating horrible food, working his fingers to the bone, and perhaps in this very moment being kicked in the stomach or worse by an overseer displeased with his efforts.

But now, he won’t have to see Ulfgrimm again. Now it’s only Stark that he needs to please. And as capricious as the man might be, he’s still vastly preferable to the Vanir that were lording over him back there. Stark is… different.

Yes, different. Or Loki wouldn’t be here sleeping in an actual bed, taking a warm shower in the mornings, eating the most delicious meals, and spending his time not being beaten. He still can’t quite wrap his head around the fact that Stark even promised not to subject him, his own slave, to any physical punishment. It’s perhaps the most confusing aspect of them all.

After his misery in Vanaheim, this simply feels too good to be true. So much better than he could ever have hoped for. And the fact that it was Stark of all people who provided him with all this is even more unbelievable.

There’s a cluster of smudgy fingerprints on the large screen in the living room, visible at an angle. He diligently wipes at it, determined to remove every proof that it was ever there. The smudges are persistent, though, resisting his efforts. He presses harder, and then his fingers slip, accidentally pressing a big button beneath the screen. Without warning, the screen blares to life with sound and image, and he reels backwards in shock at the unexpected sensory onslaught, slamming into the ornamental pedestal behind him as he automatically takes a step back. The potted plant perched on top falls to the ground with a dull crash, in an instant transformed from a pretty decoration to a mass of broken porcelain and clumped earth littering the floor.

Oh no.

His immediate reaction is one of panic at the thought of the brutal punishment awaiting him for this blunder, but an instant later he remembers where he is and his heart rate slows down a few paces. Yes, there will surely be punishment for so wantonly destroying his master’s property, but Stark did promise it wouldn’t be anything worse than those stinking pipes in the basement. Loki can deal with those disgusting things if he has to. At least the pipes won’t hurt.

Still, he has to clean up this mess, preferably before Stark’s return. Loki will have no choice to confess his offence – the man will of course notice the conspicuous absence of the potted plant, even in the unlikely case that Jarvis were to neglect to inform him – but he doesn’t need any visual corroboration to aggravate his confession.

He finds a plastic bag in the kitchen and sets out to pick up the broken shards, trying to avoid making contact with the sharp edges. His ambition is not quite a success; one piece of porcelain, deviously obscured by a mound of dirt, slashes across his palm as he reaches out to pick up its neighbour. He hisses at the sharp flash of unexpected pain, automatically pulling his hand toward his chest. Blood is already welling up from the cut, pooling in his palm and threatening to drip on the floor.

And wouldn’t that be the thing to top it all off, him bleeding on Stark’s floor after having already soiled it with dirt and broken porcelain. He’d better get a towel quickly and--

“Ops, that doesn’t look so good.”

Startled, he whirls around on his knees, coming face to face with Stark. How the man could get in here and waltz up to Loki without him noticing he has no idea – it would certainly never have happened to his old self – and now Stark is watching him with an eyebrow raised, as if wondering what on earth just happened.

He swallows, hoping his voice will hold.

“I’m sorry, Master,” he says, lowering his eyes and hoping Stark won’t be too angry at his incompetence, despite the proof of it being spread out all over the floor. “It was an accident,” he adds superfluously, as if there existed even the slightest hint of a possibility that he would walk around here intentionally breaking his master’s things.

“You’re bleeding on my floor,” Stark remarks.

He is?

A quick look at his cut hand confirms this, and he winces. As if things weren’t bad enough already.

“Come on,” Stark orders, waving a hand at him before turning his back and heading for the hallway.

Loki stands up to follow what is no doubt the way to his punishment. At least Stark won’t harm him, so whatever he has in store for his bungling slave is unlikely to be that terrible. He curls his bleeding hand into a fist and covers it with his other hand to stop any more blood from dripping onto the floor, cursing the jittery nerves that made him flinch so violently merely from some unexpected sound emanating from a screen.

He follows as Stark leads him into the… bathroom?

The man walks up to the sink and turns the tap on, making water splash against the white porcelain bowl. “Okay, you better wash that mess,” he orders.

So Loki does, placing his bleeding hand beneath the lukewarm stream and watching as the water in the bowl turns a coppery red. It stings sharply at first, but soon the edge of the pain is blunted, turning into a dullish ache.

Stark is busying himself with something inside a cabinet mounted on the far wall, so Loki turns the tap off and reaches for some paper towels to press against his palm to staunch any further bleeding. Luckily it’s not a very deep cut, and it will heal soon enough. Now that his body is no longer suffering beneath the hunger and hard labour that was wearing it down for so long, his healing abilities will be considerably quicker and more effective than they were in Vanaheim. Even his back is mostly healed by now.

Having apparently found what he was looking for, Stark returns to put down some implements on the sink and tells Loki to sit down on the edge of the bathtub. So he does.

“Hold out your hand. The bad one,” the man says as he unscrews a bottle containing some transparent liquid, and pours some of the contents into a fluffy white pad. Loki knows full well it’s going to sting before the pad touches his palm – the concoctions Asgardian healers use to clean wounds always do – and the prospect doesn’t bother him much, but the whole process is not necessary for such a minor wound, even if it might be for Midgardians whose healing abilities are much less developed.

Perhaps his scepticism is visible on his face, because Stark immediately answers his thoughts as he dabs the drenched pad against Loki’s palm.

“I don’t know about your fancy fantasy realms, but let me tell you that Earth is pretty damn full of germs and shit. Could get kind of messy if you had a serious infection or something. And fine, maybe you aliens aren’t susceptible to measly infections, but I’m not taking any chances here. I’m cleaning this up.”

Of course, Loki makes no protest. It’s Stark’s imperative how he wants to deal with his wounds and not Loki’s place to question it. And despite the burn of the cleaning liquid, he has to admit that it’s not so bad. In fact, it’s actually a little bit… nice, even? Stark’s hands are warm and the grip around Loki’s wrist as the man dabs away is firm and yet somehow soft. For so long, being touched for him only equalled being hurt or at least manhandled. But Stark’s touch is gentle, nothing like the rough hands that handled him in Vanaheim without the slightest care or concern for his welfare. Stark’s touch is… different.

And Loki finds himself overcome by a forcible wave of guilt that he once tried to invade this realm and kill the man in front of him. Why had he ever wanted to do that? Of course, this is far from the first time he’s felt regret for what he did in Midgard and the suffering he caused with his selfish actions, but now those feelings have turned more vivid, so much more tangible, as he sits here on the edge of a bathtub in Midgard with Stark tending his wounded hand.

“I’m sorry,” he says, the words slipping out of him as if by their own volition, “for--”

“Eh, don’t worry about it,” Stark interrupts him. “I’m not going to have you punished, it was just a potted plant. It’s fine, I’ll have Dum-E clean it up.”

“No, I mean for trying to… kill you back then.” How horrible it sounds when clothed into words like that, but it’s unfortunately nothing but the ugly truth. There is no way to make it sound better.

Stark stops his dabbing and looks up, eyebrows raised. “Oh, you mean that.” He’s silent for a few seconds, pondering before continuing. “Well, about that, then. How about we let that remain in the past, where it happened. Things change, and I guess sometimes even people do too. So if you want forgiveness, yeah, I forgive you. The situation being what it is, it’s better to look forwards than backwards or we won’t ever get anywhere.”

Loki bows his head, not sure what to say except a murmured ‘thank you’. Stark is a much more magnanimous man than he could ever have imagined. He watches as the man proceeds to wrap his hand with some kind of soft linen-like material until his entire palm is covered with white cloth.

This is also wholly unnecessary, of course, but Loki doesn’t mind, because it’s… nice to be touched without being hit or pushed or dragged along for punishment.

Chapter Text

When he wakes up the next morning, the dull throbbing in his hand is as good as gone. Yawning, he pushes the cover aside and sits up cross-legged on the bed to unwrap the bandage so he can inspect whatever damage might still be left.

As he suspected, the cut is mostly healed, only a thin reddish line across his palm hinting at yesterday’s mishap. It makes him feel a little bit better to see the proof that his healing abilities have kicked back into gear again after having been so forcibly suppressed in Vanaheim. He had healed fairly quickly in the dungeons, even without his magic, at least at first, but the process had become slower and slower as the harshness of his treatment had chipped away at his bodily resilience one tiny splinter a day, never giving it a chance to recover.

Stark handed him what remained of the roll of linen yesterday once he was done with his ministrations, telling Loki to use it to rewrap his hand in the morning, but he clearly doesn’t need it. So he goes about his usual business of showering, dressing, and making the bed, before heading out to the kitchen to eat some breakfast. Some delicious breakfast. 

He encounters Stark on the way, going in the opposite direction and no doubt heading out for the day. The man comes to a halt, his eyes immediately tracing a line down to Loki’s hand.

“Okay, care to tell me why you didn’t wrap your hand like I told you to yesterday?” comes the question, the sharpness of the man’s voice well matching the annoyed frown on his face. “Because if you get an infection, I have a problem.”

He feels a stab at unease at that; he doesn’t want Stark to think that he wantonly chose to disregard the man’s orders for no good reason, so he quickly holds up his hand, palm up, to show Stark the mostly healed state of yesterday’s cut. “I… figured it wouldn’t really be necessary. I heal quickly, more so than mortals.” He knows that he’s walking on thin ice, in essence hinting that Stark’s orders were redundant and that Loki knows better, so he hastens to add another good reason for his actions. “So I thought I should not needlessly waste your supply of bandage when it could be used for more urgent needs.”

“Yeah, because those rolls of gauze are so murderously expensive,” Stark says with an eye roll, before tilting his head to give Loki a rather piercing gaze.

“And I realize it’s kind of late to ask this now, but since we’re on the subject, how’s your back doing?”

At first Loki isn’t sure what Stark is talking about – it was only his hand that got hurt yesterday – but a second later the relevant memory resurfaces. Of course, the man saw him with his shirt off that unusually warm spring day when Loki was working replacing the broken stone paving of one of the castle roads. With so much happening since then he had almost forgotten about that incident.

And to be honest, it’s not one he particularly cares to be reminded of.

“It’s almost healed,” he says simply but truthfully, not meeting with Stark’s gaze.

“Uh-huh,” Stark says. “I believe it when I see it, so take your shirt off and prove it. I don’t want any nasty fevery or putrefactory surprises coming up.”

He doesn’t really want to but if Stark wants to inspect his property, Loki can’t deny him. So he pulls the grey t-shirt with its incomprehensible text message over his head and turns around so that Stark can see his back.

The man gives a slight whistle. “I’ll be damned, you really do have super-enhanced healing abilities. This looks a whole freaking lot better than last time.”

At that comment, Loki can’t help but wonder what Stark had really thought back there, standing on the overhang walkway watching Loki work below with his shredded back. Back then, he had been so sure what kind of thoughts had been going through the man’s head, but now he finds it much harder to make an educated guess. But it’s not like he’s going to ask Stark about it, of course.

“What did you do to get punished like that?” comes the question from behind him, and Loki takes that as a sign that the inspection is over, so he puts his shirt back on and turns around.

“I dropped a case of some valuable goods, and they broke,” he says, wincing inwardly at the memory, of both the paralyzing horror he had felt as the crate flew out of his hands to crash into the ground and what had happened afterwards.

“Huh. It must have been some really valuable shit if it was worth it to mess someone up like that.”

He has no reply to offer to that assessment; it’s simply how slaves in Vanaheim – and Asgard too for that matter – are punished for their mistakes. And surely here in Midgard as well. But there is a clear hint of disapproval in Stark’s voice, so perhaps it’s not such a big mystery after all what he had thought up there on the walkway in Vanaheim.

“You don’t scar, do you?” comes the next question.

“Not usually, Master. Though I might if the wound is very deep.” He has a few such remaining reminders on his body, both from his stay in Vanaheim and from a couple of adventurous mishaps when he was younger and less cautious.

And if it had been anyone else, the enquiry would have worried him with its possible implications that the questioner might want to test and experiment with his healing abilities in rather unsavoury ways, but he finds that he’s certain that Stark won’t do that, as interesting as he might find Loki’s alien physiology.

“Huh,” is Stark’s comment to that. “Well, I’m going out to pick some stuff up. I’ll be back in a minute.”

--------------

Loki has only just barely finished his breakfast and done the dishes when Stark returns, holding a thick wad of paper in his hands. The man plops down on the couch with a heavy sigh, legs almost indecently sprawled, and proceeds to leaf through the bundle until he finds what he’s looking for and begins to read.

“Hey, why don’t you go make me a cup of coffee.” The man looks up from his clearly not-so-light reading to look at Loki. “Jarvis will tell you how to do it if you haven’t done it before.”

So Loki hurries into the kitchen to fulfil Stark’s order. He knows of Midgardian coffee and has even tasted it though he finds the concoction unpleasant, almost to the point of undrinkable. Why the bitter beverage enjoys such popularity in this realm eludes him, but he does like the smell which is very different from the taste.

Jarvis instructs him on how to prepare the coffee-making machine and then Loki watches the drink slowly percolate, spreading a pleasant, almost cosy smell in the kitchen. He inhales deeply, enjoying the unusual but agreeable aroma.

The cup is full almost to the brim as he picks it up, so he has to walk carefully as to not spill any of the brown liquid. Stark has spread his reading material all over the living room table, white pristine sheets covering the entire surface. It strikes him how blindingly white Midgardian paper is; Asgardian paper always has a yellowish or brownish tinge to it and it’s not nearly as thin and flimsy as its Midgardian equivalent that looks like it would immediately tear if one were to handle it a tad bit carelessly. And the text printed upon it is always so incredibly tiny, almost to the point of being annoying.

But it’s not his papers to read, his task is merely to serve Stark his coffee. The deviously curled edge of the black-and-blue carpet that’s spread out beneath the living room table could not have been more insidiously placed, so he makes sure to step carefully as he crosses it. It takes his eyes a few seconds to alight upon a paper-free spot large enough to admit the cup in his hand, but luckily there is one within Stark’s reach so he sets the cup down there.

“Awesome,” Stark comments, his nearest hand immediately going out for the drink with the speed of a man reaching for a glass of water after having languished for days in the desert. Loki winces inwardly as Stark proceeds to take a swig of what must be the scalding hot liquid inside, but the man seems fully unperturbed by the blistering heat as he swallows with a contented expression. “That’s the stuff.”

With that, he puts the cup down again and returns his focus to his papers.

Loki frets for a few seconds about what to do next. Stark hasn’t issued him with further orders as expected, and now that the man’s focus is on his no doubt important work, Loki doesn’t want to disturb him by asking. So the best course of action is surely then to remain in the close vicinity in case Stark thinks of something else he wants Loki to fetch or do. Most likely that something will be to refill his cup of coffee, considering the number of empty cups with brown stains in them that Loki has already encountered during his short time here. Mostly they were littering the kitchen or living room, but one he found in the guest bathroom, and he was very quick to take care of that one.

Satisfied with his choice of action, he kneels down next to where Stark is sitting, close enough to be readily at hand but not so close as to disturb or hinder. Again, he’s grateful for the plush, soft carpet that’s covering the floor. Perhaps Stark will tell him to go clean or something rather than sit here idle and unproductive, but if not, at least he won’t be uncomfortable for quite some time.

With his eyes level only with Stark’s chest he rather senses than sees how the man suddenly stops his reading and turns his head to look at him where he’s kneeling. For a few fleeting seconds it seems like Stark is about to say something – most likely, issue another order – but then he apparently thinks better of it as he returns to his papers, ignoring Loki for now.

And so they both sit there, the only sound breaking the silence the soft rustling of papers and the occasional slurping as Stark takes another swig from his coffee. It’s quite peaceful, and Loki feels his body as well as his mind start to relax. Such a difference this is from his miserable existence in Vanaheim. He still can’t quite believe how lucky he is, how his fortune has changed so much for the better. Not having to deal with constant fear or pain or gnawing hunger any longer. He’s even free to sit here and just… do nothing at all, as opposed to labouring until his body aches. With nothing better to do, his thoughts start to drift to this and that and then to nothing in particular, and for a short moment he closes his eyes, feeling a certain drowsiness descend upon him. He thinks of Vanaheim, and then of Asgard, and then of Vanaheim again, scattered, kaleidoscopic images swirling in his brain as Stark’s living room slowly floats away. Then there’s suddenly a vivid memory of a particularly excruciating session in the Vanir dungeons rising up from the intertwined dreamlike images, and he startles at the unexpected force of it, his body jerking.

Immediately, his eyes fly wide open and he has to blink several times before his mind is properly collected again. Did he actually fall asleep for a short moment there? Anxious, he looks up at Stark to see if he has noticed, but the man is fully engrossed in his papers and Loki feels himself relax again, relived that this serious lapse of his went unobserved. A slave falling asleep at his master’s feet instead of remaining properly alert and ready to obey whatever orders might be issued – what a disaster. He can only imagine what Ulfgrimm would have done had he caught Loki dozing off like that. And while Stark isn’t Ulfgrimm, not even he would of course find such disrespectful and slovenly behaviour tolerable.

He straightens himself up, resolving to stay awake. True, he did not sleep well at all last night, but that is no excuse to fall asleep here and now.

He tries to occupy himself with counting the circles and rectangles of the abstract geometric pattern covering Stark’s carpet, and then discreetly pinches his arms to stop himself from drifting away. But his eyelids have suddenly grown so heavy and surely it can’t hurt if he just closes them for a short moment, as long as he still stays awake…

The jumbled images in his mind return, memories drifting in and out of his consciousness, some pleasant, others not so much. His body feels light, as if it’s floating, and for a second he has the strange impression of tipping forwards, but surely he’s just imagining it. An instant later there’s something soft and warm pressing against his forehead. It feels… nice. The unidentified something moves a little, as if startled and trying to draw away, but then stills.

The unpleasant image from before once more rises its ugly head in his mind, and he hears a soft, pathetic whine coming from his own throat as he recalls the unbearable pain associated with that memory. And then, a few seconds later, follows an odd physical sensation that he can’t quite identify but feels like something between a pat on his head and a ruffling of his hair. That feels… nice too, and the memory subsides again. Then he suddenly realizes what that unidentified something is that his forehead is resting against.

An instant later he’s wide awake, and he sits up with a sharp jerk, his eyes going up to find themselves staring into Stark’s.

“Good morning, sleepyhead.”

Oh no.

“I… I… “ he stumblingly begins, but there is no way for him to explain away this inexcusable lapse. So he quietens and simply lowers his head, waiting for Stark’s verdict.

“If you’re that tired, just go to bed and sleep for a bit.” Stark gestures towards the hallway leading to Loki’s room. “Beats sitting here and drooling on the leg of my pants, don’t you think?”

Loki can only stare dumbly, but he stands up to follow the order, confused that Stark seems so wholly unperturbed by such a serious transgression.

“Oh, and Loki?”

Of course, now Stark will inform him of the consequences forthcoming for this. He turns around to face the man, holding his breath in anticipation.

“Get me another cup of coffee before you leave, will you? You make some really good stuff.”

Chapter Text

He returns to his room and crawls into bed to get some sleep, like Stark ordered him to. He still feels embarrassed, if not mortified, from his most recent indiscretion, falling asleep on his master’s leg like a common mutt. That Stark didn’t even yell at him is incomprehensible.

But there will be time for him to ponder this latest addition to the already swelling heap of perplexity later, right now his body is aching for some sleep, something that it didn’t get very much of during last night’s unruly tossing and turning.

He pulls the cover up to his chin and his head has barely touched the pillow before he’s asleep.

It doesn’t take long for the first unpleasant dream image to arise. This time it’s Ulfgrimm grinning sadistically at him as he slowly twirls the whip handle in his hand around and around. I will teach you what happens to useless slaves like you, he growls. Just you wait. A second later, the scene shifts and then he’s standing face to face with the whipping post, its manacles closing around his wrists by their own volition, pulling his emaciated body taut. Ulfgrimm is behind him, panting heavily. You think you can just lounge around without being of any use? he spits disdainfully. That anyone wants a worthless slave? I will teach you a lesson. Teach you your proper place. Loki shudders as he senses rather than sees Ulfgrimm pulling his arm back to administer the first excruciating lash. He closes his eyes in expectation of the blinding pain that will soon follow and then…

… he opens them again to find himself in his room in Stark’s tower, soaked with cold sweat.

Oh norns. Wiping his clammy forehead with one end of the sheet, he’s not sure which feeling is the most overwhelming, the lingering terror of the dream or the relief to find himself back here.

In any case, he’s not tired anymore, so he throws the cover aside and steps into the shower instead. If it’s mainly to wash away the sweat or the remaining traces of the dream, he can’t tell for sure, but the water feels good as it splashes over his body and face.

Once he’s dry and dressed again he returns to the living room, wanting to occupy himself with something useful. It might only have been a dream, but he’s painfully aware that there was plenty of truth in it to be had. Far more than he would have liked. Despite how much effort he’s been putting into denying it to himself, into pushing away the insistent thought that has been trying to rear its ugly head in his mind lately, the Ulfgrimm in his dream spoke only the facts.

Yes, why would anyone want a useless slave?

And his use for Stark has only been marginal so far, and even that is putting it generously.

Stark is gone when he enters the room, and so are the papers previously spread out on the living room table. Loki frets for a while. He wants to be useful, but everything in here looks spotless already, and what else does he know how to do expect for cleaning? And he’s already cleaned everything in here recently, there is no point in him doing it all again.

At first he had expected that there would be a lot of work for him to do in such a large dwelling as Stark’s, especially considering the conspicuous lack of servant and slaves, but after his short time here he’s come to realize that Midgardian households are run quite differently from those in Vanaheim or Asgard. And there is not much point or purpose to his presence here.

A couple of days ago he had tried to ask Stark if he wanted Loki to help him with the books he had brought back from Vanaheim. Well, perhaps it wasn’t so much a question as a hint, because he didn’t want Stark to think that he was trying to pick his own tasks, but regardless the man had waved his discreet inquiry away with a comment that Jarvis was taking care of it.

Distraught, he grabs a cleaning rag in the kitchen and then starts to wipe the living room table, despite there being no crumbs or spots visible to the naked eye, but at least he’s doing something.

And unfortunately he’s well aware how that something could be done by anyone. It’s merely unskilled labour, just like what little else he’s been doing here.

And with that, the fear that he’s been trying to keep down, to deny, rises full force, suddenly free from its bonds. The realization of the reality of his situation, of how precarious it is, of what might very well happen any day.

What if Stark decides to do away with him, to sell him to someone else? Not that there is any risk that he will end up in Vanaheim again; the deal that Stark and the Vanir entered upon in the royal court hall is permanent and immutable. They would refuse to take him back, would even be insulted if the man as much as suggested it. But there are surely plenty of households in Midgard that would, unlike Stark’s, have use for a slave such as him.

Perhaps the man has already considered it. Perhaps is considering it this very moment. His innards turn to ice at the idea. Maybe Stark has even left the tower to discuss such a deal with a prospective buyer…

He knows that he’s being paranoid, that the chances of Stark currently sitting in such a meeting to decide Loki’s selling price is minuscule, but he can’t stop himself from imagining the worst. Because if it’s not happening now, then perhaps it will in another week. Or in another month or two. Stark is a highly intelligent man; even if he’s not home very much surely he cannot have failed to comprehend that his slave is not doing much of anything. Sooner or later, the idea to have Loki sold off is bound to appear to him.

And he knows that the odds of a new master treating him even a tenth as leniently as Stark are next to non-existent.

He squeezes the rag in his hand, pressing it harder against the surface of the table. He’s gotten so used to his situation here, to eating well and having a nice bed and a warm shower and not being beaten for his failures. His throat is constricting at the thought of all this being taken away from him. He can’t take going back to the pain and hunger, to getting whipped and kicked and labouring until everything hurts. Not now, not when Stark has treated him like this, he just can’t.

But he knows that he will have no say in the matter. He belongs to Stark, and that means that the man can sell him anytime he wants to if he doesn’t care to keep Loki any longer. And Loki is doing nothing here that any other slave or servant couldn’t do. What if Stark doesn’t want him anymore?

Of course, he knows full well what will happen then. For all intents and purposes, he will go back to his previous existence. There will be another Ulfgrimm hovering above him, waiting to beat him for his mistakes. There will be endless chores and barely chewable bread and cold, shivering nights on the hard floor.

He drops the rag in his hand and sinks to the floor, hugging his knees, as he’s overcome with sudden despair. He’s gotten far too used, far too quickly, to his current situation, never really acknowledging the fact that it could of course change any day, if Stark should no longer find him useful enough.

But he can’t bear the thought of everything being taken away from him. Drawing a shuddering breath, he leans his head against his knees, letting his forehead rest against them. Then he just sits there until a tear forms in his left eye and traces its pathetic way down his cheek. Another one wells up in his other eye, and it also rolls disgracefully along his downturned face. He hugs his knees harder, hating how he weak and pitiful he’s acting, but at least there is no one here to see.

“Loki?”

He startles at the sound of Jarvis’ voice. Of course he had forgotten all about the servant, invisible and incorporeal as he is. He quickly wipes his face before looking up, hoping he’s been able to remove all evidence of his shameful behaviour.

“Yes?” he manages. Jarvis only rarely gives him orders, but now he must have thought of a task that needs to be done. Which should be a good thing, because that way Loki might actually be somewhat useful, even if it’s only temporarily.

“Is everything alright? My sensors indicate that you seem… distressed?”

Loki gapes dumbly. He has no idea what to respond to that. No one ever asked him any such questions in Vanaheim, not even the other slaves. There would have been no point. 

But Jarvis is of higher rank than him, of course, so he can’t refuse to answer the question.

“I… ” he begins, not sure how to form his thoughts into acceptable words. Words that will not make it sound as if what he wants is of any matter if Stark wants differently.

“I’m… concerned that Master Stark might not find me useful enough to keep,” he hears his own voice say. Then he holds his breath. Did that sound too presumptuous? Like he had a right to expect that Stark would want to keep him around? While Jarvis himself occasionally uses a surprisingly flippant tone when speaking either to or about Stark, it does not mean that Loki can presume to speak inappropriately for his station around Jarvis.

“Ah, I see.” There is silence for a little while and Loki is starting to think that that is that, Jarvis has no further interest in hearing more about this, when the voice suddenly speaks up again.

“Let me tell you a little secret, then.” Another silence, this time shorter, follows, one that Loki would have thought of as conspiratorial if he hadn’t known any better. “Master Stark will most definitely have plenty of use for you in his lab once he’s worked through the books he brought back from Vanaheim.”

Loki’s head snaps up. “He told you that?” The previous despair is all of a sudden driven to the side by a surge of hope. If Stark wants him for that, then yes, he will be useful to the man all of a sudden, and in a way that no other slave or servant or even free man in Midgard could ever be.

“No, he didn’t, but since I was the one who translated the books for him, I can tell that Master Stark will need you later to make full use of them.” Jarvis’ voice is oddly playful, almost peevish. “He just doesn’t know it yet.”

And somehow, that almost-peevish voice makes Loki feel a little bit better.

--------------

When Stark returns later in the evening, it is with a paper cup in hand, the smell identifying the contents as coffee, even at a distance.

“Hey,” he says as he spots Loki, who’s busying himself with wiping the skirting boards clean. “Jarvis told me something today.”

Loki freezes in mortification. Of course, there is only one thing that has happened during Stark’s absence that is even remotely interesting enough for Jarvis to tell the man about. He lowers his head, wondering what Stark has to say about their conversation.

“So, let me show you something.” His eyes go to the ceiling, as it often does when he’s addressing his servant. “Jarvis, would you send Dum-E up here?”

“Right away, sir.”

Loki has no idea where all this is leading or why Stark is summoning his robot here, so he merely watches apprehensively as Stark finishes the rest of his coffee as they wait.

Then the elevator chimes and the strange little robot servant comes rolling out. Stark puts his empty paper cup on the table, turning towards the robot.

“Dum-E, get me some more coffee.”

The robot immediately rolls forward towards the table, its gripping appendage reaching out. The cup falls to the ground as soon as the claw at the end makes contact with it. Giving a brief chirp, Dum-E tips downwards to pick the cup up, but fails repeatedly as the claw is unable to form a proper grip around the flimsy, budging paper.

“Alright, thank you, Dum-E. You can go back to the lab now.”

The robot chirps again and rolls towards the elevator, seemingly unperturbed by its abject failure.

Stark bends to pick the cup up from the floor, and Loki curses himself for not being quicker, but it’s too late now.

“You know, I built that guy over, what, twenty-five years ago? Half the things I tell him to do end with utter screw-ups. Still keep him around, though. Just saying.” Stark studies the cup in his hand, giving it a squeeze so that its sides buckle slightly, then shrugs. “And unlike Dum-E, at least you know how to get me coffee.”

Then he turns his attention from the cup to Loki, an eyebrow going up. “Well, unless you want another… arrangement. No idea what that would entail, but maybe something could be worked out, somehow.”

“No!” Loki quickly blurts out. Whatever arrangement Stark is thinking of – selling him, hiring out his services, lending him out to friends – Loki wants none of it.

Then he bites his tongue, hoping it didn’t sound like he was trying to steer Stark’s decision, or worse, trying to give the man an order. As if Loki’s opinion on this would be of any matter or consequence.

“Alright, I suppose the question’s settled,” Stark shrugs and holds out the slightly misshapen paper cup to Loki. “How about you get me another cup of coffee, then?”

Chapter Text

“Good morning, Loki. Master Stark would like to see you in the living room.”

In a second, Loki is wide awake, a surge of panic instinctively rising in him before he correctly remembers the situation. No, Stark said he would not get mad even if he had to rouse Loki from his sleep in the morning. His heart rate slows down again as the realization sinks in and he expels a deep breath.

Still, he hurries as much as he can as he dresses and then proceeds to the living room; it won’t do to dawdle and waste Stark’s time any more than absolutely necessary.

Stark is waiting for him as Loki enters. There’s a large black plastic bag spread out on the middle of the floor and positioned on top of it is a wooden stool. Loki eyes the arrangement but cannot figure out the significance of it. No doubt it’s related to him somehow, but he doesn’t see the ‘how’ just yet.

“Hey, there you are,” Stark says in greeting. “I’m going out in a few minutes, but I figured I’d first take care of something that’s been bothering me for quite some time.”

Loki shrinks back at the suggestion that something about his person has been bothering Stark. Because surely this must be related to him somehow; why else would the man have called him here? Has he displeased Stark in some unforeseen way and must now be corrected? The thought makes him uneasy, despite Stark’s unbelievable lenience when it comes to punishment.

Starks points towards the stool. “Have a seat.”

Loki sits. He’s a bit uncomfortable about sitting down like that since slaves aren’t supposed to utilize the furniture of free men, but the simple wooden stool can hardly be something that Stark uses himself for sitting purposes, so it must be an acceptable course of action. And Stark did order it, of course.

It is only then that Loki takes notice of what Stark is holding, and the realization of what is to take place dawns just as the man speaks up again. “You need a haircut, mister, and quite badly too.” He loudly snaps the scissors in his hand a couple of times to accentuate his proclamation.

And Loki feels his heart sink to the floor. He really, really doesn’t want his hair to go. It was the only part of his old self that the Vanir had left him, and while most everything else might have changed since then, the attachment to his hair, the only part that would still remind him of his previous life, has remained.

He had hoped that Midgard would be the same as Vanaheim in that regard, that slaves were allowed to grow their hair long. And considering that Stark himself keeps his hair rather closely cropped, it would seem that short hair has no specific association to slaves here either, or Stark surely wouldn’t have sported a look like that. Still, it might be a specific short hairstyle that sets Midgardian slaves apart from free men who also wear their hair shorn.

Or maybe Stark just prefers Loki short-haired. It would make sense, considering that Loki is staying in his home now. That way, the man will not risk having to be offended by any long, black strands conspicuously lying around on the floor or sticking to the furniture.

Yes, it makes sense. Still, he really, really doesn’t want the haircut that is coming.

But it’s Stark’s decision, of course, so he says nothing as the man leans over with the scissors in one hand, the other reaching out to grab hold of Loki’s hair.

It makes him remember how the overseers in Vanaheim would sometimes take a pair of shears and briskly cut the hair of a slave whenever they decided that it was getting long enough to get in the way and obstruct his work. His own hair, fast-growing as it has always been, was cut a few times like that too, but never much shorter than he used to wear it back when he was still free.

Right now it’s perhaps an inch or two below his shoulders depending on where one were to measure, the length varying as the haircuts were always quick and sloppy, leaving him with very uneven results. But it never bothered him much, because at least his hair was still there.

And then Stark starts to cut somewhere behind him, the sound clipped and almost obscenely loud in Loki’s ears.

He tries to relax, tries not to make this turn of events bother him. Instead, he endeavours to fall back on one of the meditation practices he used to do back in another life when preparing to cast a difficult spell. He hasn’t engaged in such exercises in a long time, because he quickly learned in Vanaheim that long-term pain and hunger were simply too obstructive when attempting to reach the inner tranquillity necessary to attain any change in his state of mind.

But now it works better. He can feel himself retreat a little from the world around him as he turns inwardly. The distancing feels good, despite the fact that what’s going on shouldn’t bother him. Despite his reaction being in fact nothing short of ridiculous. After all, his current situation is miles and miles away from what it was a timeframe ago that can still be counted in days rather than weeks. Considering how much his life has improved in every single aspect he can think of that matters, the loss of his hair is a small and insignificant thing and should not bother him in the slightest. After all, wouldn’t he once gladly have traded his hair for just one of the delicious meals that he enjoyed yesterday? He knows that he would have. So why is he bothered when this trade-off has given him so much more than that?

He sits as still as a statue, hoping to at least avoid any accidents involving the scissors and his ears. Somehow he doesn’t think Stark is very used to giving other people haircuts. He lets his mind float, the sound of the scissors’ irregular snapping growing distant until it’s only a vague intermittent noise in the background, unrelated to him.

An undefined amount of time goes by, and then Stark’s voice pulls him back to the present.

“Aaaand, we’re done!” He makes the scissors give a final snap in the air to punctuate his words, before stepping back to admire his handiwork.

Loki takes a deep breath, wondering what his new, shorter haircut looks like. At least it doesn’t feel so differently. Automatically, his hand reaches up to touch what remains, to evaluate the damage done.

He blinks in surprise as his fingers comb through strands that end just below his shoulders, almost their previous length. The major difference from before is the unaccustomed… evenness.

“To tell you the truth, it really looked like shit, so I just had to fix the problem,” Stark explains as he places the scissors on the living room table. “At least now you look presentable again.”

Loki only stares, uncertain of what to say.

But it seems like Stark isn’t expecting much in the way of a reply, as he, task all finished, picks up the cell phone and wallet lying on the table, stuffing them into his pockets in preparation for his departure. “Well, gotta go, have places to be and stuff to do. Clean this mess up in the meantime, will you?” he says, indicating the plastic bag and the shorn tufts covering it.

And then he’s gone, leaving Loki sitting on the stool, a hand still trailing through his hair in amazement.

------------

He can’t help it, but instead of immediately following Stark’s order to clean up after the morning’s proceedings like he should have, he heads for the bathroom instead. Of course he will clean up, but after.

The face that greets him in the mirror above the sink looks surprisingly like…

… like…

… like himself.

Back in Vanaheim, he never sought out mirrors because he would see enough of his sorry reflection in their surfaces whenever he was ordered to polish them. But now he stares at the face staring back at him, its sunken cheeks, its thinness, its hollow eyes that he remembers all gone. So are the bruises, leaving his skin a surprisingly even colour, unmarred by ugly blotches of red and purple.

And his hair looks almost absurdly… normal. He had gotten so used to the unevenness framing his face, visibly longer on one side than the other, that he hardly took notice of it any longer. But now the straight line of hair showing in the mirror stands out in stark relief against the jaggedness he recalls from memory.

If it hadn’t been for the clearly Midgardian nature of the shirt he’s wearing, the neckline of which is visible in the mirror, he would have noticed no difference between the reflection and his old self.

Well, maybe that’s not quite correct. The face in the mirror seems… softer, somehow. He can recall a certain hardness that used to be there around the eyes that now seems to be gone. And surely that is for the better.

His hand goes up to touch the hair on the left side of his head as he turns his neck to the right to have a better look at the… evenness.

Yes, for the first time since emerging from the Vanir dungeons, he truly looks like himself.

And he looks eerily like something else too.

Like a… free man, but that’s one thought of which he would never breathe one word out loud.

---------------

He studiously mops the floor in the living room, wanting to make sure that no pesky straying hairs are left. Then he makes himself a mouth-watering breakfast and savours every bite of it.

Having cleaned up in the kitchen, he stands around irresolutely for a few seconds, debating with himself what to tackle next. Once more, Stark didn’t see fit to provide him with any specific orders before he left, obviously expecting Loki to figure out for himself what needs to be done.

Then he remembers that there is someone to turn to who knows the master of the house better than he does.

“Jarvis?” he asks.

“Yes, Loki?” the voice speaks up an instant later.

“Are there any specific tasks that should be carried out while Master Stark is away?”

A few seconds of silence follows. Then, “In my humble opinion, Master Stark occasionally shows an unfortunate neglect when it comes having his shoes polished. Hence I would recommend that you make that the first order of priority for today. You will find the necessary cleaning supplies on the lower-most shelf in the closet in the hallway.”

Once again he’s surprised by Jarvis’ audacity, aiming a criticism like that at his own master, but he makes no comment on it, merely thanking the servant for his help.

The hallway is littered with Stark’s shoes, in all shapes and colours, though most brown or black. Loki has never seen so much footwear belonging to one single person, not even the noblest of ladies in Asgard own such an excess. He wonders if Stark really uses them all, or if it’s perhaps a typical Midgardian way of displaying one’s wealth, to keep as many shoes as possible.

He will clearly have his work cut out for him for some time ahead. So he sits down on the floor and starts on the first shoe, a rather heavy black boot, the light sprinkle of dust covering it an indication that it hasn’t been used for some time.

The work is not unpleasant, even if the smell of the polishing cream is slightly obnoxious. But it’s a minor inconvenience. He works through pair after pair, placing each polished shoe or boot neatly together with its partner, until his eyes alight upon a shoe that seems oddly familiar. Frowning, he picks it up to study it more closely before realization dawns. He’s already polished this one. Only then it was back in Vanaheim, and Stark was still wearing it.

He remembers that incident well, even now. The trepidation he had felt. The fear of what might happen next. The worry that--

The elevator suddenly pings, interrupting his little reverie, and a second later Stark walks out. He doesn’t notice Loki as he passes the hallway on the way to the living room. Then follows a sharp buzz, indicating that someone is making a call to his cell phone.

A moment later, Stark’s voice speaks out. “Why, hello there, Fury, so nice of you to call me again! Yeah, yeah, I’ll have those updated security protocols ready for you in a day or two, so quit nagging me about them, okay? Sometimes things get a little delayed, alright?” Despite the distance between the hallway and the living room, Loki’s sharp hearing can still make out every word that Stark is saying.

He looks down at the shoe again, the unpleasantness of the memory that has been aroused still stirring within him. Only now it’s competing with the distress brought by the realization who Stark is currently speaking to. The head of SHIELD, an organisation that would surely love to get their hands on him if Stark would let them… if Stark were to tell them… He bites his lip, his hands clenching around the shoe he’s still holding.

“Come on, don’t tell me you’re still pissed that I went AWOL and didn’t return your calls for a few days?”

Of course, Loki knows full well what Stark was doing during those days Fury is referring to, where he was staying. And if Fury knew what the man brought back with him… Loki’s throat constricts. He wants to stay here. But that surely won’t be an option if Stark were to mention…

“It’s called taking a vacation, ever heard of that? No, how silly of me, of course you haven’t, Mister I’m-on-call-twenty-five-hours-a-day-including-Christmas. But I’d be happy to show you my vacation pics displaying me at my finest in bathing trunks and sipping on pink umbrella drinks, just to show you how we normal people sometimes like to spend our time.”

Stark is lying through his teeth, but still manages to sound perfectly believable. There is no mention of Loki as Stark proceeds to give an entirely fictive and rather outrageous account of how he’s spent the not-accounted-for days in question. Then he halts his exposition mid-sentence, obviously interrupted by the man at the other end.

“What, I haven’t even gotten to the strippers yet!” Stark protests. “But I got some awesome pictures if you’d like to see--”

Loki looks down at the shoe lying on his lap, the one that he once polished in what now feels like an eternity ago. Back then he had been afraid. Afraid of Stark, and what he might do.

But that fear has been pushed to the side by something else, he realizes as Stark launches into a detailed description of a woman with apparently impressive attributes but questionable virtue, still with no mention of Loki whatsoever. It’s a strange, unaccustomed feeling and it takes him a long time to recognize it, because he hasn’t felt it in a very long time.

But he realizes that for the first time in forever, he feels…

… safe.

Chapter Text

When Stark returns home the next day, he’s carrying a large bag in each hand, the glistening black and white plastic bulging from their contents. He holds them out to Loki, who gingerly accepts them.

“I had Jarvis order some clothes for you. Figured you could probably need some more changes than the old stuff I gave you.”

“Thank you,” Loki says, inclining his head. It won’t do to seem ungrateful, no matter what it is that Stark has picked out for him. As comfortable as Stark’s old clothes are, he feels a bit relieved at not having to wear them any longer. No matter what Stark’s opinions on the matter are, he can’t help but feel that it’s highly inappropriate.

And a slave acting inappropriately in Vanaheim… Not that he’s there any more, thank the norns, but some ingrained feelings are hard to simply ignore.

As he carries the bags back to his room to get changed – Stark probably wants him to wear the new clothes from now on, even if he didn’t explicitly say so – and put the rest of the contents of the bags in his drawers, he wonders what kinds of clothing slaves typically wear in Midgard. In Vanaheim, they always wore a drab gray or beige or brown, as opposed to the bright and rich colours worn by free men. And always made from the same rough, scratchy fabric.

To his surprise, he notices, as he empties the bags over his bed, that the shirts and trousers spilling out on the cover don’t seem to be particularly different from his current clothing, or even from what Stark is wearing, at least occasionally. He digs around in the pile before him, picking up a pair of socks here, a T-shirt there to examine them. There’s probably some difference there that he can’t spot in his unfamiliarity with the finer points of Midgardian dressing. Perhaps some difference in cut or design that would confer his status as a slave to a Midgardian, but remains indiscernible to him.

He randomly picks out some socks and underwear, and then a pair of jeans and a T-shirt with two lines of text across its front. With some effort, he can make out the words, but they mean nothing to him and the Allspeak only vaguely translates it as signifying a Midgardian institution of some sort. Perhaps the text serves as a broadcast of his slave status.

He gets another surprise when he puts the clothes on; they’re as comfortable as Stark’s old garments. Even more so, since the fit is better.

But he supposes that’s one of the perks of being a slave belonging to a private household, especially such a rich one as Stark’s. He won’t be dressed in rags here; if nothing else, it would reflect badly on his master.

He looks towards the chair where he hung the clothes he wore in Vanaheim, worn and drab and scraggly. It’s not a difficult decision to make, so he resolutely scoops the garments up into a cheerless bundle in his arms.

It feels good to put them into the trash can in the kitchen, pressing them down among the empty containers and soiled kitchen towels at the bottom of the can. He doesn’t even deign them with one last glance as he closes the little door beneath the sink behind him.

It feels good to sever that last link to Vanaheim.

-----------

For once, Stark has actually issued him with specific orders – to clean up in the kitchen while the man is away. So he wipes the kitchen counter, its dark marble smooth like satin, a third time, wanting everything to be as clean as he can make it. Wanting Stark to be pleased with his efforts.

And that realization surprises him a little – that he actually wants to do a good job for its own sake, and not merely as a way to avoid punishment. So he makes sure to hunt out every last smudge, to remove every little speck of dust or dirt he can lay his eyes upon.

He’s wiping the kitchen counter for a fifth time when Stark returns. Loki can smell the food he has brought with him before the man even enters the kitchen; his long experience with gnawing hunger in Vanaheim has made his nose highly attuned to even the slightest whiff of things edible.

Stark stops to inspect his immediate surroundings while Loki holds his breath, hoping that the man’s eyes won’t be sharper than his and alight upon some fleck of dirt Loki has passed over.

“Looks good in here,” comes the verdict, and Loki relaxes. So he’s not wholly incapable of pleasing the man, then.

Stark proceeds to head over to the kitchen counter, now shining from Loki’s efforts, and puts the plastic bag down on the black marble. From its innards he pulls forth two silvery boxes with little plastic cutlery sticking to them. He hands Loki one of the boxes.

“Here you go.”

So Stark wants Loki to eat with him. And what Loki wants is to tell Stark that slaves don’t eat together with their masters, but he knows full well that the man will not want to be contradicted, not even on orders as strange as these.

Stark has already sat down at the table and started to remove the lid covering his meal. Any second now, he will look up from his food and give Loki that pointed look wanting to know why he is dawdling, why following such a simple order should present a problem. To pre-empt a repeat of that – it’s already happened far too many times since his coming here – he hurries over to sit down on the floor next to the table. The box in his hand smells wonderful and his mouth is salivating like a dog’s as he begins to fiddle with the lid.

“You know,” comes Stark’s voice from above him and Loki looks up. “I’ve kind of been trying to take one step at a time here, but now I think it’s time to take things to the next level. And I mean that both literally and figuratively.”

With that, Stark pushes out the chair opposite from him with his foot.

“Loki, sit down.”

He can only gape. Surely he is misunderstanding things. This can’t be what it looks like. Slaves don’t sit on furniture, and they most definitely don’t do so at mealtimes right opposite their masters. Despite Stark’s astonishing laxness, not even he can actually mean this.

“I’m getting kind of tired of seeing you on the floor all the time. One of these days I’m going to stumble over you and break my leg or something.” His foot goes up to demonstratively tap at the seat of the chair. “So, use the furniture. It’s not going to break, not from your skinny frame.”

So Loki sits, hesitantly, on the edge of the chair, not quite sure what to do with himself as he fiddles nervously with his cutlery. If Ulfgrimm had been seeing him like this…

But it’s not Ulfgrimm sitting opposite from him, but Stark. And norns, if he isn’t grateful for that, despite Stark’s utterly confusing incomprehensibility and unpredictability.

“Oh, and another thing, while we’re on the subject.” Stark pierces a large piece of meat on his fork and proceeds to shove it into his mouth. “Enough with the whole kneeling thing.”

“What?” it insolently slips out of him.

“You heard me. We don’t do that here in Earthgard. The only time I have people kneeling before me is when--” He stops himself and reaches out for his napkin, clearing his throat. “Okay, just forget about that last part. But the other stuff I just said still stands.”

Loki is silent, doesn’t at all acknowledge Stark’s words. He can’t bring himself to say that he understands, because he truly doesn’t.

“Okay Houston, I’m sensing that we have another problem here. Care to elaborate?”

“I… don’t understand,” he says stupidly, sounding like a dim-wit in his own ears.

“Okay. Let me repeat myself, then.” He takes a large swig from his glass. “I want you to stop kneeling when I’m around.”

“But… why?” He curses himself as soon as the words have left his mouth. Who is he to question his master’s wishes, however little he comprehends of them, and even sit here demanding explanations?

“Because I don’t like it,” comes the curt reply.

He’s on the verge of automatically repeating his previous question, but luckily manages to stop himself this time. “A small ‘but--‘ still slips out, though.

Unfortunately, Stark picks up on the word. “But what?”

But a million things that would have been obvious to anyone in both Vanaheim and Asgard. But not to Stark.

“It’s… it’s the common way to show deference…” he begins, not sure how to explain something so obvious.

“Yeah well, then you can show me some deference by assisting me down in my lab.” He elegantly wraps some noodles around his fork. “I’m building… something. With the help of those books I got back in Wonderland. And I could use you for some testing.”

------------

Once more, his current orders are to clean. Or rather, to keep the place clean in general. Despite having done enough cleaning in Vanaheim to last him a lifetime, he’s glad that it’s something he knows how to do. And Midgardian cleaning products are remarkably effective compared to their Vanir counterparts. His knees and wrists are distinctly grateful for the significant decrease in the amount of frenetic scrubbing that is necessary to accomplish his tasks here.

The living room is almost done; the only thing left now is the long row of bookshelves. He doesn’t dare to touch the books, no less open them, but he still peers curiously at the titles as he dusts them, trying to decipher them while being unobtrusive about it.

When he’s finished and is about to put the supplies away, Jarvis speaks up.

“You may read the books if you wish. Master Stark will not mind you doing so.”

He startles, at first concerned that his presumptuous desires had been so obvious despite his attempts to be discreet, but then considers what the voice had actually said. Of course, Stark had told him to obey Jarvis – a servant obviously being of higher rank than a slave – but this wasn’t an order detailing what he must or mustn’t do, but what he may do.

And Loki is not used to such instructions. In Vanaheim, it was either do or don’t.

He hesitates. No, he doesn’t think that Jarvis is trying to get him into trouble with Stark by luring him into doing something he’s not supposed to, but it still feels… inappropriate. Like the books aren’t meant for his touch, like reaching out for them will make him break an invisible barrier that isn’t supposed to be broken.

He stands there looking at the books longingly for several minutes.

----------

When Stark comes back, the chime of the elevator heralding his return, Loki is sitting in the living room, reading, ever so slowly as the writing system is coming back to him. He holds his breath as the man approaches, wondering if Stark is going to be mad at him. Not only is he reading a book but he even sat down in an armchair, as opposed to on the floor, remembering Stark’s previous orders.

Stark stops and studies Loki for a minute or two.

“Atlas Shrugged, huh? Well, if you finish that, you will be the first person I know to make it all the way to the end.”

Chapter Text

Eventually, the question he’s been dreading is posed to him, as they’re sitting at the dinner table eating the Midgardian dish known as pepperoni pizza, Stark having opened the conversation with a few words about the device he’s currently building. And frankly, he had expected it much earlier since the man asked him this already back in Vanaheim, even though he had been unable to answer it back then.

“So how did you end up back there?”

So Loki has no other choice than to tell him. He fiddles a little with the remaining crust in his hand and then begins to recount the story of his escape from his cell in Asgard, how he had thought he could hide in Vanaheim, unaware of what had transpired there, and his eventual discovery and capture. He skims when describing what transpired in the dungeons; he doesn’t want to talk about that and he gets the feeling that Stark, perceptive as he is, is drawing his own, mostly correct, inferences.

Then he describes in somewhat more detail the brief trial that followed, the one that ended with his being sentenced to spend the rest of his life in slavery. He ends his story there; his humiliating and painful servitude is another theme he cares little about revisiting.

“Huh. Rough.” Stark says. “For all your magic and shit, you’re still stuck living in Medieval times.”

‘Medieval’ is rendered to him as ‘a long time ago by Midgardian standards’ by the Allspeak. He has no comment to that.

“So tell me another thing. Why did you decide to invade New York?”

And that’s one question he cares for answering even less. But Stark has asked, so he has no choice but to tell the truth.

“I had… misguided ambitions that led me to do the things I did. I was jealous and angry, and Earth… paid the price. I did not see the wrongness of my actions back then.”

“But you do now?”

He bows his head. How can he not, after having suffered what he did in Vanaheim?

He takes a deep breath. “I have learnt what it truly means to be powerless and what it is like when others take advantage of that.” He makes a short pause. “I do realize now that what I did was wrong, and I regret all the suffering that I caused so recklessly. If I could, I would take it all back.” He would. And not only because of the situation it has landed him in.

“Huh. Experience is sometimes the toughest but most effective teacher, isn’t it?”

If Stark knows personally what Loki is talking about – and something in his voice tells Loki that he might – he makes no further comment on it, merely reaches for another slice of pizza and proceeds to stuff himself.

“Hmm, you know what,” he says thoughtfully, mouth full. “This needs more cheese on it. Next time I’m gonna fucking order from Pepe’s Pizza around the corner regardless of what that NY Times review said about ‘kitchen’ and ‘rats’.”

-------------

Being down in Stark’s lab is considerably more interesting than cleaning the man’s floors and furniture. Even if it’s mostly so that Stark can get various readings from him and the residues of seidr that are supposedly still clinging to him.  

On the table are several thick print-outs and he surmises that they are the translations that Jarvis has made of the Vanir books. So it would seem that not everything that Stark reads, if he has a choice, is on a screen, then.

The scanner from before comes out again, Stark waving it around – rather excitedly – in his left hand. “Okay, you know the drill, hold still and tell me if things start to get painful.”

“Yes, Master,” Loki says dutifully.

But instead of being slowly moved along his body as expected, the scanner is put down on the work table.

“You know, that ‘Master’ shtick is kind of getting old.”

Loki wrinkles his forehead in confusion. “I… don’t understand?”

“What I mean is, stop calling me that. It’s rubbing me the wrong way.”

He hesitates for a few seconds. “Jarvis calls you Master,” he finally dares, a part of him shocked by his own audacity to challenge Stark like this.

Stark looks flustered. “Yeah, well, that’s not the same kind of ‘Master’.”

Loki frowns. And here he was starting to think that maybe he was perhaps beginning to understand Stark just a tiny little bit. But this is utterly incomprehensible as far as he can see. Jarvis’s status as a servant is higher than Loki’s position as a slave; it makes no sense that the deferential address should be requested by him but not by Loki.

“Anyway, ‘Stark’ works just fine.”

Once more, he wonders if this is a test. But so far, the ones he has failed he all managed to fail by picking what he thought should be the correct choice.

“As you wish… Stark,” he says. Then he watches as the man calibrates the scanner. There are no consequences forthcoming for the inappropriate address.

-------------

The work with the device that Stark is building proceeds slowly but surely forwards. More and more often, Loki is called upon to assist Stark in his work, even if it’s mostly just him sitting as still as possible in a chair. He’s curious, and finally he gathers the courage to ask.

“May I ask what it is that you’re building?”

Stark looks up from his screen. “You may. It’s a teleportation device. Or at least it will be, once it’s finished.”

Loki’s eyes widen. “You… you do realize that it’s very risky to travel like that?”

“Hey, I’m starting small. My first project is to make a pen,” – he points to the writing device lying on the table – “go from here to my living room. Not going to try it myself until I know it’s actually working. I can risk a pen, though. This one I even got for free, so it won’t even be a financial loss.” He picks it up and reads the tiny print on the side. “Pearson’s Electronics. They’re always sending me useless shit, thinking it will make me buy more of their stuff.”

He relaxes a little. Not that he really thought Stark would be stupid enough to try such a potentially dangerous device on himself first, but the man does seem rather… reckless.

And there’s another question that’s been sitting on his tongue for quite a while without ever being able to leave it. Slaves aren’t supposed to ask nosy questions, and Stark might get annoyed with him. But this time he decides to risk it.

“May I ask something else?”

“Yeah. And you don’t need to ask permission to ask questions. If I don’t feel like answering something, I won’t.”

“How come you have no other slaves working for you? I mean, someone as wealthy as you…” He doesn’t finish the sentence. The point should be clear enough regardless.

Stark’s hand has started to move towards the scanner, but it freezes in mid-air. He snaps around to regard Loki with a look on his face that would certainly not have been any different than if Loki had suddenly sprouted horns or wings.

“Okay, okay… that’s just… oh, wow. Looks like we need to rewind the tape a little bit here. Like, to the very beginning.” He rubs his face in a way that has grown very familiar to Loki by now.

Somehow, it seems that every such time he can recall he has been the cause of that face rubbing.

“So, Loki, what would you say if I were to tell you that there are no slaves here on Earth? Okay, perhaps there are in some local shitholes, for all intents and purposes, but even in those places it’s pretty sketchy goings on the legal spectrum. But at least here in the US, the landmass that you happen to have your ass seated on right now, keeping slaves is illegal as hell.”

This time it’s his turn to gape.

“What?”

“Yeah, it’s like I said, believe it or not. Slavery is outlawed. There are no slaves. No one owns any. End of story.”

The ramifications of this are almost too much to take in. So he begins with one of the easier ones to deal with. “But… who performs the labour that the noblemen and other wealthy people need done on their estates?”

“You got money, you can simply buy whatever services or goods you want. Except for people, that is.” He gives Loki a crooked smile. “Didn’t you learn even the basic civics during your previous little sojourn here?”

Loki’s head is spinning. He thought he had learned things about Midgard back then, but somehow he totally managed to pass this over. How arrogant he had been, how ignorant and yet conceited. No wonder his attempted invasion of this realm had failed; he knew nothing of Midgard or its people.

But the most important consequence of this has yet to be answered. Because what place does that leave him here? As Stark’s slave, he would at least know where he stands here in Midgard in the scheme of things, now that there is nothing else left for him anywhere. There would have existed clear expectations – as obscure as they may have appeared to him – and he would have had a given place, a lot in life, no matter how lowly.

And now Stark tells him that there are no slaves.

Not that it changes his situation, of course; he’s still bound to serve and obey Stark, but he finds himself in a strange limbo. If he’s not a slave by Midgard’s standards, then what is he?

He decides to ask that too.

“What am I then, by your standards here on Earth?”

Now it is Stark’s turn to seem taken aback and confused, as if this question never occurred to him before.

He remains silent for several minutes before answering.

“Well, you’re…you’re… You’re here, I guess, and that means we’ll have to make the best out of it.”

Chapter Text

And then, the day that Jarvis once promised him finally comes.

“Master Stark would like you down in the lab,” the now familiar voice rings out from the ceiling. Compliantly, Loki puts the book aside that he’s been reading and heads to the elevator. He likes it when he can help out, even if his assistance so far has been more passive than active, Stark being the one doing most of the actual work.

He expects to be placed beneath that scanner again, or one of the other couple of devices that apparently collect useful readings from his person, but this time, it turns out to be about something else.

“Hey,” Stark says as Loki approaches, about to sit down in his usual chair, the one without armrests for easier access and measuring. “I need you to help me with something.”

Loki’s eyebrows perk up a little at that. This sounds different from Stark’s usual requests, like something that might perhaps require a bit more active participation from his side. At least he hopes it does. He would have liked that.

Stark swivels around in his movable chair to face Loki. In his hand, there are several sheets of papers with finely printed text on them. The man waves them around for emphasis as he speaks. “So I’ve been reading those books I brought back – well, or at least the translation Jarvis made of them – and it’s some interesting stuff right there. Though some of it is rather ambiguous, or, to put it more clearly, straight out incomprehensible.” He gestures again with the wad of paper. “So I’ve collected a bunch of question on the source material and how to interpret it. I figured that you might be able to answer at least some of them, with your centuries of magical acquaintance and all.”

Loki feels his heart make a little leap at that. Of course, his own field of specialty has always been Aesir magic and not the Vanir brand, but the general principles are still the same, no matter from which branch of Yggdrasil the power is drawn.

He nods. “I will answer your questions to the best of my abilities,” he promises.

“Cool,” Stark says, handing the sheets over to Loki. “Just work at your own pace, there’s no immediate hurry for now.” He points towards the table where the books from Vanaheim are lying in heaps on top of each other. “And if you need to access the original material, feel free to go ahead.”

Loki can hear the choked but still audible gasp emanating from his own mouth at that, but Stark doesn’t seem to notice as he returns to tapping away on the keyboard in front of him, seemingly unaware of the momentous words he has just spoken.

Stark has just given him permission to read the Vanir books. Books whose texts most likely no sorcerer from Asgard has ever laid his eyes on, save for a few excerpts.

But the most significant part of it isn’t that Loki can now access knowledge previously as unavailable to him as a mountain to a deep-water fish. As much as he still thirsts for the knowledge contained within those tomes, if for no other reason now than to slake the curiosity that has been burning inside of him for centuries, he is of course no longer able to make use of it in his magic-less state. Instead, there is another aspect that now looms larger, more significant.

He looks down at the list in his hands. It’s a long one. There must be over a hundred questions printed on those sheets, perhaps closer to two hundred. Stark must have been compiling that list for quite some time, adding questions as he worked through the translations, in preparation for a day that might perhaps never come.

Only now, that day has come. The day that Stark has decided that he can trust Loki with those books. That Loki won’t misuse the privilege granted him, that he won’t find a way to turn the arcane knowledge against Stark or otherwise deceive him. And that feels more important than the opportunity to sate his own private curiosity after so many centuries.

He straightens a little where he stands, eyes skimming the impressive collection of questions. Stark’s trust in him makes him feel honoured, and the last thing he wants is to let the man down. Silently, he resolves to do his utmost to give as useful and detailed answers to each and every question as he can manage.

And so, they both settle down to focus on their own respective work, Stark at his screen and Loki in front of his papers and the Vanir books. As tempting as it is to leaf through them and gorge himself on the enticing knowledge written on those pages, he decides not to do any reading merely for his own interest until he has worked through at least half of the list he’s been provided with.

He starts with jotting down a reply to the topmost question, an easy one that he could have answered after merely a couple of years of magic studies. The next one is trickier, though, and he has to think for several minutes before being able to formulate an answer that will make sense to a non-seidr user. His handwriting looks strange to him written in Midgard’s alphabet instead of the elegant runes he’s used to, but at least he feels confident enough to write in that foreign script now that he has read several of the books in Stark’s library.

And the work is quite enjoyable. Most questions have more to do with magic in general and not with anything that’s specific to the Vanir texts in front of him, but sometimes he does need to look something up to understand what Stark is referring to. And every time, he feels a stir of excitement inside of him as he allows himself to open one of those books and come face to face with its well-kept secrets.

But even when he can easily answer the question asked by utilizing only the knowledge contained in his own mind, he still finds the task rewarding. The answer might be obvious and simple to him, but it remains a challenge to translate it into something that will be useful and understandable to Stark whose frame of reference is an entirely different one.

It’s a very welcome change, working with his head as opposed to his body. Time flies, and the tip of the pen in his hand almost seems to glow as it rapidly fills sheet after sheet with explanations and clarifications.

Then comes a question that he doesn’t quite understand, despite how he twists and turns its wording around in his head. Stark is still occupied at his screen, intensely focused, but Loki decides to ask him anyway. He doesn’t want to risk forgetting the question if he saves it for later and then handing Stark an incomplete assignment.

“Stark?” he says. The address feels strange in his mouth, unaccustomed. “I’m not quite sure I understand this question.” There seems to be something missing at the end of his sentence, a specific word left unspoken.

But despite the strangeness, he likes it, getting to address Stark so… casually.

Almost as if--

He quenches the thought before it can fully form in his head, instead pointing to the relevant unclarity as Stark turns around to look at the list held out before him.

“Your inquiry about the Astral Plane,” he says by way of clarification. “It’s not situated on any of the branches of the World Tree, so it means there are no--”

Stark waves a hand. “Meh, just skip it if it doesn’t make any sense. A lot of the questions I sort of just made up on the spot anyway, before I really knew what I was asking.”

“As you wish, Mast-- Stark,” he corrects, almost forgetting himself and what Stark told him just the other day.

But the man seems not to notice his slip-up. Or at least not care.

Returning to his list, he can’t help but finding it strange that Stark does not wish for the respectful title that he’s fully entitled to, but he has no doubt that he will quickly grow used to it, just like he has grown used to all the other unexpected things that turned out to await him here in Midgard.

He still remembers the words Stark had spoken, the ones where he had told Loki that he wasn’t a slave. At least not by Midgard’s standards. Or, perhaps more importantly, by Stark’s standards.

But one unanswered question still remains – what is he by his own standards? Until that particular conversation, he had of course thought of himself as Stark’s slave, albeit a very pampered and favoured slave, more like one in name rather than in practice. But, still a slave.

And now?

He has no answer.

For a long time, he ponders that question and its implications instead of the ones he should be focusing on, the ones printed on the papers before him. In the end, he can come up with no better answer than the one Stark had offered when asked the very same question.

He’s here.

And perhaps that is the best, most relevant answer. He’s here, and what happens from here on will at least to some extent depend on himself and what he decides to make of his situation. He can choose to be useful or not. To be resentful or not. Helpful or not. There are still a lot of choices for him to make; neither Stark nor anyone else will be making them for him. Of course he won’t have the range of choices available to him that he had in another life, but while Vanaheim had offered him none, at least now he has some.

And perhaps that’s the best answer he will be able to find for himself.

He flinches slightly at the sound of the door to the lab closing with a curt thud, interrupting his musings. Looking up, he expects to see Stark gone, but the situation turns out to be the opposite; the man has just entered. Apparently Loki had been so deeply entrenched in his own thoughts that he didn’t notice when Stark left and closed the door behind him the first time.

There’s a big plastic bowl in the man’s hand; from the smell emanating from it Loki can tell that it contains something edible, though to him unidentifiable.

“I brought us some popcorn,” Stark says as he proceeds to put the bowl down on the table and then grab a fistful of its whitish contents. He chews a few times, the food crunching audibly between his teeth. “Try some, they’re really good!”

Hesitantly, Loki reaches out to sample this new, unfamiliar foodstuff. There are still so many new types of food encountering him here; Midgard seems to have an endless supply of culinary inventions.

The white, puffy shapes don’t taste like much, though, mostly salt and not much else.

But these… popcorns are still special, not because of their taste – which is rather bland – but because of another reason entirely. He can still recall the first time he and Stark had eaten a meal together, that one time the man had told Loki to sit on the chair opposite from him. That in itself had been amazing enough, of course, but there had still had been two separate boxes of food.

But now there are not. Now they’re eating out of the same bowl. Stark is sharing his food with Loki, like one might share with an equal.

And that feels special. So he takes another handful of the bulbous shapes, enjoying every chew, despite the decidedly unimpressive taste.

“They’re really good, huh?” Stark asks, his own mouth full.

Loki merely nods. Perhaps his response is not entirely truthful to the question as Stark intended it, but he still doesn’t consider it a lie – barring the taste, the popcorns are much better than just good.

He can recall how he had stood before the bathroom mirror staring at his own reflection after Stark had cut his hair, secretly thinking to himself that he looked like a free man.

But sharing Stark’s food like this, he can’t stop the odd stirring inside of him, can’t stop how it’s now making him also feel like a free man.

Well, not entirely free, of course, he still doubts that Stark would let him walk out of here if he wanted to, but it’s close enough. And besides, it’s not like that little detail matters when he has nowhere to go anyway.

The feeling stirring inside of him again, he grabs another handful of the bland and yet strangely sparkling popcorns.

Chapter Text

“That magic binding you’ve got on you is pretty interesting,” Stark tells him one day as they’re down in the lab. “The delta-polar radiation I’m sending out at it is all deflected, except there’s this ultra-thin, well, chink along the edge where the radiation passes through. Like a reinforced steel door you can still pass a piece of paper beneath.”

Loki startles a little at that. He hadn’t realized that Stark had been doing readings on the seal blocking his magic too, he had simply assumed that it was his own seidr residues that had been the object of the man’s research.

But he nods. Even if Stark is coming at this from a scientific angle, Loki understands the magical equivalent of the phenomenon the man is talking about.

“Yes. The seal is… attached. It cannot float freely if it is to function as a bond.” It’s difficult to express this in non-magical terms – if Stark had been a sorcerer, Loki would have put it differently and been understood immediately – but he does his best to find words that might make sense to Stark. “There will always be a razor-thin space beneath it where it attaches, but it’s not wide enough by far for any seidr to slip through.” He feels a stab of pain as he speaks the sad state of things out loud, even now.

“Interesting. And what’s even more interesting, according to my calculations, it seems that if the ray of delta-polar radiation were concentrated say maybe twenty times or so, it would be possible to nudge that seal, just a tiny little bit. Stretch the attachment, sort of.”

Stark is using very different words, but Loki knows exactly what phenomenon Stark is talking about. The seal has an attachment where the binding wards connect with his seidr to block it and can be slightly moved within the frame of that attachment since it’s not completely rigid. He had thought that such a nudging could only be done by another sorcerer using his magic to slip through and push, but now Stark is saying he can do the same with his science. It would still only be a tiny insignificant tendril of seidr that would be able to get through, but…

In the blink of an eye, he’s on his knees before Stark, despite the man having told him he didn’t want to see Loki down there, desperately clutching at him like a drowning man at a piece of floating wood.

“Please, please, I beg you!” He babbles, incoherently, but is utterly unable to stop himself. If there’s a chance, any chance at all, that he could have even the most microscopic amount of seidr back… “I’d do anything, I would swear you my eternal loyalty, I would…” Of course, he knows full well that he can’t truly offer anything that Stark isn’t already entitled to, but still. If only the tiniest spark of green would be his again…

Stark looks taken aback by the vehement force of Loki’s reaction. So he pushes on.

“I would only use it on your orders, in your service, only as you wish me to! Please!”

Stark hesitates, uncertain. There is no reply.

“I will swear myself as your bondsman!” Loki offers in desperation.

This finally gets a reaction out of Stark, even if it’s not the one he had hoped for. “As my what?”

So this is another thing that Midgard doesn’t have then. But of course. He curses his own stupidity. Midgard doesn’t have sorcerers, so obviously they don’t have bondsmen.

“It’s an arrangement used when… ” It’s difficult to describe this concept to someone who is unfamiliar with it, so he has to search for the right words. “A sorcerer can choose to enter into it when there is a debt of such size that it can only be paid through life-long servitude.”

And he owes a life-debt to Stark. For… everything.

Stark looks deeply sceptical, a deep frown on his forehead. “You mean slavery? Didn’t we already go through this?”

“No! Not slavery! It would mean that my magic would be inextricably bound to you. I would only be able to use my seidr in your service, on your orders.” It’s very rare that someone has entered upon such an arrangement, but it’s been known to happen. And it would be a small price to pay if he could feel even the faintest touch of seidr again…

He gestures toward the piles of books from Vanaheim. “There is a detailed description of it in volume two of Spell-casting, how the bond works and what its effects are.” One of the few excerpts he’s read from Embla of Ravnaby’s books, the bondsman concept being no secret among sorcerers.

Stark does still not seem convinced, and why should he be? He’s personally familiar with what ill doings Loki used his seidr for when he last had it. Even if there is no way for Loki to misuse his magic again through a bondsman agreement, Stark might not want to take any risks. He feels his hopes plummet as he looks at Stark’s still sceptical face.

“Please,” he whispers pathetically. “I would not – could not – misuse my seidr. It would be firmly bound by your will.”

Stark sighs. “Hm. All I will say is that I’ll look into it. Which volume did you say I could find out more about this bondsman stuff?”

And Loki supposes that that’s all he’s going to get for now.

--------------

It’s several days later that Stark breaches the subject again.

“So I read up a bit on this bondsman stuff.”

Loki freezes. Is this the time that Stark will tell him that he doesn’t want to go through with it, he doesn’t trust Loki not to find a loophole to misuse his powers again? He almost wishes he hadn’t brought the subject up. To have been so close and then have his hopes dashed would be unbearable.

“Let’s go for it.”

His head snaps up. Did he hear correctly? Does Stark truly mean that…?

“I figure it can’t hurt. That book offered a pretty clear picture of the whole deal. And you having a little bit of your mojo back would be… interesting.”

The world is spinning. The pit of his stomach is flooded with heat. His legs and arms feel oddly heavy and light at the same time. Stark is offering him that which no one else in the Nine Realms ever would or could offer.

“I would be eternally in your debt!” His voice is breaking, not quite able to carry the words. “I would--“

“Yeah, point clear,” Stark says with a wave of his hand. “But I warn you, you’re going to have to spend pretty much your entire waking time down here in my lab, ‘cause I’d have like a million tests I’d want to run on you.”

He’s shaking as he’s sitting down in the chair Stark directs him to. He can’t believe that this is happening. He can’t.

It feels like forever that Stark is setting up his machines and devices, connecting and calibrating and testing. There’s beeping and blinking and vibrating.

And then it’s all ready. “Alright, the delta photon ray is running at top speed and set to go. Ready?”

He’s been ready for this since they put that accursed seal on him.

“Yes.” He swallows. “I swear my magic to your service, Stark, as your bondsman, for the rest of my life.”

He can feel the photon ray pulsing, sending out waves of prickling heat. For several minutes nothing happens, and then he can feel something shift inside of him. The seal moves, a small, minute shift barely perceptible, but he knows it is enough. Enough for him to touch his seidr.

He reaches out, and there it is, the smallest glimmer of green. So tiny, but still like ice-cold water to a parched throat, like the sweetest healing balm on a festering wound. He gives himself over to the amazing feeling, basking in the glory of his magic. It’s freedom, it’s happiness, it’s life. He sweeps himself inside of it like a freezing man would with a coat. He could cry. In fact, he thinks he’s crying, but he doesn’t care about that. It’s finally there.

“Uh, Loki?” There’s suddenly a hand on his shoulder, shaking him.

Startled, he opens his eyes, not until now aware that he had closed them.

“I hate to disturb you since you’re wearing that weird smiling happy face, but you’ve been sitting there for like ten minutes now. Everything alright?”

Alright? That would be like calling a storm flood ‘moist’.

“It feels… amazing.” He bows his head. “Thank you, Stark. I will never be able to pay you back for this.”

The man shrugs, adjusting a knob on one of the devices. “So I take it it worked, then?”

He nods. Of course, he can’t actually use his seidr because it’s now bound to Stark and the man hasn’t issued him with any orders or instructions yet, but he can still feel it. He can still touch it.

“Okay, so show me something you can do.”

It’s not much, of course. Truth be told, he can barely do anything with so little seidr, but the fact that he can do anything at all is nevertheless enough to make him delirious with happiness.

He reaches out and directs his powers towards the pen lying a little bit away. The one Stark said he would try to teleport to his living room. It twitches slightly; it doesn’t quite lift from the surface, his powers too small, but he can still make it roll over.

“Cool,” Stark comments, an eyebrow raised. “And like I said, I have a bazillion tests and stuff I want to run on you while you’re doing your thing. But the rest of the time, you’re free to play around with it as long as you don’t do anything stupid with it, okay?”

Inside of him, he can feel the bond shift to adjust to Stark’s orders.

Inside of him, he can feel true happiness for the first time since forever.

-------------

He never grows tired of playing around with that small, green spark. He reaches for it first thing in the morning and holds onto it until sleep takes him. It’s like his surroundings have turned brighter, their colours more vibrant. The ugly plastic plants that Stark keeps on the windowsills look greener, alive, even; and the sun rays streaming in from the windows more golden. And the water sparkles like crystal when he turns it on to drink from the tap.

While it might be like splashing around in a shallow puddle as opposed to diving in a bottomless ocean, for a man who has been languishing in the desert the puddle is wonderful enough. He still can’t quite believe that Stark has granted him this.

Jarvis suddenly interrupts his musings by informing him that Stark wants him down in the lab. More testing, then. He doesn’t mind that one bit. He’ll happily submit to the most tedious and lengthy testing the man is able to dream up.

But it turns out that for once, Stark doesn’t want him down there for any tests.

“Hey, check this out!” he says excitedly, pointing towards the device on his workbench as Loki has barely exited the elevator. “It’s my, uh… my teleportator, all ready for the first test round! And I’d figured you’d get the honour of watching as Tony Stark, the first person on Earth to achieve the impossible, makes an object go from here to there without passing in between!”

Loki studies the device, so different from a teleportation portal in the other realms. Granted, this machine will only be transporting an inanimate object and not a person, but still.

“You are aware that these things could be dangerous if not properly constructed?”

“Meh. Danger is my middle name.” Stark waves a hand, cocky as ever. “I’ve done all the calculations correctly; Jarvis has gone over them as well. And besides, I’m only going for this pen, for now.”

He makes a little flowery motion with his hand. “So, behold!”

And with that, he demonstratively presses a button. The pen lying on a metal platform in the centre of the machine starts to glow softly with a ghostly light. It flickers for a few seconds and then disappears.

“See that?” Stark shouts in triumph. “It worked! I knew it would fucking work! My calculations were correct! I knew it!”

Loki is about to congratulate Stark to his no small achievement for a mortal, but then he senses that something is wrong. It takes him only a moment to understand what is happening. The containing barriers that Stark has built in – if he has built them in at all, oh norns! – are not strong enough and the powerful forces he’s put into motion are spinning out of control, reaching out beyond the little platform the pen had been placed on.

It’s too late to even shout out a warning. There’s the familiar surge of inter-realm teleportation, then the image of Stark’s lab disappears and is replaced by the shimmering hues of a million rainbows.

Chapter Text

He finds himself on his hands and knees, head spinning from the violent push-and-pull of the uncontrolled teleportation. The ground feels like a ship on the ocean, surging gently, and he has to blink several times before coming to.

Having somewhat found his bearings, he looks up and stares into a vast darkness above, an infinite celestial arch stretching into empty space, a chasm of nothingness interspersed with scattered twinkling stars and purple supernovas glittering distantly.

He knows immediately where they are. The Astral Plane. The space between the realms.

Then he hears Stark’s familiar voice behind him, and its predictable exclamation.

“What the fuck?”

He’s about to relax, all seems to be as it should be with his unwilling travel companion. But then comes a much less expected and much more worrying exclamation.

“Hey, get off me!”

He whirls around, and to his horror sees a forest of thick, black tendrils, swirling like smoke, slithering around the man, like an octopus reaching out for its prey with its many tentacles. They’re slowly but surely winding themselves around his arms and legs, feeling and probing. Vapour rises from the surface of the tendrils, copious layers of whirling steam that evaporates without ever decreasing the mass it came from.

Chaos.

He’s well acquainted with that force, that screaming nothingness that feeds on the other forces of the cosmos, devouring them. Having sensed their arrival, it has torn open a rift in the cosmic fabric and its black tentacles are now reaching out like slimy snakes twisting and slithering obscenely. Chaos cannot sense physical presences in themselves, but there are now powerful cosmic forces clinging to Stark from his teleportation device that draws it as surely as iron flakes to a magnet.

His own meagre powers, as he reaches for his seidr, make a tiny smoky tendril come slithering into his direction where it pokes curiously but carefully around him, like a dog having picked up a scent. It undulates indecently against his ankle but without grabbing hold of him. But Loki knows that it will soon enough.

There’s an angry but terrified yell as Stark pushes back against his assailant, trying to wrench loose his limbs from the gripping tendrils, but they only grasp him harder, unperturbed by his struggles.

“Let me go, you fucking slimy Cthulhu wannabe! Hey, stop it! What the fuck!”

The panic in Stark’s voice is not only audible, but overwhelming.

He pushes against the seal holding his powers. It doesn’t budge an inch. He pounds harder, and then much, much harder, like a desperate prisoner throwing himself against the bars of his cell.

Still nothing.

The tendril slithering around him becomes more eager, more interested, as he calls upon his tiny seidr, trying to draw up more of it than he has access to. But the vast mass of Chaos is still focused on Stark as it closes in on him, slithering around his arms and legs, feeling its way around.

The man struggles valiantly and desperately, but Loki knows that this is one fight that Stark won’t win.

He wants to barge forth and tear those tendrils off Stark, but he knows his hands will only slide right through that twisting mass if he tries, despite the firm grip it has on its prey. He remembers what one of his magic teachers once said, an old wizard with skin like wrinkled parchment – you don’t hold Chaos, Chaos holds you.

He can see the rift from where the tendrils are protruding, the gaping tear in the fabric of space. If the tendrils pull Stark into that rift, into Chaos’ centre of absolute nothingness, Stark will disintegrate, his atoms ceasing to exist. Nothing survives contact with pure, undiluted Chaos.

He could still go back. Chaos has yet to get a hold of him, like it has of Stark. His powers, insignificant as they are, are still enough to lead him back to where he came from. Getting to the Astral Plane is what takes immense power, creating a passage in the fabric of space. Returning is easy, one merely has to follow the still open passage back before it slowly closes again. It can be done even with his minuscule supply of seidr.

But he won’t leave Stark here.

He tugs desperately at the seal separating him from the endless sea of green so close and yet so far away. It doesn’t budge an inch. Helplessly, he watches as more tendrils close in on Stark, almost covering him fully now, his face all but invisible as the smoky blackness swallows him up. Stark’s terrified yells are more muffled now, but the utter desperation in them still clear.

No.

He pulls and pushes, rips and tears, but it’s impossible. The seal continues to refuse him access, jealously guarding his seidr. He tries to find a rift in it, no matter how tiny, but its smoothness refuses to reveal a single fault line, not even the thinnest of cracks.

Then the tendrils slowly start to withdraw towards the rift, taking their prey with them. Desperately, Loki draws on all his strength, pulling at his seidr, screaming in frustration.

No. It will not take Stark. He will not let it.

He tears, clawing, at the seal, his mind ripped and ragged as it throws itself against the sharp edges of that seal again and again, fighting for access, for entrance. There’s pain tearing at him from the inside out, but he ignorers it, sweat dripping.

And now the seal hisses back at him as it starts to actively fight his efforts with all its might, attacking him to keep the seidr from his grasp. It stabs at him as he assails it, trying to hurt him. There’s a terrible screaming in his head, his insides feeling like they’re about to be torn out.

He can barely breathe. Indescribable pain laces through him, a searing horror that must be about to split him in half any second now. His limbs are burning, his head blazing, and his innards scorching, and there is no relief to be had, only pure, undiluted agony.

But all he can think is, you will not have Stark.

And then, the seal rips.

And, like an unstoppable surge of waves born of triumph and victory, his powers come rushing back all at once, whirling and singing inside of him. The golden green courses through him with the power of a thousand suns, like water from a floodgate thrown wide open, gloriously as it rushes forth, as uncontainable as a landslide. It tears through him, filling every fibre of his being with life.

And just like that, he’s Loki of Asgard again, sorcerer and caller of seidr. And Loki of Asgard draws himself up, calling forth upon all his might to strike out against his enemy, that black nothingness, concentrating his formidable powers in a devastating attack.

Chaos roars soundlessly but ferociously in his head, a wall of rage making his ears ring from the massive pressure, and rears up to face this unexpected attack, furious. It comes crushing down on him with the force of a tsunami, but he holds strong, sparkles of green flying all around him as his magic crashes into Chaos.

From the corner of his eye he can see how the blackish tentacles surrounding Stark withdraw from their quarry, now sensing the much stronger force of his seidr. Quickly, he diverts a part of his magic to create an arched dome of green around Stark, to shield him from the swirling tendrils. Some of them, drawn to this newly created manifestation of cosmic powers, slither over the shield, probing but unable either to make their entrance or form a grip around the shiny surface.

Then he strikes again at the massive and yet insubstantial presence, its wrath terrible as it lashes back at him with full force. He stumbles back from the devastating impact, but his seidr still holds forth. He draws upon it again, and it rushes into him as dependably and unfailingly as if it was never gone at all.

Again, Chaos howls in frustration at being denied its prey. It rears up for another attack, black nothingness towering above him, and strikes down on him, raw power concentrated in a crushing blow. He can feel the terrible surge of non-existence emanating from that dreadful presence, and how it hungers for his seidr. The shield of thrumming magic he has quickly formed to protect himself trembles from the impact but doesn’t crack. His seidr reshapes itself, seemingly by its own volition, to form a concentrated lance of magic that shoots out in a vicious counterattack towards his foe. He hears himself laughing, and it is not the sound of a slave or thrall held in bondage and servitude in a realm faraway, no, it’s the sound of a victor.

He strikes again and again, quickly and swiftly, leaving Chaos no opportunity to form any attacks of its own. It can only roar in frustration and rage as he pushes it closer and closer towards the rift. Its long tendrils undulate impotently, trying to grab hold of an enemy it can no longer reach. The black vapour emanating from its shapeless mass swirl, making it look like a predator breathing its foul breath into the winter air. A tendril rises up to stab at him, but it cannot penetrate his seidr and slides futilely off the barrier.

Another lunge, Chaos throwing itself against him with frightening force, but he counters it with a massive wall of golden green. It’s strong, but his seidr is stronger, singing gloriously in his ears. Chaos will not defeat Loki of Asgard today.

He pushes forth, pressing against the furious shape. It’s retreating, now, tendril after tendril slipping back into the rift. It slithers and undulates in its rage, but it’s powerless against the superior force facing it. There’s a final roar of fury and then the last of the swirling non-existence slides back to where it came from. The rift closes seamlessly behind it as if it had never existed at all.

For several moments he stands there staring into the void surrounding him. A cluster of stars twinkle somewhere above him as if acknowledging the powerful presence that has made its unexpected appearance light-years away. He’s suddenly awestruck by the beauty of the magnificent view opening up before him. The cloudy purple and pink and white spirals of distant galaxies spread out on the black sky, creating an amazing tapestry like nothing seen in the physical world. He stands listening to the silence for a while; here on the Astral Plane there is no sound, there is only a serene peace, a tranquil quiet that--

Suddenly there’s a loud, insistent banging behind him.

“Hey, let me out of here!” Stark shouts as he beats his fists against the green shield of seidr still covering him.

Oops.

He lets the shield fall. Stark looks like he has just been… well, about to be abducted and absorbed by Chaos.

But there is no point in lingering here any longer. Chaos is an insistent force and might decide to make another try for it if they dawdle. The passage that was created during their transport here is probably still open. And if not, it doesn’t matter. With his seidr back, he can easily create his own passage back to Stark’s lab.

Grabbing hold of the wide-eye man sitting on the ground, he gathers his seidr and pulls them both back to the physical world.

Chapter Text

The mundane and undramatic sight of Stark’s lab is a welcome one, despite its lack of majestic views into the cosmos.

Stark proceeds with collapsing into the nearest chair. His limbs are visibly trembling and Loki can’t blame him. It’s not everyday that Chaos tries to absorb you, after all.

Still, despite the danger they have just faced, he can’t help but feel strangely elated. And it’s not just from having his seidr back and no longer feeling that pressing emptiness gaping inside of him. No, this whole little adventure has made him feel more like himself again, like the old Loki of Asgard who would valiantly brave whatever dangers stood before him without cowering or cringing in fear.

But still not quite like the old Loki, who was prone to jealousy and petty anger and selfishness. No, perhaps it was indeed a new Loki standing there facing down the fury of Chaos, after all.

“Just where the hell were we?” Stark’s voice interrupts his musings. It’s almost steady, but tinged with the adrenaline and fear of someone who’s just been staring his own annihilation in the eye.   

“The Astral Plane. Also known as the space between the realms,” Loki answers. “That’s where you pass through when you travel from one realm to another.”

“And what the fuck was… that?” Stark makes a grimace.

“That was Chaos. It lurks just outside the Astral Plane and is drawn to the forces of the cosmos, feeding upon them like vultures on carrion. It felt the forces used to power your machine and came forth.”

Stark contorts his face again, looking at the device responsible for their little surprise journey. “You mean that thing could get… here? If it senses my, uh, teleportator again?”

Loki shakes his head. “No. The fabric of Yggdrasil is strong enough to hold it back, so it can’t break through to the physical world. The World Tree protects us from the forces that would otherwise devour us. But on the Astral Plane, the cosmic fabric is much weaker. If Chaos senses the presence of another force there, it can create a rift in the fabric and tear through.”

He makes a short pause. “And that’s why only the most powerful magicians travel between the realms. They have to cloak themselves in the strongest of wards, or Chaos might sense their presence and come for them.”

Stark’s face is still a greyish pallor, but he seems to have stopped trembling, now. “You’ve encountered that… thing before?”

“A few times.” And the first time, his seidr had almost not proved stronger than Chaos. It’s not an encounter he particularly cares to recall.

Stark suddenly turns a few shades further towards the white end of the colour spectrum. “Hey, what about that teleportation thing we used in Vanaheim? You mean to say we could have run into that monstrosity on the way? Oh shit! And here they told me it was perfectly safe!”

“No, there would have been no risk of that at all. Such a portal uses the same passage every time and powerful sorcerers have fortified it with the strongest of protective wards. Chaos cannot sense anything of the people travelling through that passage.”

Of course, his own inter-realm travels have only rarely been through such portals. “But when travelling without such a portal between the realms, there is only one’s own magic to rely on, so it has to be very powerful. Or things could go… badly.”

Stark snorts. “Yeah, I can imagine.”

A beat of silence follows that.

Then, “Why didn’t you leave me?”

“You didn’t leave me in Vanaheim.”

Stark gives him a long look. “You saved my life, Loki. So, thanks. I owe you. I really do.”

Loki shrugs. “You owe me nothing. And even if you did, you have already paid off that debt in advance.”

There’s a long moment of silence again before Stark goes on to state the obvious.

“So your powers are back, huh?”

Loki gives a small smile. “Yes. And they’re wholly in your service, of course.”

Stark glances towards the books and the accompanying translated print-outs still lying on the table. “You know what? I’m not fucking touching those books again. And I’ll destroy that lame-ass teleportator.”

He rubs his temples and then shakes his head.

“I was so totally certain my calculations were right. And yet…”

Loki shrugs. “I’m sure they were. But you can’t calculate Chaos.”

--------------

They settle into a daily routine of working in the lab, eating lunch together, working even more, and then having dinner. Stark is of course utterly delighted to have Loki in his lab with his full powers back, repeatedly mentioning something called a Nobel prize. And Loki is only too happy to take part in Stark’s experiments and testing. Without Stark, he would have had nothing.

Truly nothing.

One day, as Stark sits tapping away at his keyboard, he suddenly stops and swivels his chair around to face Loki.

“You know, I read something in one of those books I brought back.”

Loki raises an eyebrow in his direction. “Oh? I thought you said you wouldn’t be touching any of them again?”

“Yeah, no, I’m not going to use them for… that kind of stuff again.” He makes a little swirling motion with his hand that Loki supposes is meant to indicate teleportation. “But there was something else mentioned in there. About bondsmen.”

“Is that so?”

“Uh-huh. And the book said that if a bondsman saves the life of his bondholder, the bondholder can release him from his bond of service by merely saying the words.”

Stark takes a deep breath. “So, without further ado… I release you, Loki. You’re free to go, free to do what you wish. Free to… yeah, whatever.”

And with that, the bond holding his magic disintegrates. He can feel it disappear, feel his magic coursing inside of him, free and unfettered, no longer bound by Stark’s will.

“Stark, I…” he begins, but the man just waves a hand at him.

“Well, I figure it makes us even.” He makes a sad little shrug. “Though, I will certainly miss having a lab partner around.”

Loki considers this. Considers his future, his possibilities. They are endless, now that his magic is back. And yet…

“I will continue to help you with your research,” he says.

Stark stares at him, his eyebrows going up.

Loki grins at him. “Judging by your latest efforts, it would seem like you could need someone who knows what they’re doing. And besides, I have a home here. Now, I won’t be here all the time; I will be coming and going, but I will be around to help you in your lab.” And who knows, perhaps to do other things as well.

And Stark has given him a home here. Here, he could actually have a purpose. Do something useful and not heedlessly chase after his own vain ambitions like the old Loki was so wont to do. Here, with his magic available to him, he could find a way to make amends for all the destruction and death he caused in what now feels like a lifetime ago.

And besides, he realizes that he would… miss Stark’s company if he were to leave for good.

-------------

Later in the evening, after having finished a take-away meal of pasta and chicken, they sit on the couch, talking about this and that, Stark elaborating on all the inventions he thinks he might be able to build with Loki’s magic to help him.

Then he stops himself mid-sentence.

“Hey, tell you what. I never gave you that drink I offered you once. We need to rectify that.” With that, he heads over to the bar and rummages around among all the colourful bottles lining the inside of the drink cabinet. “Whiskey? Rum? Vodka?”

“Whatever you’re having.”

Stark pours two glasses of clear liquid and then returns to the couch, handing one of the glasses to Loki.

“Thank you, Stark.” He empties it, enjoying the heat rushing down his throat.

He puts the glass down and grins. “Well, not bad for a Midgardian drink.”

“Hey, I’ll have you know that vodka cost me two hundred bucks!”

“Well, how about we have another glass then?”

Stark fills their glasses again and they drink.

“Oh, and one other thing, Loki.”

“What’s that, Stark?”

The man grins.

“Call me Tony, okay?”