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.
End note: Why of course it's Tony Stark! Anyone care to guess how their first meeting will go? ;)