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.
End note: I guess that could have gone better. Or worse. Whichever way you prefer to look at it.