Author's note: Hmm, I kinda debated with myself back and forth, should I do this or not… but in the end I decided, WHY YES I SHALL! :D So, if any of you guys have read Poetic Justice you will definitely be recognizing a scene in this chapter. Just saying. ;) You might actually already be guessing which one…
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.
End note: Yes, Loki cleaning the floor with a toothbrush! And it's not stealing when you're stealing from yourself, it's recycling! What can I say, I really like the image of Loki cleaning the floor with a toothbrush so I couldn't resist the temptation to throw that in. ;)