Author's note: Hello good people, here's the next chapter for you! And please do remember to comment, I love to hear from you guys! :D
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.
End note: Yeah, I suppose most of this entire chapter was just building up to the unavoidable-disaster-that-could-be-spotted-from-a-million-miles-away… I think the number of you guys who expected this to end well would be, hmm, let me see, I'm guessing zero?
Anyway, I really think the image is hilarious of Tony sitting there at this big fancy feast wearing a golden suit that would be considered totally tacky and bad taste on pretty much any occasion in our world, and the Vanir being all, wow, that's some mighty fine and classy clothing right there. So yeah, hence the golden suit. :D
Poor Loki, though. :(