Author's note: Next stop: Midgard! Yay!
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."
End note: Well, that was the first Midgardian chapter! Not easy being Loki…