Author's note: In response to Ellandra: Well, if you ever find the time to draw any fan art for this story, I'd be delighted and squee for days. ^^ (And of course, that goes for anyone of you guys. ;) )
Loki was right – Hallgrim is loud and boisterous alright, his voice rising high above the chatter as he tells a joke or anecdote, laughing so loud that Tony's ears are almost ringing and it's all he can do not to wince. But he pulls through; after all the cocktail parties he's been an unfortunate participant of, he's used to people like this.
Hallgrim himself is what the PC crowd would call big-boned, his red livery bulging over his protruding stomach, but no doubt there is a good bit of muscle underneath that blubber too, and like most other men here, he wears a sword at his belt whose hilt looks well-worn enough to not just be there for decorative purposes. Long reddish-brown hair and a bushy beard to match, Hallgrim would make a perfect Santa Claus in a few centuries' time when he's sufficiently older and grayer around the edges.
"And so, I told Ragnvald that if the girl wasn't pretty enough for him, then maybe he should just buy himself that old horse instead!" Hallgrim hollers the big finale of his latest tale, almost doubling over with laughter, roaring and slapping his thigh in amusement. Tony offers a polite smile, just wide enough not to offend.
He has to admit that so far, things have been going better than expected. Tony has managed to be all non-offending courtesy and politeness – handing over his token gift of appreciation to the host provided to him by Thor, offering his thanks for the gracious invitation, and then spending the rest of the time patiently listening to Hallgrim telling bawdy anecdotes while alternating between slapping his own thigh and Tony's shoulder, stomach heaving from the bouts of hearty guffaws.
As Hallgrim unblinkingly begins another story, Tony half tunes out, instead letting his gaze discreetly sweep over the surroundings. The dining hall they're standing in is large, with an impressive U-shaped table in the middle, and filled with people currently busy doing the Asgardian version of mingling, conversing politely as the table is being set by a group of servants, all wearing the same red and black clothes, like it's some kind of uniform. Perhaps the colours of Hallgrim's house, or maybe the guy just likes that particular combination. The rest of the room has been decorated with the same colour pattern as well, drapes and carpets and tapestries all sporting the theme of the day, but otherwise it looks the same as the rest of the Halls. A couple of statues, some runic ornaments, heavy wooden furniture with golden inlays – the usual stuff. Maybe he's gone blasé already.
The guests are all dressed to the teeth, so at least he doesn't have to feel out of place in his own silly renaissance garb, as awkward as the get-up makes him feel. Though, he has to admit that the cloak is starting to grow on him with the way it's stylishly sweeping behind him as he walks. Maybe he can sort of understand why these guys are so fond of them.
While Tony's exchanged some polite greetings with a few of the other guests, Hallgrim has more or less been monopolizing his foreign visitor ever since the second he stepped in here. And it seems like everyone is aware of their host's penchant for exotic aliens, because they all patiently indulge his desire to have Tony for himself, keeping a respectful distance.
Not that Tony is complaining, truth be told, it's easier having this guy stake his claim on him for the evening than have to worry about figuratively stepping on a whole bunch of other tender and sensitive noble toes by blurting out something he shouldn't. So far, Hallgrim has been doing most of the talking, which suits Tony just fine. His only concern is to get things over with as quickly and smoothly as possible, getting both himself and Loki out of here in one piece.
However, there's one particular part of the room that he finds utterly disturbing, and he's glad it's not directly in his line of sight – the corner where the accompanying slaves are waiting for the dinner to start or for their masters' demands to be attended to, whichever comes first. All of them conveniently pushed off to the side where they're out of the way, but still close enough to be called upon if their services should be needed.
And, to his knowledge, these are the first slaves he's seen here, apart from that ragged couple that passed him by in the market square when he arrived. At least these ones look to be in a somewhat more decent shape, better dressed and cleaner, though he supposes that they wouldn't have been brought along in the first place if they hadn't been reasonably presentable.
Still, these slaves are pulling off the act of being silent shadows just as well as those other two, as if they've spent their whole lives learning how to be as unobtrusive as possible and melt into the background like chameleons. And it just seems so wrong – they should be talking among themselves, chatting a bit to pass the time now that they're not having any duties to fulfil for the moment, but they're all keeping silent, looking demurely at the ground, as if they were merely part of the furnishing.
Some of the slaves have their heads shaved, whereas others do not. Unbidden, Loki's previous comment about unshaved hair on slaves resurfaces, how it suggests that they are bed slaves, and his stomach squirms in unease. Frankly, it's be better not to think about which of them are used in such ways by their masters – maybe it's all of them, or maybe no one, he really can't know for sure, hair or not.
He avoids looking at Loki; it's too disturbing having the god grouped together with these poor, wretched beings whose reason for existence has been reduced to being at the beck and call of their masters, without a purpose of their own.
But at least no one here has spoken to Loki, or even made a comment about him, so he tries to take some comfort in that. After all, it's better to have everyone here ignore him than make rude or gleeful commentary in his presence.
Even Hallgrim had acted as if Loki was invisible, offering no remarks whatsoever, not even raising as much as an eyebrow upon seeing who was accompanying his alien guest. Tony isn't sure if he dislikes or likes the guy for it – dislikes, because the way he treated Loki as if he was nothing more than empty air; likes, because he didn't gloat or make any deal out of the state of things.
He thinks he can see the occasional furtive glances in Loki's direction from some of the assembled guests, but nothing more than that, for which he is immensely grateful.
His gaze travelling back to Hallgrim again, he lifts his prettily carved mug still half-filled with beer, suppressing a yawn as he takes another restrained sip. It's as delicious as any of the beer he's tasted here so far, but he's firmly committed himself to not drinking very much tonight. Given that he's here with Loki in a place that is not Thor's, he wants to keep his full wits about him.
"So of course, we told the dwarves that they were free to come along, but only if they could…" Hallgrim's voice drones in the background.
He patiently nods his head at appropriate intervals during the exposition, pretending to be listening intently while watching the servants as they hasten back and forth on quick and nimble feet, carrying an assortment of pots and trays and baskets. Though the aromas reaching his nose are all wonderful, they really do nothing to help with his non-existing appetite. At least he made sure to have some food sent to his room before they left so Loki wouldn't have to sit through dinner being hungry, because there's no way he's going to feed him scraps at the table like a dog.
Eventually, the stream of servants trickles off until there are no longer any red and black uniforms running to and fro. Hallgrim's gaze goes from Tony to the set table, a satisfied grin on his face.
"Ah finally!" he exclaims, voluntarily interrupting his own story. He claps his hands together loudly, the smacks of his palms as loud as the rest of him as the conversations around him die down. "Dinner is served, my friends," he booms. "Please seat yourself!"
Obeying the wishes of their host, the throng of people disperses around the table, reminding Tony of preening peacocks with their fancy and colourful costumes. Unsure if there's a system to the seating arrangements that he's supposed to follow in order to avoid dirty looks or worse from the assembly, he waits for whatever chair will still be available when the rest have sat their well-dressed asses down, but Hallgrim grabs his upper arm, a ham-like hand pushing him forwards.
"Here, this seat over there is intended for you, Man of Iron," the big man indicates with his other hand, pointing across the table. "It would please me to have you close to my own seat so we can continue our conversation where we left off."
Oh well. Tony obliges, making his way around the table and seating himself down on the indicated oaken chair. Not too comfortable, but he's not planning on staying long anyway.
Hallgrim sits down in the chair opposite from him, looking immensely pleased with himself as he eyes the food and the assembled guests. Including Tony, his little exotic trophy on display for the evening.
Speaking of exotic things, he can't help but notice the decorations placed at regular intervals along the centre of the table – crystal balls about the size of both his fists put together, gleaming with strange lights and colours. Intrigued, he reaches out for the nearest one glittering with a pretty blue, blinking a couple of times as he studies it. It looks like there is a maelstrom of water swirling inside of it, powered by an unseen force.
"Ah," Hallgrim says, noticing Tony's piqued curiosity. "Those are magic crystals, a small piece of one of the elements tamed by a sorcerer and put inside the glass. The one currently in your hand contains the element of water, as you can no doubt see."
"Peachy," he says, juggling the ball between his hands, feeling its weight. "We do try our best to tame the elements back home as well, but not quite in this form."
Hallgrim nods to another one of the crystal balls; a light purple one occasionally lit up by little white flashes from its insides. "Have a closer look at that one."
Tony obeys and reaches out for the indicated ball, but immediately withdraws his hand as the thing crackles ominously and gives him a painful sting the moment he touches the surface. "Ouch!" he mutters as he cradles his hand to his chest, wanting to add something else too, but having the feeling that it might not go too well over with Hallgrim.
His host laughs heartily at Tony's reaction. "And that one, my friend, contains the element of lightning. You should be glad it's confined within the crystal, though, or you would have found yourself in a lot more pain than a mere sting!" he chuckles in amusement.
Funny guy. He wonders if Hallgrim likes to pull this trick on all his foreign guests or if Tony is just special.
A movement out of the corner of his eye catches Tony's attention, and he looks up. The group of statue-like slaves seem to have awoken from their previous petrifaction and are making their way over to the table, silently and unobtrusively taking their place next to their masters.
He clenches his jaws as he watches the first of them kneel down by the seat of a bulky, muscular man dressed in a dark green cloak, the rest of the slaves quickly following suit.
And of course, Loki is there at his side too, gracefully slipping down onto the floor next to him without a word. And it's all Tony can do not to just stand up and declare he's leaving in this very instant.
But he controls himself, pressing a fist against the underside of the table, trying to get a hold of his aversion and anger.
"I hope you do not find our Asgardian food too strange for your Midgardian palate?" Hallgrim suddenly asks somewhere from a mile away, pulling Tony away from his dark thoughts.
"Huh? Oh, not at all. I like your… barbequed steaks," he says, mostly on auto-pilot. "And your beer."
Hallgrim laughs at that, his thunderous bellows rolling in waves over the assembly as he slaps a hand against the table, making the nearest beer jugs jump in fright. "Of course! Asgard is famous across the realms for its beer! I have yet to meet anyone who doesn't think ours is the best – isn't that right, Björn?" he says to the gaunt man sitting to his right, jabbing an elbow into his side.
The man smiles faintly at that, thin lips moving just barely in an upwards motion, as if anything more is too much of an effort. "That is indeed so," he answers politely. "There is nothing that can compete with Asgardian beer."
"Tell me about it, my friend," Hallgrim boasts and then launches into a long story about how a casket of Asgardian beer apparently had saved his life once, if Hallgrim is to be believed, when he ran into trouble with some Svartalfar. The guy named Björn nods and a-hems, no doubt having already heard the story before, and probably more than once.
And Tony's mind starts to wander again, looking the assembly over as he unenthusiastically loads some roasted meet and unidentifiable vegetables and freshly baked bread with cheese onto his plate. But what holds his gaze is not the nobles in all their finery and splendour, but the unassuming men and women kneeling by their seats, demure and silent with their heads respectfully bowed. Despite how everything about their looks and behaviour is no doubt supposed to be as inconspicuous as possible, they still manage to catch his eye like a red spot on a white canvas, standing out like sore thumbs.
Still, far from everyone around the table has brought a slave to attend to them. Less than a third, he estimates, but still more than enough. He tries to take comfort in how that makes Loki stand out less, makes him somewhat less eye-catching among all the others in the same position.
And he's really glad that Hallgrim is one of those that don't have a slave with them at the table.
Swallowing, he throws a glance at Loki, but the god's head is bowed, his gaze directed at the floor.
And he desperately wants to say something to Loki and reassure him in some way, maybe tell him that this whole thing fucking sucks, but he can't do that here and now. He has no choice but to play along with this charade. Just like Loki doesn't have a choice. Neither of them really does.
So instead, he grabs the fork next to his plate and inelegantly stabs one of the vegetables with it, offering some dull but polite comment to whatever Hallgrim is going on about, resigning himself to the inevitable.
Then, his gaze falls on a stout man sitting near one of the ends of the table, a young woman kneeling at his side. Her dark and glossy hair flows long and freely over her shoulders, and he doesn't want to consider what that may hint at. He watches as the man picks something up from his plate and holds the morsel out to the woman, who leans forward to take it from his fingers with her mouth, her tongue playfully flicking out.
A few seconds later, she's sucking on the outstretched fingers still held out and the man chuckles in amusement, rubbing his thumb against her cheek. She smiles and giggles at the touch, but it sounds terribly fake and insincere in his ears. He watches as she proceeds to lay her head down into the man's lap, nuzzling her face disturbingly close to his groin area as he trails greasy fingers through her hair. Disgusted, he looks away, his stomach in turmoil.
And he has no idea how he's going to get through this dinner without getting sick.
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