Author's note: Sorry about the cliffhanger from the previous chapter, though I'm afraid it's not going to be the last one... ;)
He looks up to find himself face to face with a leering noble leaning into him with a grin that makes it all too clear what kind of mood he's currently in. Instinctively, Loki retreats a step to put some distance between them, and it has nothing to do with the foul, alcohol-reeking breath assaulting his nose, nausea-inducing as it is.
Njal, he remembers, from one of the lesser noble houses. Always one with a drinking problem, never knowing when he's had enough. Loki can recall several instances when the man had landed himself into trouble or at least embarrassment due to his improper actions after having consumed too much beer. He's surprised that he's been invited here at all, given how much Hallgrim dislikes having his dinners spoiled by fighting or strife.
And Njal is clearly drunk tonight, but he nevertheless manages to quickly and smoothly move a step into Loki's direction, off-setting Loki's attempt to put some distance between them.
"Going somewhere?" Njal asks with another breath of stinking air. "How about staying here so we can get better acquainted with each other instead?" A hand shoots out and grabs hold of Loki's shoulder, not hard enough to hurt, but firm enough to keep him put.
Loki curses his mortal weakness; in his current condition it's obvious that he can't even hold his own against a drunkard here in Asgard, his own strength negligible in comparison to Njal's.
"I'll have you know that my master is not fond of sharing," he says, gritting his teeth. "It would be better if you unhanded me this instant." He makes the threat clear but subtle; a slave isn't supposed to threaten free men, of course, and arousing Njal's anger is not going to work in his favour.
He glances over to the dance floor, hoping to alert Tony to his predicament. If Tony were to come over, even Njal in his drunkenness would surely think better of it and leave things be, realizing how rude and offensive he is being. Even though it is known to sometimes happen, imposing on slaves without the permission of their masters is not acceptable behaviour, especially not at finer occasions like this. Not even Njal would have done any such in a sober condition, Loki is sure, but the man was always unpredictable after a few beers too much, tending to forget all about proper decorum and manners.
But his eyes can't seem to find Tony as they sweep across the preening nobles; Tony is lost in a sea of crimson and gold and cerulean livery and dresses and cloaks. He strains his neck, trying to catch sight of a flicker of blue and grey, but there is none to be seen.
The grip on his shoulder hardens, and the strong fingers are forcing him to take half a step closer to Njal.
"So where is your master, then?" he asks, leaning closer. "Why isn't he here to protest if he has a problem with any of this?"
Loki tries to twist away from the fingers digging into his shoulder, but it's useless. Again, he looks towards the dance floor, trying to catch sight of Tony, but there is no Tony to be seen.
Where is he?
A note of panic is starting to coil inside of him. Tony wouldn't leave him like this, would he? Or did he find the graces of one of those pretty young ladies appealing enough to forget all about Loki and making sure he stayed safe?
No, no, he couldn't have…
"Don't be so shy," Njal leers at him. "How about a kiss, huh?" he slurs, his face looming closer at an alarming speed. Loki only barely manages to turn away to avoid the pair of lips trying to lock onto his; instead, they land on his cheek, causing Njal to give a displeased groan.
"Don't be like that," he mutters as he shuffles and proceeds to lick a sloppy trail over the side of Loki's face and then down across his throat, arms wrapping around Loki's torso to hold him tighter.
Squirming, he looks towards the dancers once again, hoping that perhaps someone else will notice and step in – Njal is overstepping the boundaries by far, and even if no one here would butt as much as a toe in on his behalf, surely they would do it on Tony's behalf, to prevent him from having his exclusive rights to his slave violated in his absence, and ensure that the respect he's entitled to is upheld.
But no one seems to notice; the guests are all caught up into the dance that has progressively been getting more intense and wilder as the evening has progressed, fully focused on the merriment playing out to the sound of the skilful musicians entertaining for the night. He considers shouting, making some sort of noise to alert the guests to what is happening, as inappropriate as it would be for a slave to interrupt and disturb free men like that, but he knows that it wouldn't be heard over the blaring, thumping music and the boisterousness of the dancing men and women.
Then there are a couple of hands sliding beneath his shirt to inch their way upwards, touching him in a foul caress, roaming over his skin like two poisonous snakes. "How about we go somewhere more secluded?" Njal mumbles into his ear, giving the lobe a little nibble. "This is much too public a place for my tastes."
"No! Unhand me!" Loki yells at him, raw panic welling up inside of him. "You are not my master; you have no right to!"
But the only response he gets is a laughter muffled against his neck and two fingers roughly pinching an inch of skin under his shirt. He twists and squirms, struggling to get loose, but it's impossible.
No, no, this can't be happening. Where's Tony?
"Hands off, fuckface," there's suddenly a voice next to him, and as Njal looks up in surprise, a fist smashes right into his face.
And the grip on him relents, causing him to stumble and fall to the floor. Blinking, he looks up at the furious man now facing Njal with brown eyes flashing with rage.
Tony.
His fist is hurting from the impact and his knuckles feel as if he's just punched a steel wall, but he couldn't care less right now. He's just so fucking pissed off at this asshole and he would want nothing more than pummel him into the ground where he stands, turning him into a wet spot on the marble tiles. How fucking dare he…
"How dare you!" the weasel-like man in front of him yells, echoing Tony's own thoughts, eyes wide with outrage as his hand goes to his jaw with what seems to be more disbelief than actual pain. There's no blood from what Tony can see, and his puny mortal punch probably hurt his own hand more than that drunken-red face, but even so, he'd gladly throw another ten of them right into that foul-smelling mouth.
He looks at Loki, who has gotten up to his two feet. "You alright?" he asks quietly, getting a brief, wide-eyed nod in return.
Good. Then he can get on with dealing with this fucker.
"I assure you, I'd dare a lot more than that," he growls as he takes a step closer, full well knowing that his mouth is writing checks that his mortal strength can't cash, but being far beyond the point of caring. "You have no fucking right to put your filthy hands all over my slave," he half-yells, brandishing his fist in the air. "No one touches him, and that includes piss ants like you!"
He suddenly realizes that his voice is suddenly the only sound in the room as the music is no longer playing and the guests have stopped dancing and talking to stare at the unexpected happenings unfolding. Slowly, the crowd drifts closer, some looking angry, others confused or concerned, and yet others interested in what they no doubt consider to be the new entertainment for the evening.
But Tony couldn't care less about any of them right now, as long as he can put his hands around the neck of this little weasel and squeeze slowly…
The man before him opens his mouth as if he's about to say something, but then his attention is caught by a plump form moving through the throng, pushing the guests aside, stomach heaving under red livery and bushy hair standing on end. He breaks through the last line of bystanders and comes to stand before them with a livid look on his face, the air around him sizzling with fury.
"Njal! Man of Iron! What is the meaning of this?" Hallgrim roars, the previous good-natured Santa qualities all gone.
The weasel – Njal – sneers as he turns towards Hallgrim. "You should ask Man of Iron that. He's the one who punched me in the face," he says, haughty as a prissy primadonna, despite his obvious slurring from the alcohol.
"Oh yeah? I think you left out the part where you fucking molested my slave," he shouts back, throwing a glance towards Loki, who has retreated towards the sidelines, looking at Tony with wide and terrified eyes, making little hand gestures that probably mean that he should back off.
Like hell.
"You know, I might not be very familiar with the local customs around here, but from what I understand, you don't mess with stuff that's supposed to belong to honoured guests, and I would think I was full well within my rights to clock this freak right in the jaw for this!" he grinds out through gritted teeth. "Heck, Mister Touchy-Feely should be glad I didn't ram my sword down his throat while I was at it. I would think I would have been more than entitled to!" And somehow, even if no one cares about what's done to Loki, he actually thinks quite a few people around here would agree with him.
Njal's eyes are narrowed in fury, and Tony is sure it's not so much the pain of the blow – which he probably barely even felt – as the disgrace of being bitch-slapped like that.
"You think you can get away with punching me, Njal, son of Vidar?" the man hisses and makes a clumsy grab for the sword at his side, but two men close to him rush forward and stop him before any blank steel can be drawn.
"Enough!" Hallgrim bellows, face almost as red as his livery. "I will not have any boorish brawling interrupting the celebrations in my halls!"
Njal stumbles between the two men still holding him, but he quickly straightens himself up again. "Oh, there will be no boorish brawling here, I assure you, Hallgrim," he says, and then turns towards Tony, wrenching loose an arm to point at him. "Because I challenge you, Man of Iron, in the presence of all these witnesses, to a formal duel to settle this matter, here and now," he spits. "And let it be known that if you refuse to fight, your claims to the rights to this slave can no longer be taken seriously, if you will not stand up and defend them like a man."
A chill passes through Tony at that, and he quickly glances around at the crowd gathered around them. No one seems to refute Njal's words, as if that is actually the way things are done here. Which, he realizes, it probably is. If you're not willing to fight for your rights when challenged, you'll lose them in the eyes of other people.
The only one offering any protest is Hallgrim. "I want no killing or bloodshed here in my halls," he barks, still fuming. "It is not why I had this feast arranged."
"Ah," an old man in the crowd, beard almost to his navel, waves the complaint off with a hand as he steps forward. He's richly dressed, even in comparison to the others, and the way everyone turns respectfully silent as he speaks indicates that he's important. "Let them fight. Clearly, both participants consider themselves wronged by the other. It would be unfair to deny them the chance to regain their lost honour through a duel."
Several people in the crowd murmur their agreement, nodding sagely. Hallgrim seems to calm down a little, but he still looks highly displeased at the turn of events.
"It does not have to be a fight to the death," the geezer with the beard continues. "No, let it be a duel until first blood is drawn; that should suffice, and honour and order will have been restored."
"Fine," Hallgrim huffs, sounding none to happy but acquiescing nevertheless. "If they wish to fight, then let them."
"Njal? Man of Iron? Do you agree to these terms?" the geezer turns to them, making Tony wonder who died and made him boss around here.
But damn, why the hell should he agree to fight a duel with this piece of shit? He doesn't even have his suit, just a fucking sword at his side that he doesn't know how to handle any better than he would a goddamn oboe.
But Njal reminds him of why a second later.
"Fine," he spits. "Until first blood." He leers at Tony, demeanour confident despite his drunken swaying. "And if you're enough of a coward to refuse, I will assume that your slave is free for the taking."
That fucking settles it.
"I'll accept," he says with as much steel and ice as he can muster, just barely aware of Loki's sharp intake of breath and 'no, don't' somewhere behind him.
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