Chapter Text
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The elevator could barely hold the two Jotun who appeared when the door opened. They bent their heads to pass through the door, tall and broad shouldered, narrow-eyed and suspicious. Loki knew them. Yrokin and Dgar, two of Byliestr’s particular favorites. Younger sons of lords, they both had a lot to prove and little qualms on how to do it. Byliestr had allowed them both liberties with Loki. Dgar had little restraint. Yrokin was clever, which was worse. Loki loathed and feared them both.
Loki dug his nails into his palms, his hands behind his back. He belonged to Stark now. They would respect his owner’s claim on him, far more than they had ever respected him. They must.
He bowed low. Loki may not be their plaything anymore, but he still was a slave and as such they deserved his respect. “Welcome to Midgard, and to my master’s home.” He forced out, keeping his eyes down, hoping his voice did not shake as he spoke. It was his duty to greet his master’s guests. He would not fail at this. He would not shame his master's house.
Dgar laughed, a rough sound, low and deep. “The little raekten.” He said, looming over Loki, looking down at him. Loki stepped back, unable to help himself. It had only been a few days, but already he had forgotten how big the Jotun were, how small he was in comparison. His back hit the wall.
Unlike Dgar, Jrokin had little patience to toy with Loki. “Where is your master, slave? We have matters to discuss.”
Loki tried to answer, but the words would not come. He could feel the chill air that surrounded the two, ice beading on their skin, a deliberate show of power in the warm air of the tower. Dgar pushed Loki back against the wall, slipped a hand around his throat, gentle, a mockery of tenderness.
“Mr Stark will return in a few minutes," Jarvis' voice came like a golden light from the ceiling, "Kindly take your hands off his property while you wait."
Dgar grunted. He squeezed Loki’s throat. He had him like a fish on a hook, and all Loki could do was squirm. “Is this one not for the entertainment of his master’s guests?” he queried, holding Loki with one hand, his other hand creeping under his shirt. Icy fingers burnt his warm skin. “Such fine clothes,” he breathed in Loki’s ear, his voice like grinding ice. “Don’t worry little raekten, if your master doesn’t know the purpose of your kind, I do.” His hand flexed and cut off Loki's air. Loki's breath stopped, his chest heaved, tears leaked from the corners of eyes. He could not lift his arms to even try to push his assailant away. He felt weak, limp, pathetic.
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“I will not ask you again,” Jarvis stated. Loki wondered hysterically what he would do if the Jotun did not let him go. Was he only a voice in the ceiling or were there defenses he could deploy? And even if there were, would he deploy them in defense of a slave? Or would he just let the two have their way with him until Stark returned? He would not be long, surely!
He did not have to find out, because Yrokin slapped Dgar’s hand away from where it had landed on Loki’s ass. “Leave the slave,” he said, “There will be time for him later.”
Dgar snarled and let Loki go with a shove. He stumbled back, his breath wheezing, his head spinning. He clutched at his throat, sure he would find fingerprints embedded there. Panic wrapped around him like a heavy cloth, blocking his senses, stealing his thoughts.
“Where is your master?” Yrokin demanded, impatient.
Loki tried to reply. He had tried to keep track of the minutes until Stark's arrival but the count had flown from his mind the moment he saw the two Jotun.
Luckily Jarvis stepped in again, “Mr Stark will be here in four minutes. You may wait in the living area if you wish.”
The two strode into Stark's high-ceilinged penthouse. Loki's eyes frantically combed the place for any evidence of Syla, but he found none. He had hidden her, he had concealed her presence here. He told himself it did not matter what they did to him, as long as she was safe. He stayed well away from them, staying against the wall, keeping his eyes down.
A red and gold figure grew in the sky. Loki willed it to fly faster, but the seconds ticked by interminably until the gantry clanged with his landing. As before, the suit fell away, folding and dissolving into nothing. All the while Loki silently begged Stark to keep the suit on. He could not hope to defeat two Jotun without his suit. Stark entered the penthouse, one fragile mortal facing the two Jotun. Stark wore a bandage on his arm, and bruises on his face.
Loki's heart sank. Stark should be returning home to a peaceful haven where his slave would tend to his injuries, not be landing to face the unfriendly ghosts of Loki’s past. Yet again Loki had caused trouble for him, had not delivered on his desire to be useful, helpful, valuable.
Stark did not show any pain from his injuries, although they were fresh. He strode into the penthouse and nodded at Dgar and Yrokin. He ignored Loki, who snapped back to attention and realized the role he should be playing. He scuttled to the kitchen, silent and subservient. He would be ready with whatever his master wanted.
“So, I thought we agreed to three months until our next discussions,” Stark said. He was not rude, but he clearly was expecting an explanation for this intrusion.
Dgar and Yrokin gave him matching expressions of mock concern, betrayed by the hunger in their eyes.
Yrokin spoke, “It is with regret, Lord Stark, that King Byliestr has sent us here. This slave is a thief." He pointed at Loki, who rocked back on his heels as though from a physical blow. "He has taken something of great value to the king, and the king will have justice for his crime.”
Stark’s expression didn’t change. Loki gripped the edge of the counter, as though he could hold onto it and be safe if Stark did not protect him. “Oh yeah?” Stark asked, mildly interested at best, “What’s he supposed to have stolen? He came here with that collar and a length of cloth and nothing else. And I checked under the cloth. Thoroughly.”
Dgar laughed at that, thinking himself and Stark men of one mind. Even Yrokin smirked. Loki’s face heated, to be so causally discussed. Stark was not like them, but Loki understood why he pretended to be. They would think Loki was getting the treatment he deserved here on Midgard. Perhaps they would be less inclined to insist on his return if they thought him well used.
Stark looked between the two Jotun, waiting for their answer.
“He has stolen a child, a child of Jotunheim,” Yrokin declared. He looked around the penthouse, seeing nothing that gave Syla away. Loki had already looked a dozen times but his heart was still in his mouth as Yrokin's eyes swept the room.
Stark raised his eyebrows. “Oh yeah, and what did he do with a kid?” He asked, not even bothering to deny that the child was on Midgard. That idea was too ridiculous to even deny!
Yrokin and Dgar exchanged glances, “It is not known,” Yrokin conceded. “But the child is gone from Utgard. The slave may have had assistance.” He stopped short of accusing Stark of being party to the crime. The value of their trade agreement must be enough to make insulting Stark a risky proposition. If nothing else, Jotenheim desperately needed trade.
Stark swayed, putting more weight on one side than the other in a way that made Loki think he was hiding more injuries. Loki did not know how he could help him without making him appear weak. He stood in the kitchen, his fingers digging into the hard stone of the counter, his teeth clenched, his breath short. His fate decided by others, as it had been his entire life.
“Well,” Stark said, “Let’s ask him, shall we?” He turned to Loki, and Loki stood in his gaze, terrified that Stark was going to order him to tell the truth. He would have to obey.
“What do you have to say for yourself?” Stark demanded, mercifully indirect, vague, open ended as usual.
Loki did not have to fake his terror. One wrong word and he would be dragged back to Jotunheim to face Byliestr’s wrath. “Master,” he said, “You have seen everything I bought from Jotunheim! I have hidden nothing from you! I swear it upon my oath. I swear it.”
Stark raised his eyebrows at the two Jotun. Dgar growled, frustrated at this talking.
“King Byliestr will have the slave back, Lord Stark, to replace what he has stolen.”
“Replace…a child?” Stark repeated, confused.
“The slave is raekten. The king has bred him and got the child from him. He would have another, to replace what he has lost.”
Stark's eye twitched. “Bred him...” he muttered under his breath. Loki cringed. He hadn’t realized until that moment that Stark must have thought that he was Syla’s father. Of course he didn’t know about Jotun physiology. How could he? Stark snapped out of his daze and refocused. “Well. Please convey my regrets to King Byliestr. I’m not sending Loki back. He’s mine now. And I’m keeping him.”
Loki took his first breath on hearing those words. Stark at least was not going to simply hand him over. Dgar huffed but Yrokin forced a smile. A mouth full of jagged teeth, grinding together. “King Byliestr will of course compensate you for the slave’s worth.”
Stark laughed. A hollow, cold laugh that Loki had not heard from him before. He flicked his fingers and Loki jumped and scurried over to him. Stark must want a show of his submission. Of course, he would give him one. He had no pride left to preserve. He dropped to his knees at Stark’s feet and rested his head on his thigh. His master's fingers brushed over his hair, then gripped a handful and wrapped it around his hand. He yanked his head up, turned him to face the two Jotun.
“He's not for sale,” Stark said, his fist tight in Loki's hair, his head twisted back at a sharp angle, displaying him to the Jotun. Loki didn't resist. He could not, Stark's grip in his hair was the only anchor he had. The only thing keeping him on Midgard instead of swept back to Jotunheim and his previous life.
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Stark shook him by the hair like a kitten, “There's no price you can pay to buy him back. Unless you have any others as pretty and well trained as him, who invaded my planet, brought an alien army to my city, and murdered my friends. I’m keeping him. I have uses for him. If anyone's going to breed Loki now, it’s going to be me. If anyone’s going to have any children from him it’s going to be me. He's mine.”
Stark stared down the two Jotun who over-topped him by at least three feet.
”Convey my regrets to your king.” Stark said, in a tone that brooked no argument. "Loki is not for sale."