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Polaris (Ch.16/?)

Loki x Reader, Pirate!AU

Word Count: 4,466

Warnings: violence, language

Summary: Your life has always been set in stone. Born to a wealthy merchant family in the Caribbean, you’ve spent your years as an heiress in the daytime, escaping at night to wander the streets of St. Thomas. Now, on the eve before your life settles into mundanity for good, you discover someone who could change everything– if you choose to trust him, that is.

A/N: As promised, this chapter is entirely from Loki’s perspective! Don’t worry, we’ll get back to our debutante reader soon. For now, this is his part of the story. Let’s let him tell it.

Chapter One ~ Chapter Two ~ Chapter Three ~ Chapter Four ~ Chapter Five ~ Chapter Six ~ Chapter Seven ~ Chapter Eight ~ Chapter Nine ~ Chapter Ten ~ Chapter Eleven ~ Chapter Twelve ~ Chapter Thirteen ~ Chapter Fourteen ~ Chapter Fifteen

The sun was making its first appearance over the glass sea, turning the sky pink and lighting on the waves with a rosy glow. The clouds were as pale and wispy as stretched cotton. As the sunrise dimmed the map of stars above, it burned bright in the reflection of Loki’s bloodshot eyes, staring out at the waves as they turned to gold.

His hands were already blistered from rowing. The sinew of his muscles had been stretched to their limit a few hours ago, and so he had let go of the oars to hold his head in his hands instead, filled with a despair that felt larger than the ocean around him. Hot, frustrated tears fell from his eyes, more to try and soothe their dryness than to curb the aching in his chest. Perhaps it was a mix of both. It was only in raising his head to dry his eyes, blinking away the water and fatigue, that he saw the merchant ship approaching.

Loki’s brows pulled together. It was a trading company ship; not Odin’s. Rather small. The bell on deck was ringing, signaling a man overboard as they approached, and a few seconds later, a rope landed in Loki’s lap.

Several pairs of hands helped haul him over the side, pulling him onto the deck, but they were quick to leave him; Loki’s reddened eyes and haggard look gave him a frightening aura, one that the men obviously weren’t keen to hang around. He slowly straightened his posture, rolling his sore shoulders and looking down at the Captain, standing in front of him.

Loki gave him a single glance, surveying him without much consideration. He was small and portly with receding hair, hardly intimidating– though clearly he was doing his best to look nonplussed by Loki’s sudden and unexpected arrival.

“Glad to have you aboard, sir,” he greeted, as warmly as he was able. “I’m Cap’n Montgomery, and this’s my ship The Duchess. How’d you wind up all the way out here?”

Loki didn’t answer. He stood still on the rocking deck, his posture stiff, looking out at the pale dawn sky with a hardened expression.

Captain Montgomery waited awkwardly for his response, shifting his posture. Then he cleared his throat. “Perhaps you’d like to talk elsewhere?” He gestured to the doors that led to the Captain’s cabin.

Loki’s eyes trailed to the left, and he nodded. He followed the Captain inside, walking slow and cat-like with a look of apprehension as he stepped over the threshold. His eyes were quick in surveying the small room, unadorned by lavish decor. The only notable object of interest was the mahogany desk that Captain Montgomery sat himself behind, setting his elbows atop its surface and waiting for Loki to close the door.

He did so, and stepped over. The ship’s charter laid open-faced by the Captain’s hand, and Loki’s dark eyebrows pulled together. “Where is this vessel headed?”

Captain Montgomery’s eyebrows raised and he held out his hand in a stopping motion. “Now, hang on a minute. I have some questions to ask you first–”

Loki reached forward and spun the paper to face him, scanning the lines. “Kingston?”

The Captain’s eyes flickered. “Aye, that’s right, sir.”

Loki’s frown deepened. “That is exactly the opposite of where I need to go,” Loki muttered in annoyance.

The man shifted in his seat, visibly uncomfortable. “Well–”

“What day is it?” Loki interrupted again, looking up at him. His gaze was sharp enough to cut glass. They might have been a different color, but when he wanted them to, Loki’s eyes could hold just as much chill as his father’s.

The Captain blinked. “Uh– the first of August, sir.”

“What was your name again?”

“Mont– Montgomery. Captain Montgomery.”

Loki hummed shortly, leaning on the desk. He glanced back at the closed doors, then returned to the paper in front of him, running a finger over his lip in thought. The captain watched him uneasily as he stood there, still as stone, with nothing but the rocking of the ship to mark the passage of time.

Suddenly Loki reached forward and grabbed the captain by the collar, slamming his face into the mahogany and twisting his arm behind his back in one fluid motion. The Captain shouted in surprised pain, only to be silenced when Loki twisted his arm further, his lips curled in a snarl.

“Listen to me very carefully, Montgomery,” he threatened between his teeth. “It is in our mutual best interests that you take this ship to St. Thomas immediately. One more inch in the wrong direction and this arm will break. If you don’t do as I say, the same thing will happen to your neck.”

The Captain struggled fruitlessly beneath Loki’s grip, his face squashed against the desk in a contorted expression of anger. “You – you bastard!”

“Pirate,” Loki corrected, applying the slightest fraction of pressure. It was enough to make the captain gasp and pant in pain. “Do we understand each other, Montgomery?”

“It’ll–” The Captain wheezed, struggling to speak. “It’ll take more’n three days to get there. The wind… the wind’s against us.”

“Then you should bear a hand and tell your men to come around,” Loki suggested coldly, and let go of him. Captain Montgomery stood up so fast that he stumbled backwards, holding his arm and staring at Loki with frightened eyes. He darted past Loki and out of the cabin, running faster than Loki suspected he ever had in his life. Judging by his portly stature, it was probably a good thing for him. Nothing like a healthy fear of death to keep you fit.

Loki stood in the empty cabin and listened to the muted sounds of the captain shouting orders above, and he tightened his jaw, reaching into his pocket. The cold coin was there, safely stowed away. He rubbed it between his fingers, smoothing over the serpent’s pattern with the pad of his thumb. His eyes drifted to the window. Somewhere, out there, you were being held in a cell – stuck behind rusted bars while the sand in the hourglass slowly sifted through.

August the first. That meant he had until the end of the month to secure your safety, with at least four days already spent by the time he reached St. Thomas. Loki’s grip tightened on the coin. If fate had pushed you together – and he firmly believed that hit had – then fate would keep you from being pulled apart.

Nearly a week later, The Duchess floated into the rainy port of St. Thomas. The sun peeked out occasionally behind the clouds while it showered. It was one of those odd, rainy summer days before hurricane season where the weather couldn’t quite whip up enough energy to storm with full rage and intensity; not yet.

The sailors were still tying the small merchant ship to the dock when the gangplank dropped and Loki descended from the ship, running down the slippery wharf so fast that he nearly stumbled. He dodged the men loading crates, ducking underneath a load of lumber carried between two sailors, and climbed the cobble stairs with exhausted determination.

Home was only a few hours away, but Loki wasn’t headed there; not yet. Instead he headed up the street, doing his best to keep his tired legs from giving out underneath him. He made a right and found the corner bar, stumbling inside. This was the place you and Loki had first encountered one another, but also somewhere that he’d frequented long before your fateful meeting. The creaking floorboards beneath his feet were as familiar as the mattress of his own bed, and the heady smells of mahogany and beer reassured his senses that he was safe. Home.

Being the middle of the day, the corner bar was totally devoid of customers. Light streamed in through the fogged windows while the building’s only occupant, the bartender, polished glasses behind the counter with monotonous repetition, glancing up only when Loki pulled himself into one of the barstools and leaned against the counter, his hair and clothes dripping wet. The only sounds were the steady shower of light rain outside and the squeak of fabric rubbed against glass.

“You’re a bit early in the day, young master,” The bartender observed curiously. The man sported a heavy accent behind his mustache, but his tone was good-natured and amiable. He was as much a part of the bar as the polished countertop and neatly lined bottles on the shelves behind him.

“I need a drink,” Loki said hoarsely, dropping his head into one hand and massaging his temples. His whole body ached, inside and out. Beating slow inside his chest, Loki’s heart weighed him down as though it was made of lead.

The glass slid down the counter and Loki caught it with his free hand: cold, polished glass with dark liquor inside. He tilted his head back and downed it in one go, setting the empty cup down on the polished wood. The bartender refilled it without asking, handing it back to him before returning to his former task. He polished the cups until they sparkled like crystal, despite the fact that they were already clean; no doubt it was a soothing, repetitive notion to help the empty afternoon hours pass by. “You ‘ere to talk, or just drink?”

Loki scoffed. “What’s there to talk about?” He asked, squeezing his eyes shut and rubbing them tiredly. Dull sparks floated behind his vision, signs of dehydration and an oncoming headache.

“Fair ‘nough, sir. I won’t press you.”

Loki dropped his hand and regarded the man with a flat expression. His mouth pressed into a thin line, and he dropped his gaze, spinning the glass of liquor in his hand. He stared at the distorted wood pattern of the bartop through the brown liquor.

The bartender watched him with soft, dark eyes for a moment longer before he tried again. “Is it a woman?”

“Of course it’s a woman,” Loki snapped, though his words didn’t have much bite; they never did when he was telling the truth. He thumbed the rim of the glass. “It’s the woman,” he admitted, more quietly.

The bartender nodded knowingly, tossing his rag aside and fetching a fresh one. “She leave you?” He asked, his tone conversational and unassuming, from decades of practice with discussions far more delicate than this one.

Loki shook his head. His wet raven hair slipped past his shoulders when he did, falling in gentle waves past his ears and smelling of saltwater. “No. I lost her.” He frowned at the sudden blurriness in his eyes, downing his second glass and setting it down with a gentle thud. He sniffed. Straightened in his seat. “I’m getting her back.” Whether he said this to reassure the bartender or himself, Loki wasn’t entirely sure.

The city bell tolled out the hour, bringing him back to a state of clarity. It was later than he’d thought. Loki reached into his pocket for money to pay – and then realized he didn’t have any, apart from the serpent coin. The coin he couldn’t give away. Loki stalled, his elegant fingers still at his sides while he tried to think of a solution to this sudden dilemma.

The bartender noticed his hesitation and extended his hand with a polite shake of his head. “You’ve been generous in the past, young master,” he stated. “I trust you’ll be back.”

Loki met his eyes. Normally he would take offense to a gesture of charity; Loki had never lacked for money, not once in his life, and he never intended to. But if he’d learnt anything from the past weeks, it was that even his best intentions didn’t guarantee the future. He met the bartender’s eyes and found them to be soft and reassuring. He bowed his head. “Thank you.”

The man shrugged, like it wasn’t any problem to him, taking Loki’s empty glass and polishing it alongside all the rest. “Bring your woman next time.”

Loki laughed once, humorlessly, and stood. “I will,” he promised, with a final nod of thanks before he turned his back to the bartender and walked back out towards the drenched cobblestone street, feeling renewed somehow – perhaps by the drink, though more likely by the man’s kindness. Not everyone in the world was bloodthirsty and rotten.

Not everyone in the world is a pirate, Loki thought. Of course, he considered himself a rare exception: Loki was a pirate, yes, but a reputable one. Honorable, even. However – somewhere deep in his heart – Loki was beginning to come to terms with the fact that getting you back might permanently soil that reputation. He intended to do whatever it took, however foul, even if it meant killing Vane and all his crewmen with his bare hands.

Would you be able to love him, if it came to that? If he became a murderer? Would you let him touch you with bloody hands, or would you turn away in fear and disgust?

The thought disquieted him, and he shook his head to clear the thought. Whether you hated him or not at the end of this didn’t matter, so long as you got out alive. He owed you that much.

His seaglass eyes looked up instinctively towards the road that he knew lead home, but he turned the opposite way instead: there was still one more errand to run.

In order for Loki to both save you and maintain a clear ledger inside his father’s business, he had to find a way to combine the two. That meant enlisting in his family’s help, while simultaneously making it look like he wasn’t involved at all. During his time floating adrift in the waves, waiting for the sunrise, Loki had surmised a plan of action. With some skill, and a great deal of luck, it would prove itself successful.

He hoped his luck hadn’t run out yet.

Loki found himself in a familiar backside alley, the entrance hidden behind empty fruit crates stacked six feet high. He stepped carefully down the narrow cobble path, wrinkling his nose at the stench of city sludge and old bathwater dumped unceremoniously onto the ground. The clotheslines above hung limp in the afternoon, the fabric heavy and wet from the rain – whoever put them out had neglected to retrieve them. He found the heavy wooden door with gold hinges and knocked, twice. Then he stepped back into the rain, no more than a light mist at this point, and waited.

He was considering turning away when it finally opened. The man who answered the door had dark skin and eyes that shimmered like copper. His hair fell over his broad shoulders in locs, decorated with metal clasps. His face wore a stern expression that revealed exactly nothing, and he waited with one hand on the door – prepared to shut it again at a moment’s notice. “Yes?”

“Heimdall,” Loki greeted solemnly, and glanced out at the alley for listening ears.

“You don’t have an appointment.”

“This isn’t my usual business,” he explained, squinting as misty rainwater dripped down his face and clung to his eyelashes. “It’ll be quick. I only need one page; no forgings, no signatures. It just can’t be my hand.”

The dark man hesitated, gripping the door while he considered this. Loki’s clothes stuck to him, and he silently wished that Heimdall would at least let him inside, but he knew not to press the matter. Their relationship was a strictly professional one, and he knew how much he was asking. “I’ll pay twice whatever you ask,” he added.

Heimdall’s copper eyes met Loki’s, his expression still flat, and then he opened the door further. “Come in. Don’t sit. You’ll ruin the chair.”

Loki obliged, stepping in quickly. The room was dark and smelled of leather, lit only by candles and the narrow, cross-hatched windows that lined one wall. The other three sides of the small, square space were lined by bookshelves, lined with bottles, parchment, and bookkeeper’s tools. Less conspicuously, there were a few shelves full of antiquated volumes, which he knew to contain ledgers upon ledgers of signatures and scripts. A forger’s library.

Heimdall sat down at the desk, dipping his quill into the inkwell. “You’re lucky. I’m not busy today.”

Loki nodded in agreement, feeling relieved. “Yes, I know – it’s short notice.”

“So,” Heimdall began without looking, pulling a clean sheet of plain paper from the desk drawer. “This isn’t a false shipping charter, or an inventory log, or a bank note. What is it?”

“A ransom letter.” Loki regretted revealing this information the moment it left his mouth, but he had no choice – better to tell it now, rather than when Heimdall started realizing it halfway through writing and risked blotting a page.

Heimdall’s metallic eyes flitted up and he frowned at Loki, setting the quill down and leaning back in his chair. “Now, why would you want me to write that?”

Loki looked up and set his jaw, shaking his head slightly. “That, I can’t tell you.”

Heimdall regarded him silently. Whether it was judgement, scrutiny, contemplation, Loki couldn’t say for certain. Heimdall’s expression didn’t change. While Loki respected his ability to be discreet, Heimdall’s strong-and-silent personality made reading him nigh impossible. Finally, he raised one eyebrow. “It’ll cost extra.”

Loki’s mouth opened slightly and he nearly rolled his eyes. “I can afford it,” he grated, feeling a flicker of agitation in his chest that the man would even be concerned about such a thing. “This isn’t a fleeting interest. Give me what I want, receipt it under my private catalogue, and I’ll be on my way. ”

Heimdall sighed and picked up his quill again, leaning over the desk. “Fine.”

Loki inhaled deeply, raising his eyebrows and directing his gaze to the ceiling. He’d been devising a speech from memory for a week, running it over his tongue inside his mouth and sounding it out when no one was around. He dropped his eyes and began reciting the words from memory, watching Heimdall’s skilled hand start painting the words on the page almost as soon as he spoke. “To his esteemed grace who receives this note …”

“... I hope it finds in a prosperous enough position to enable us both to get what we want,” Thor read aloud, his elegant brow furrowed in both concentration. He unfolded the letter further and skimmed a few more lines silently. Flipped it over, and found no return address. He looked up at the maid standing at the door and held it up in the air. “What is this?”

Her eyes were wide with innocence and confusion. “I – I don’t know, sir, it was delivered with all the rest.”

Loki sat silently at one end of the long table, holding a spoon in his hand and stirring the bowl of soup before him in slow, disinterested circles. Green flecks of some kind of vegetable rose and fell from its cream-colored surface; neat chunks of tomato, too, alongside pale meat cooked to perfection and pulled apart.

It was a favorite of his. He knew this, somewhere in the back of his mind, but even the smell of it wafting up in gentle curls of steam failed to appetize him. Every ounce of his focus was bent on looking unassuming as Thor continued to read the note aloud; the note that he’d carefully hidden amongst the other letters, delivered at breakfast every morning.

“I have in my possession one soon-to-be bride of your eldest son. I understand she means a great deal to you, so let me get to the point: in exchange for 12,000 guineas, I will return her unharmed, so long as the exchange is made at the end of August…” Thor’s brow furrowed further.

Loki had been home for three days– it was the ninth of August now, and an otherwise ordinary Wednesday morning. It felt strange to know the date again after being stuck on an island, where the only sense of time could be ascertained in the rise and set of the sun.

Only last night had he decided to risk delivering the note. Waiting to reveal your situation to Thor and his father was agony, but Loki couldn’t afford to take any kind of risk. The coincidence of his arrival and the note’s arrival on the same day would have been too close for comfort. Loki was cautious to a fault, and he was painfully aware of that fact: he was treading on your borrowed time, after all. His stomach twisted, feeling physically ill, and he abandoned the spoon entirely, staring out the window with a thinly veiled expression of discomfort as Thor finished reading.

“Otherwise, she will die gruesomely, after her usefulness and entertainment to us has been spent. With a letter V as the signit,” he added as an afterthought, setting the letter down carefully, like it might bite him. He reached for the envelope it had been delivered in and tilted it, and the serpent coin fell into his palm. He gazed at it in silence.

Loki was practically crawling out of his skin. “V,” he repeated, breaking the silence with false curiosity and looking between Thor and his father. “Like Charles Vane, perhaps? The pirate?”

“No doubt,” Odin replied amiably, reaching across the table for the letter. Thor handed it to him, his expression stony, waiting while their father read the ransom note over for himself. He let out a derisive scoff and shook his head, letting it drop. “Twelve thousand guineas.”

Thor’s handsome face lit on confusion. “You will pay the ransom, won’t you? Her ship was supposed to arrive in Norway weeks ago. Who knows how long she’s been held captive.”

“That much for one girl?” Odin said skeptically. “A girl who wasn’t keen on marrying you either, I recall. Ungrateful thing. The whole arrangement has been nothing more than a bad business venture.”

Loki’s face was dangerously pale, anger lighting up his veins like fire on alcohol. “But we have the money,” he argued, trying to keep his vocal tone only mildly invested. It cracked. “And you made a deal with her father.”

Thor nodded in agreement, though clearly exhibiting a great deal more patience. “Loki’s right, Father. We have a duty of care–”

“Silence!” He interrupted, and they both shut their mouths. Odin set down his fork to eye both of them with a steely grey stare. “There is nothing we can do.”

“But we can,” Thor argued, leaning against the table on one hand and gesturing with the other. “We’ve seen the bank ledgers – Loki and I both,” he added, nodding to his brother. “Your wealth would hardly be dented. I don’t see why –”

“I will not deal with pirates,” Odin groused firmly, his voice icy and cold.

Something inside Loki snapped. He stood abruptly, turning to Odin. The chair scraped on the ground behind him.

“So that’s it, then,” he began. He was smiling, but in more a baring of teeth than an expression of joy. “You would first resign her to marry a man she doesn’t know, and then let her die when it’s inconvenient to help?” He pointed an accusing finger. “You’re just afraid Vane will slip through your grasp, the same way he did before, and wound your pride more than he ever could your prospects.” Loki realized that he was snarling, his lip curled and tone venomous, cheeks flushed uncharacteristically red but he didn’t care – it was too late now. The man who he called Father stared back with equal animosity, the two of them locked in heated, palpable silence.

Thor excused himself from the dining room with a quiet, grumbling apology, and Loki followed.

When he exited the room and the doors shut behind him, he saw Thor walking down the hall – but his footsteps were slow, and he clearly didn’t know where they intended on taking him. Loki’s eyes flickered, and he sighed, loud enough to draw Thor’s attention and halt his steps.

He turned around and came to Loki’s side. He watched his brother reach up and press at his eyes, rubbing them none-too-gently, and he glanced back at the gilded door. “It sounded like you know a great deal about her,” he stated quietly, breaking the thin silence between them. His large hands were restless at his sides, wanting for actions instead of words.

Loki dropped his hand and cleared his throat, and his eyes were distant. “I spoke with her at the ball before she left. You remember.”

Thor grunted, looking out the window. “I didn’t get the chance. I had business to attend to.”

Loki’s lips upturned in a bitter smirk. “You always do.” His gaze found the window, too, staring out at the palm fronds as they blew in the humid afternoon wind. His chest tightened with the reminder of your island – the trees and the cave, of your smaller body pressed beneath his, smelling sweet and tinged by saltwater. Of feeling complete.

Loki could only guess at how much his father knew. Thanks to his outburst, Odin knew Loki was aware of his true parentage – which meant it would only take one line drawn in the sand between Loki and Vane to connect the dots and undo all his work. Your life and Loki’s livelihood, felled in one devastating blow.

Thor was uncharacteristically still, a sign that he was deep in thought. His wide arms were crossed over his barrel of a chest, brow furrowed, and he shook his head almost imperceptibly, silently dissatisfied. “We have to do something.”

Loki scoffed and rolled his eyes, picking at the dark green fabric of his wide sleeves and spreading his fingers, staring disinterestedly at the faint scars that lined the back of his hand from years of seamanship. “Don’t humor me. You would never act outside father’s orders.”

“I would,” Thor argued, and paused, glancing over his shoulder at Loki. “If I had help.”

Loki’s expression flickered and he looked up, meeting Thor’s gaze. The two of them shared a silent exchange; the same kind that they had since boyhood, a silent discussion and a mutual agreement. Perhaps your cause wasn’t lost after all.

The corner of Thor’s mouth turned up in a smile, and he shrugged his broad shoulders, returning his gaze to the window. “Besides,” he added, “What kind of husband would I be if I couldn’t keep her alive?”

At the same time as a humoring chuckle left his lips, Loki’s breath was punched from his lungs. Realization hit him like a hollow bell – something he had forgotten to consider when he decided to enlist Thor’s help. The two of you were, by all accounts, still engaged. If Thor and Loki succeeded in rescuing you, you would wed him all the same, hopelessly stuck in the same trap as before. His mind searched frantically for an easy solution, some weakness in this sudden and unexpected obstacle, but to his growing panic he found none, and a feeling of utter hopelessness rooted inside his chest that was too deep to claw out.

Loki might yet be able to save your life. But it wouldn’t be a life with him that you’d return to.

~~~

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