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Chapter Text

If someone looked down through the water above Loki, they would have only seen a smudge of black and white speeding beneath the surface. They might miss him, cutting through the water like a snake, his tail flicking effortlessly to propel him in the direction he was going.

Under the water, his appearance was as noticeable as any other fish that darted between the waves; his grey tail blending into the ocean, and his almost sickly pale skin appropriate for the gloomy weather that hovered over the sea.

He sped along through the dull water, frustrated by its emptiness, but reluctant to begin the journey back again. He knew his thick-headed brother had meant no actual harm, but the sting was there, and Loki felt it at the base of his skull.

On a gloomy day like that one, where Loki’s sharp instincts were dulled by dismal surroundings, he would rather have been tucked within a place of solid comfort, but his short temper had him rushing out into the endless waters around him, surrounding him in the dreaded torrents that made most men go mad.

Thor had been out of line, chastising him for the way he chose to appear and later for how he appeared naturally. It was no business of Thor’s that Loki wore the man-made beads of glass in his hair nor was it his right to tell Loki he was unappealing for the thinness of his bones or the fairness of his skin. Of course, Thor had later insisted that he was jesting, but Loki did not appreciate the unwanted rebukes from his brother. 

The merman leaned his body forward to pick up speed, the fanning fins on his arms and down his spine flattened to his body. He probably shouldn’t have left the safety of his family’s palace, with its sturdy stone walls built meticulously into the ground where the water met the earth. He was not nearly as ignorant as his brother and therefore well aware of the dangers the open sea could posses. He hated to return to quickly; unfortunately, he was also not as well-built as his brother, he was far more susceptible to the sea’s perils, and he knew he would have to head back home eventually. 

Loki was slowing his rapidity to a more trackable speed when the glimmer of something strange spiked through the gloom to interrupt his brooding. It was at the top of a wriggling black mass that was rising slowly from the bottom of the ocean to a startling dark shape above it. It was silver, and shined like the far-off sun, and without another thought Loki was darting forward at full speed once again towards the object. The light bouncing off of it was fantastically hypnotizing in the dismal world he had been in, and he wanted to take it back with him to study, to find out what made its light shine so brightly. 

Loki approached it with some apprehension, surprised to see more than an entire school of thrashing fish encased in a web of netting, the smell of fishy panic and fear invading Loki’s nose. The treasure that had so intrigued Loki was a metal hoop connecting the net to a larger, thicker rope that was slowly suspending the fish upward.

The panic that had filled the water left Loki feeling desperate to escape it, with dread filling his stomach. But... he wanted whatever that hoop was. He flung himself at it and held tightly to the rope and silver, trying to pry it from the greedy grip of the net. His judgment was clouded by the anxiety in the water, his breathing getting heavier as his gills failed to work as quickly as the rest of his body was.

At this point Loki was animalistic, desperately pulling and clawing, not realizing his tail was tangled in the netting until fresh air shocked his face and water lapped around his now-exposed torso. He gulped the fresh air into his seldom-used human lungs, forcing himself to remember how to mouth-breathe. His gills fluttered uselessly before the gills along his ribs sealed shut as the wind cut into his skin. A renewed sense of alarm flooded his body as he let go of the shiny metal hoop and tried futilely to untangle the rope that had twisted around his tail.

Before he knew it, he was hoisted over the side of the ship, a flood of terrified fish dumping over him. He rolled slightly in the fall to the hard wood of the deck, unfurling his tail from the net hastily. He thrashed his arms about in revulsion, desperately trying to shove the mass of flopping fish off of him, when he heard a series of barking, rough voices.

Loki froze. To his immediate left there were two humans. Dry, two-legged, and utterly revolting. Without a second thought, he dove back into the writhing group of fish, still pungent with the smell of panic and new death. His own tail was still semi-exposed, but the silver-gray shine of it was easily camouflaged by the same-colored fish.

Loki curled in on himself under the reeking fish, hating his situation and his own foolishness. Before he knew it, the entire grouping of fish, along with Loki himself, were dumped though some sort of wooden hole in the ship’s deck, left to rest below.

Loki couldn’t risk unburying himself from the fish, and cursed himself once more for landing in this situation. He was trapped, for now. He had to work out a way to escape, or he was in huge trouble.

She climbed up the crow’s nest, pale hands scratching against the coarse rope and weather-worn wood. Her ascension was slow going - her body ached from sparring earlier that day with Brunnhilde, her muscles were weak from going without as much food as she’d like, and her mind was dulled from the endless repetition of life at sea. Her hands occasionally slipped on the rope and they released the nets from her grasp too early, making her upward climb more dangerous than she liked.

Clambering over the rough wooden lip of the stand with the help of Heimdall’s large hand was only too easy when compared to her journey upwards, if a bit awkward. He returned to standing watchful at his post after lending her his assistance, and cut an imposing figure against the sunset with a cutlass on his waist and telescope in hand.

“Heimdall,” she greeted her first mate warmly,  “Jane said you had need of me. "

“Aye. See, there is a ship on the horizon, Lady,” Heimdall said shortly, pointing with one dark hand.

Sif did not even ask to use his spyglass; she had learnt over time that not even death herself could part Heimdall from his precious telescope and she had seen him not once without it. Instead, she pulled down her wide-brimmed hat to shade her eyes and peered into the setting sun. A backlit smudge stared back from the horizon. 

“A ship,” she said thoughtfully, “They would have supplies aplenty, don’t you think?” 

“Aye, Lady,” Heimdall answered her, turning to look into her eyes with scrutiny, “Shall we raid them?”

“We shall on the morrow,” Sif decided, smiling her sharp-toothed grin as she settled the hat back into place atop her darkened hair. “The girls’ bellies have gone empty for too many nights already.”

“And your own, as well,” he replied gravely, staring her down with sharp amber eyes. “Do not think I missed how little you fill your plate at suppertime, Lady.” 

Sif rolled her eyes at him in much the same way that the coarse fishwives in any market would, “You old nag. I don’t need to be worried over, Heimdall.” 

“Yet I shall anyways,” Heimdall said. fondly, “I only swore on my name to your late lord father, after all.”

She shook her head, dark hair swinging with the motion, as she turned to depart. Climbing down the crow’s nest was always easier than climbing up. After she swung herself over the edge of the barrel, Sif paused. “You may leave your post at any time tonight and have Jane take over for you. Just as you do not miss when I fill my plate or stomach less than halfway, I do not miss when you sulk up here all night without slumber.”

Heimdall raised a single eyebrow at her and said nothing. 

Sif shook her head again, quietly grumbling to herself as she began her descent. In truth, though, her thoughts lay not with Heimdall practically living in the watchtower but instead with thoughts of the ship on the horizon. What kind of ship was it? Another group of pirates would mean fierce battle - so would any naval ship - and the rewards would be great. Food for weeks at least, precious gunpowder or perhaps helpful medicinal herbs, and a great skirmish besides. 

With those thoughts running through her head, once she reached the wood of the deck Sif let out a loud, wordless bellow. Every person on the deck stopped their work, fingers caught in nets or on sails as they turned to face her. Dozens of eyes were on her. Sif felt a thrum of satisfaction within her – her crew was so dedicated, so devoted.

“Attention, ladies,” she shouted, pointing one long finger to the orange horizon. “You have worked hard, these weeks, on ever-smaller rations - your bellies have gnawed at you with hunger - and you have performed your tasks admirably. This has not been for naught! Heimdall has spotted, just today, a ship upon the sea near us. A ship with a fuller galley, perhaps! We raid on the morrow, girls, so sharpen your blades, load your pistols,  and eat well!”

Sif thought that perhaps it was Darcy who started the cry of jubilant cheers that went up at her last words. The girl was always an unconventional one, just a little too offbeat even when compared to the other rough pirate women. Perhaps it was not Darcy who cheered after all, but no matter. In any case, Sif left her crew on the deck and withdrew into her private rooms. 

The next morning, before she left her rooms, Sif strapped her pistol’s holster and glaive’s sheath around her hips, over the red captain’s coat. They set sail to accost the nearby ship on her order, and the closer they came, the more details they could make out. Sif could see a large net, could smell the sick, dead smell of fish and wet wood; a trawler, she thought gleefully, we’ve stumbled upon a fishing boat!

When they made to board the ship, Sif could only think of a hold fat with fish, her growling stomach, and how easy this was going to be.

Chapter Text

The smells of gunpowder, dead fish, and blood assaulted Sif’s nose and she reveled in it. Her glaive pierced the soft parts of someone’s torso with a squelch. Shouts rang out around her; she heard the phrase  “fierce hell cat” several times and glowed with pride knowing it referred to her.

Besides her fought Heimdall. He whirled next to her, wielding his own cutlass expertly. One fisherman clattered down to the wooden deck, blood spurting from the cut in his neck and gutting knife falling out of his hand.

Sif was not exactly sure when common fishermen had become this aggressive, but she wasn’t about to complain. Her muscles didn’t scream as she drove her sword into the side of a some man coming at her, but she felt the start of a slow burn.

Her elbow slammed into someone’s nose; she heard Darcy cheer her on from the girl’s own fight.

The fight drew on and on, but eventually it ended as the noon sun rose high into the sky. The fishermen were mostly either dead, unconscious, or tethered together by coarse rope to the mast of their ship.

As the captain, Sif received a majority of their spoils. She walked slowly through the captain’s chamber, picking up a journal or a box of snuff here or there. Nothing truly interested her, though, and she found herself more drawn to the door that reeked of death.

The wet wood was grimy looking - no light shone behind the door. That, and the scent of rotting flesh, tipped Sif off to what she might find beyond. Stairs, or perhaps a rickety ladder, that led down to the hold.

When she pushed the door open, listening to the satisfying creak of old hinges, she was unsurprised to find her assumption correct. She walked down carefully, feeling the old wood warp slightly as her weight pulled down on it.

She stepped off the last step of the stairs. All around her was piles and piles of silver fish, dark fish, all slightly rotted, all stinking so heavily she felt sick.

She picked her way carefully over the mounds of silvery fish-flesh that sat in the dark hold. Some still flopped weakly. Hundreds of questions suddenly plagued her: how much fish would they take, how would they transport it back to their own ship, where had the rest of the supplies been stored?

She was  busy puzzling over the answers to these questions when she saw something that was definitely not a fishtail move. Pale, spindly...Some kind of sea snake, perhaps?

Trying not to slip on the piles of fish, Sif slowly walked closer. One hand settled on her glaive; she’d heard stories of gigantic sea serpents before, and didn’t much fancy meeting even a smaller one.

The thing moved again. She grimaced as she came closer, recognizing it to be the bend of an elbow. Had some poor fisherman fallen in with the catch of the day and been left forgotten, crushed by piles of smelly flesh? Well, if that meant one less opponent to fight abovedeck, she supposed it wasn’t too bad.

Whoever was underneath the fish obviously wasn’t dead. She’d just seen the arm move, after all. She nudged the bare arm with the toe of her leather boot twice.When the person did not respond, Sif began to clear off the pile of fish above them, her curiosity piqued.

The arm was revealed to be long and slender, muscled slightly but not overmuch. Sif would have guessed it to belong to an active woman such as herself, or perhaps a leaner man. As she pushed fish-flesh off of the person, she saw more and more of their physique. Dark hair quite like her own was thrown over the person’s face like a curtain; dark nails tipped their fingertips. The wide shoulder blades suggested the person was male.

Sif crouched and pushed the dark hair away from the person’s face. She raised her eyebrows and surveyed the face newly-bared to her.

She saw a sharp nose, a thin chin, and eyes as green as the sea - an attractive face, quite honestly - then, Sif caught a glance of sore-looking red tissue on his neck.

Had the man’s throat been slit? Did the fishermen above leave him here to die on purpose? How was he still alive?

And, Sif thought, it would make sense for the fishermen to have fought as viciously as they did if they’d already tried to murder one of their crewmates.

Still, her crew had not come here to murder all aboard - not directly, at least, and Sif was not about to leave a man to die or fester in a pile of fish-flesh. Sif resolved to at least free the man from the smelly pounds of fish that still covered everything from his shoulders down.

Just above his waist, after she finished clearing it of fish, she found more slit skin and red tissues. She examined it more closely - cutting throats made sense...waists, not so much.

When she saw the wounds flutter feebly, Sif realized she was not looking at wounds. The next thing that pops to her mind could not be true: gills. But people could not have gills. Gills did not make sense.

Perhaps they are wounds, Sif mused, and a bunch of filthy little maggots are squirming around inside of him.

She pushed that disgusting thought out of her head and continued pushing fish off of the man. A foot or two under the wounds, she found scales. And a tail. Not the scales and tail of a fish: large scales, a large tail, connected directly to the man’s torso.

She was not dealing with a fisherman, but rather, apparently, a fishman.

Sif turned to look behind her at the sound of quiet footsteps behind her, slippery and slow. “Heimdall,” she greets him. “Come here.”

He approached, eyebrows raising higher and higher as he takes in the sight. “It has a tail,” he remarked. “Very...uncommon for a person to have. I’ve never seen it before.”

“And you’ve seen almost everything,” Sif teased. They stood there, in the hold, staring at the creature’s body.

“Do you want me to slay it?” he asks. “My blade is sharp; I would not trust a beast like this.”

“No,” she says softly, “I want him brought back to the ship.”

Heimdall tilted his head. “As you wish, Captain. We shall bring the merman back onto our ship.”

“Thank you,” she said with a smile. “Do you need my help?”

“Please,” Heimdall replied.

Together, they lifted the body, Heimdall’s hands holding the slick scaled end and Sif’s arms around chilly shoulders. The stairs were a hazardous situation, wobbly and hard to maneuver.

The surviving fishermen, still tied to the mast of their ship, have wide eyes as Sif and Heimdall move the body of the strange creature over to their own shift.  

They crossed the planks between  the two ships carefully. Sif tried not to look down at the foot or two of open air between the two ships, tried not to comprehend just how far below the water would be if they slipped overboard.

“Heimdall,” she asked lightly, voice strained. The man’s shoulders were clammy in her hands. “I have no idea where we might store a person of such…peculiar anatomy, such as this.”

“Your bath?” Heimdall suggested.

Sif grimaced. Scales? In her bath, her lone luxury? Over her cold, dead hands.  “I’d prefer not to.”

Heimdall thought as they cautiously walked the creature over the planks. “A barrel, mayhaps?”

“A temporary solution at best,” Sif said.

“Hopefully, Lady,” Heimdall said seriously, “this merman will be a temporary guest. Fishfolk are bad luck, your father always said.”

“I want to talk to him,” she muttered. “We can sell him or throw him overboard after we speak. And besides, what Father told us were tales and superstitions.”

“You always were taken by fairy tales,” Heimdall said slowly, “even as a young girl.”

Sif did not dignify that with a response.

They stood on the solid wood deck of their own ship for a long minute, simply watching each other, feeling the cold scales and sweaty skin in their hands. Heimdall dropped his half of the merman unceremoniously; the thick tail thumped on the deck. Sif kept a tight hold of the man’s shoulders.

Heimdall left, and for a second, Sif thought he would not return when she saw him go below deck. He returned soon after, however, an empty barrel scraping against the floorboards.

It took finagling and more elbow grease than Sif would like to admit, to situate the creature in the barrel. If her hands lingered on the unconscious man’s bare skin for longer than was necessary, Heimdall didn’t comment.

With a grunt, Heimdall hefted the entire barrel, fishman and all, into the air. Sif directed him through the doors of her cabin and into the corner, where he carefully set the barrel down.

They watched the merman for maybe a minute. His breathing was slow and slightly labored. He stirred but little.

“Help me put water in with him,” Sif commanded softly. “Seawater, not drinking water.”

“Aye, Captain.”

It took many and many buckets of water, filled from the plentiful ocean situated conveniently all around the ship, before the barrel was filled to Sif’s approval. One more container of water was sent for. Sif kept this at her side.

She looked over at her unconscious, captive curio with sharp eyes. Colorful glass beads and a few pearls were strung throughout his dark hair haphazardly; golden bangles sat heavy on his thin wrists.

Sif thought of how those gold bracelets would look fetching on her own wrists, or on Darcy’s, or on Jane’s, or in the hands of a vendor in exchange for much-needed supplies. She knew many fine jewelers would part with most of their coins for such pretty saltwater pearls.

She was not a greedy woman - if she were, she’d be married to some high-up lord by now, not sailing across the nine seas and being the scourge of the oceans - but she was a practical one. Even just one of the pearls in the fishman’s hair would help to feed her ship for months.

“Heimdall, would you help me rid our guest of his ostentatious jewelry?” Sif asked her first  mate.

He nodded. Sif plucked the little pearls from the insensate creature’s hair carefully, holding them lightly in the palm of her hand.

When the man has been stripped of all his decoration - aside from his pretty face - Sif smiled. The bucket of water at her side had not been forgotten. With a sense of petty cruelty, she lifted the bucket from the floor by its rusty handle and slowly poured it over the man’s head.

The merman spluttered awake.

Loki was severely upset. Being in a barrel he could live with for a short time. Being marveled at by a bunch of weird-looking land-walkers was fine, as long as they weren’t too aggressive. But having his various trinkets taken away? He swore that blood would be spilt over his lovely shiny things - especially the ones that had danced so marvelously in his hair when he sped through the water.

On the other hand, being in a barrel was not an ideal situation either. The water was limited and flat, forcing him to breathe once again with his lungs. He hated that; breathing through the nose was too invasive and strange, but breathing through the mouth made his throat dry and lips crack.

He was quite sure that these strange, dry creatures had no idea how important he was. How dare they. One was near him, its hair black like his own, with ruffled and studded fabric covering most of its body. Its strange and two-legged body. He could not tell the sex of the landlubber, covered in so much fabric that he could not even see if it had a bosom or not.

“What are you, sea serpent?” It said, sticking its chin up and narrowing its eyes, tilting its head.

Oh, it was talking. To him? He tilted his head a fraction to the right, curious fingers looped over the edge of the barrel thoughtfully.

Loki kept his lips sealed. He would not dignify it with a response; this thing was so obviously savage that it would be below him to answer it. And the landlubber reeked of fresh blood. He was not keen on having the scent of his own mingle with it.

Whatever these creatures were, they were dangerous. And probably stupid, likely even more dimwitted than Thor. Dangerously stupid? He didn’t know. He didn’t want to find out.

“I said,” it asked, scowling unpleasantly, “what you are, creature?”

Oh, the mouthbreather was getting angry at him. It’s teeth were odd; flat and white, like most of his own, but with canines not nearly as sharp. Gnashing or baring its teeth was not going to intimidate Loki into speaking. He’d seen much worse.

So he dunked his head under the water, tail pressed awkwardly at the bottom. The safety of the wet silence comforted him slightly, rearing his gills back into working order. From under the ripples, he peered at the creature. It had stepped forward to squint through the water back at him.

Childishly, Loki stuck his pointed tongue out at it. Shame be upon this creature who had so unfairly ensnared him. He had things perfectly under control under the fish-pile, ready to escape when the pile was relieved of its mass. If it did.

The dark-headed figure above him jerked back out of his view at his sudden and callow movement.

At the next moment a pale hand plunged into the barrel and wrenched him up by the arm.

Spluttering, Loki attempted to submerge himself once more, but the creature’s grasp - so strong for so slender an arm! - was unrelenting.

“Do not play ignorant with me, fishman,” it snapped. Time for another approach, he decided. Loki gathered strength in his coiled tail and pushed forward, out of the barrel. It yelped and stepped back, but Loki had miscalculated his own strength and found himself on a tilting wooden floor, the ground flooded by the overturned water in his barrel.

The surprised voice of the two-legged creature made the whole ordeal worth it. The landlubber lay on the floor, disoriented and a jumble of thin limbs.

But apparently more two-legs had heard the cry of Loki’s landlubber, for two of them burst through the door. Swords and knives hung from their belts, and the larger, darker one had a hand on a contraption Loki had seen before on sunken ships, but found had never worked. Black and shiny, with a wooden handle, to Loki it seemed to be of no threat.

His creature stood once more, its dark hair disheveled. A split thought that rising so easily and elegantly would do Loki much good in his condition dissipated at the sound of its voice.

“He lunged at me, the wretched thing,” it told the others, straightening the cuffs on its lavish coat.

Its eyes were lovely, Loki could begrudgingly admit that, but narrowed and accusatory, they stung. Loki was feeling quite vulnerable as the three mouth-breathers spoke about what they were to do with him. He tried to divert his attention, for he knew he could not do anything if they decided to use those sharp knives hanging by their sides.

That’s when he saw his pearls.

A string of them hung over a pretty bowl on a big desk set against the wall. And although from his angle on the floor, he could only see the pearls, he would bet that the rest of his treasure was there too. So while the creatures spoke, he sat up as best he could. He felt off balance without that constant assurance of water surrounding him, but he nudged himself towards the desk as best he could regardless.

Out of nowhere the blade of a great curved glaive chopped itself into the wooden floor mere inches from where his hand rested. Startled, he jerked backwards, hitting the edge of the overturned barrel behind him.

“We didn’t forget about you, princess,” the one with the curious contraption and darker skin said from the other side of the sword.

Damn. Even as he looked away from them, of course they would keep their eyes on him.

“Don't be rude, Heimdall,” his creature said, “He would not have gotten very far; why bother scolding him? He would not respond to my questions, so I do not believe he can understand you anyways.”

“Uh,” the third land-walker chimed in. This one he thought was perhaps a female. She had a visible bosom, at least. “Are you sure? I mean, he might be faking it. Or too scared to talk.”

At this, Loki’s nostrils flared involuntarily, but he blinked his eyes dumbly at the trio, feigning ignorance.

“Oh, surely not, Jane,” his creature said, “I mean, what sentient creature would refuse to communicate with their source of food?” Ah. This two-leg was planning something, he could sense it. Its mouth was quirked up in a smirk.

“Heimdall,” it said, addressing the one with the contraption, “fetch more water for our guest. Jane, help me gather him back into the barrel.”

Loki cursed the mouth-breather silently, but didn’t resist. He would never be able to return to the sea without aid, and refused to give in and speak to the lesser beings.

“You know, Captain,” the Jane one was speaking. Was his creature’s name Captain? “Maybe he’s more than just a merman. Maybe he’s a siren, and can lure sailors to their death with his singing.”

Loki tried not to snort as he was hefted back into the barrel, now with only a sad, little bit of water left at the bottom. Lure sailors to their death? With singing? How primitive their thinking was, if they truly believed such nonsense. When the Jane creature left the room to get more water for him, Captain walked over to the desk. It let its hand touch all of his treasures and put a few of his golden bangles on its wrist.

The barrel was uncomfortable and scratchy on his sensitive tail, so he was almost happy to see the heavy bucket of water be brought to him by the Heimdall one. He was not so happy with the unceremonious manner that its contents were dumped on him.

When the barrel was full and Loki was feeling drowsy and grumpy, Captain waltzed around the quarters as it pleased, taking off its big, black boots and glaive. When it took off the heavy coat, revealing a simple white blouse with puffy sleeves underneath, Loki had a realization.

His creature was female - or, at least, she had a bosom. While the gender of his captor wasn’t a huge issue for him, he liked knowing it. He figured that the more he knew about these land-walkers, the better chance he would have of escaping this wretched place.

She left after a short stretch of silence. He was in the room alone, and was filled with glee for this solitude, until he realized that he really had nowhere to go in this place. He did not want to have to deal with sitting on the dry, scratchy floor, waiting for Captain and the others to find that he had overturned his temporary living quarters once more.

He really didn’t trust the Heimdall one to not use his glaive on him, should he get too frustrating. He shuddered at the mere thought of being left at that particular two-leg’s mercy.

So instead of wreaking havoc, as he truly wanted to do, he slouched further into his barrel, like he had when in the company of his creature. The end of his tail hung out of the barrel, and its silvery color was greyer because of the conditions he had been living in. A few days in the company of hundreds of rotting fish could do that to a merman.

He took this time to think about home; were his parents and brother looking for him? He had not left on good terms with his brother, and for that he was regretful. As easy as it was to hate Thor, he wished no harm or concern to come to him unless it was completely purposeful.

He slumped down further. His father probably didn’t even notice his absence. The man would look at him with that horrid disappointment and Loki would hate himself almost as much as he hated his father.

With a pang, he thought of his mother. She would miss him, should he not return from this odyssey. She would mourn him. For that, and only that, he was sorry.