Archive of Our Own ^beta

Less brutally regal angles and with a healthy color — and you find it hard to connect the dots between the man you’d seen then and the man you knew now. They are different; motivated by totally different things.

Freedom is life’s great lie, he had once said to Fury and Selvig and you. It had come with a threat and a promise.

You remember watching from afar in cold, creeping horror.

Now, that fear is gone. It’s nervous, anxious butterflies that beat their wings against your heart’s walls now.

Morning beckons a dreary, cold dawn.

This new day is the sort you would have stayed in bed for, the kind to send you burrowing into the cool comfort of your sheets. Back in your small, studio apartment, you would have turned over, shut out the gloomy light, and promised your constant companion, Sigurd, ten more minutes.

You hope Sigurd is okay.

Maybe somewhere, that cat is the King of Time. The thought makes you smile.

However, this morning is not met with the toiling simplicities of day-to-day life between labs, lectures, and doctorates. No, this morning is dragged in with the rough roar of a sputtering engine.

Calling it a roar seems wrong — in reality, calling it a cough is probably a more apt description of the sound. A hack, maybe?

Still, it is better than the dreaded phone alarm that usually startles you awake... back home, at least.

Your head raises from its place on Loki’s chest; almost immediately your eyes are snapped fully awake at the intruding sound — and you’re not the only one in the lean-to that blinks awake. Loki, beneath you, stirs with a startled inhale. The peaceful softness that had washed over his features is gone and suddenly mangled with startled confusion.

Your hand rests above his heart as you sit up, legs tangled with his, and squint out the window.

Perhaps in another time, this moment would be nice. But, there’s no time to linger on the feeling of his heart beneath your fingertips, or the way his sleep parts to the picture of your beauty — and for once, wakefulness is welcomed. There is no time to dissect the moment of lingering affection or longing glances.

By Odin’s beard, he never thought he’d be in love with a Midgardian woman.

And yet, here he is.

Even in his urgency, he does steal a fond look — and he does feel his heart ache at the sight of your eyes. He pushes it all down, swallows the compliments threatening to pour from his mouth, and squares himself.

After all, there’s a car.

Loki sits up.

You’d both maintained watch as long as you could — but between whispers and kisses, exhaustion had crept in.

He tries to ignore the burning want to kiss you again; to ignore the rumblings of the Void beyond and just pull you back to him — but he knows there will be time and place for that one. He will ensure it.

You make eye contact with Loki, then both of you scramble to the door — the truth is there’s a familiar face in that car. Three familiar faces, actually. And, you only realize it when you rush out to Loki’s side, followed by a gaggle of makeshift warriors keen on beating back the motorized threat.

Behind you, your teenage self rubs the sleep from her eyes.

“Intruder alert,” she mumbles tiredly.

The dark-haired teenager beside her puffs his chest — and you can see the attempt to provide a brave, protector’s stance. The knife in his hand glints.

“We’ll be fine,” he mumbles quietly, “Stay behind me.”

But, you and Loki are already stumbling down the steps when the car peels into a stop — and your smile breaks the clouds. Loki laughs, breathless and full of disbelief, when a grey-haired man juts a long leg out from the driver’s side door.

Suddenly, this place isn’t so bad.

With friends, the Void is not horrible.

“Mobius!” you holler, leaping down the front steps and launching yourself towards the mustached man — and he meets it with a horribly fatherly sort of ‘oof’. When he pulls away, his expression is tender. Worried, almost.

“You okay?”

You nod, patting his shoulder as Loki hovers over your shoulder. As he and Mobius share a long, warm handshake laced with a look you could paint as affectionate, you can’t help but be stunned stupid at the sight emerging from the backseat.

It’s you.

Or, well, her.

A disheveled, exhausted-looking Commandant.

And Sylvie.

Her Sylvie.

You watch as the two emerge, fingers entwined, and you find that the questions you could have asked mean nothing when the answers lay before you.

Her eyes are light — nearly a milky silver. Different from yours. Unnatural. Everything about her seems eerily manufactured. She’s sharper than you and lacks the softness of youth you hold in your face. She seems born to do what she has done for the TVA, yet... you see her wind her hand tighter around Sylvie’s and you can’t help but wonder how this moment between them came to be.

(In truth, it hadn’t been easy. It had been a tumbling fight between a forced-pruning and a self-pruning, and a moment of fingers on the temple as the roar of the all-consuming Alioth loomed overhead. Sylvie had fought tooth and nail, and in the sweeping emptiness of that field, in the swirl of the end, her Doctor came back to her. When the green faded from her eyes and she slipped to her knees, all the things she once lived and knew came rushing back.

And, then, enter Mobius.)

Mobius blinks, watching carefully as you stiffen at the appearance of the woman. He coughs, clearing his throat, as he gestures to this other you.

She’s almost shy. Her eyes find the ground more than they do the wary glances of the group. Sylvie, though, is steadfast and unwavering in the constant with the love that pours from her. Her gaze is tender, kind, and patient.

“Don’t worry. We’re cool.”

Sylvie moves, reaches for you, and you take her hand. And then you hug her.

She wraps herself tightly around you and you smile into her shoulder, whispering quietly into the blonde of her hair:

“You found her.”

“That I did,” she says, rubbing your spine.

“How did you find us?” you ask, breathless as you pull back.

Sylvie grins. “Luck, I guess.”

When you pull away, Loki’s hand is on Sylvie’s shoulder.

The reunion is quiet, soft, and tender. Breaming with the rather laughable fact that is quite hard to kill the three of you.

“Jeez,” calls Mobius, “Seems you two found good company, huh?”

“Oh, right,” Loki jumps, waving at the group, “Sylvie, meet us. A bit older, and as a child, and... as an alligator.”

Sure enough, the reptile at your heels hisses.

Sylvie blinks.

Beside her, the Commandant watches with a wild look.

When she speaks, it’s rougher than your voice. But, it lacks the earlier volatility it had when in the Time-Keepers’ chamber. It sounds as if she’s just woken up from a dream. You like the sound.

“That’s us,” the Commandant breathes.

A statement. Less of a question. Still laden with confusion, though, as she looks up at the teenager in the doorway of the home.

You nod and shrug, crossing your arms. The situation’s curiosity had worn off hours ago, and now, you gesture to the rodent easily. “Yea. So is the capybara.”

The Commandant’s brows raise. Her expression is tight. From behind the teenager’s legs, the aquatic rodent chirps.

You wince, drop your hands to your hips, and wet your lips. You turn to the Commandant, looking a little pained, and just shrug it off.

She shares a bewildered nod, and turns to Sylvie.

“Alright,” she starts slowly, “So, you’ve all been after the cloud monster, then?”

You roll your eyes.

“Please don’t tell me you’re also trying to kill it?” you ask.

Loki feigns insult. “Hey!”

Sylvie blinks. “You were going to try to kill it?”

“That’s what I said,” comes the indignant call of the teenager as she meanders down the steps and crosses her own arms, “I never got to see how they killed it in Lost, but—”

“I love Lost!” comes the quiet exclamation of the Commandant. When all the eyes snap to her, she’s quick to cover her mouth. She shrinks, “Sorry.”

“To her point,” you say, gesturing to the teenager, “I don’t think it’s possible.”

“Come on, now,” Loki says, crossing his arms as a sudden burst of his usual stubbornness comes to the surface, “It’s completely possible. If it lives, it dies.”

“If it lives, it has conquered this Void pretty easily—”

“Well, has anyone ever challenged it?”

"Please,” steps in the older man, rubbing his temples, “Pause this lover’s quarrel for a moment and consider the fact that, perhaps, we cannot kill it—”

“We don’t have to kill it,” Sylvie chirps in as you and Loki hold embarrassed looks, “I’m going to enchant it.”

You blink.

Mobius smirks.

“Enchant it?”

“You... You think you can?” Loki asks.

“I did — only for a moment, and I saw something. So, if I enchant it, hopefully, that thing is the guard dog in front of the door. It will take us to the man at the end of time. Or thing. Being...? I... I am not quite sure what to expect.”

Sylvie seems confident. You inhale and exhale.

“Well,” chirps the teenager you, “That’s horrifying.”

Loki crosses his arms as he thinks.

Then, he looks to you.

“What do you think?” he asks, seeking your guidance.

It touches you — and you can’t help the gentle smile that tugs at your lips. The God has forfeited his control, and he’s trusting you, trusting Sylvie. Suddenly, the feeling of comradery overwhelms you, and you have to laugh at the ragtag band of fighters you’ve all assembled. Your eyes sweep across them all as you hold your head high. This is something, something that storybook writers would clamor over.

You wonder if maybe, when you get back to your time, that’s what you’ll do.

Though, now that you think about it, S.H.I.E.L.D. will be less than pleased about any of this.

A pit of dread pools on your gut.

You’ve seen S.H.I.E.L.D. standard operating procedure. If you thought Loki had changed your life, just wait until S.H.I.E.L.D. learns about your little parade through time.

You exhale, shove all that down.

And then, you nod.

“I think we stand a fair chance.”

Sylvie grins. Mobius laughs. Loki nods his head, smiling ear to ear.

And so, begins the end of the beginning.

The plan involves hunting down Alioth — and it’s made easy by the teenage Loki’s homemade device. Your day-long’s trek proved fruitful because the gaggle of heroes is closer to the thunderous beast than anticipated. In fact, beyond the hills, you can hear the purple smoke rumbling towards its next meal.

The thought is daunting.

The task at hand is daunting, as well.

Sylvie will enchant it while you and Loki provide a distraction. Once she has latched onto a smaller part of the beast, hopefully she will be able to dig her magic deep under its hide and poison it with illusion. If it sticks, then the three of you will confront what lays beyond.

If.

It’s a big if.

But, as you follow the group along the winding ridge of hills, you realize you’ve faced a lot of if’s in this life. Lots of scary if’s — about grad school, about internships, about jobs, about the goddamn Battle of New York. And each time, you’ve survived. You’re good at surviving. Maybe because you hadn’t met Loki yet. But, you try to remind yourself that you’re writing this love story now. You’re in charge.

Freedom is life’s greatest lie.

What a load of shit.

The three of you will defeat Alioth. Take that, free will.

In the meantime, there is lots of back-and-forth on the trek — but Mobius and the Commandant are set on returning to the TVA, to finding B-15, to setting things right. If they’re Variants, then the whole of the organization deserves to know the same. They need to do the work to bring down the lies.

Sylvie had seemed broken by that — but, as the two walked ahead, you can see the Commandant softly speaking to her love. Hand-in-hand, a promise was made. You can only imagine they would find one another again. But, it’s the time ripped apart that makes your heart ache deeply. Loki sees it. He reaches to find your hand as you walk along.

Mobius, behind you, has to smile.

Took long enough.

And it did. Feels like longer than it is, maybe. Time is nothing here, in the TVA, in the loops and thresholds of Time Doors. It’s all wonky, weird, and wonderful.

... Darcy would fuckin’ love this.

You can imagine she will. I mean — with the thought of going home, that is.

Home.

It seems like something abstract, almost.

You worry if home will ever be the same.

But, it seems like the Void doesn’t want you considering that fact for much longer, because in a sudden burst of static, the young Loki’s device seems to go haywire.

“Incoming!” he calls, eyes snapping high to the horizon as he bolts up the hill, sparing little but a look towards the herd.

You give chase.

And you’re swept back by the sight of the enormous Alioth.

Along the horizon, the purple smog grows. Somewhere, in the beast’s belly, lightning crackles alive to the thrum of a war cry.

The roaring, forever-guard hungers for its next meal — the waning hull of the USS Eldridge. With a thunderous thud, the cannon-class destroyer escort splits the earth deep. The impact sends the sailors aboard scattering, trying their best to prepare for this sudden detour to land. The ground beneath your feet quakes.

Alioth rears up.

It doesn’t take long, but as soon as the smoke descends, it’s finished its meal.

No amount of artillery shells dissuades the beast — and suddenly, you’re not the only one thankful for Sylvie’s change of plans. Though, you have to admit that the thought of getting closer to the beast was frightening enough. Behind you, the younger version of yourself steps up.

In her arms, the capybara quivers. She pushes her fingers gently through its fur.

“Are you sure about this?” she whispers.

You give her a look, exhale, and nod. “As sure as I’ll ever be.”

“Right,” she says, eyeing the cloud that has hung over the ship, ensuring it’s picked its meal clean, “Sure you don’t need my help?”

You laugh quietly. Loki, behind you, does as well.

“Tenacious,” he comments.

The younger you tosses him a cheeky wink. “You betcha.”

You nudge her in playful jest. She smiles, big — all toothy and girlish, like you remember the photos of yourself in high school. You stare for a moment, then swallow down a sudden burst of melancholy.

“You’re sure you want to stay here?” you ask suddenly.

She laughs.

“I made a friend,” she says, nudging her head towards the younger Loki looking on forlornly, “It would be shitty to just ditch him now.”

“Language,” you tease.

She grins. “Promise you’ll visit?”

You hold up your hand.

In one firm shake, you both lock pinkies and promise.

Behind you, the team has begun to grow restless. Sylvie, especially.

She has the Commandant’s hand in hers; the grip is tight. The two of them look scared staring the beast down. But, while Sylvie’s fear remains stuck on ending this, the Commandant’s are set on her love. You can only imagine that the woman is realizing that this is yet another separation. Yet again, time is driving them apart.

You reach for Loki’s hand. He takes it readily, eyes already on the heartwrenching sight before him.

The Commandant’s voice is rough and low. She’s looking at Sylvie with big eyes and a broken look. “Promise you’ll come back to me.”

Sylvie is startled out of her trance. Her stony expression face melts. “Always, my love. Always.”

She rushes to usher in comfort; and you can see the similarities in her and Loki, then. Though they are far and few between, the similar traits they share come in the form of genuine care. Gentle touches, the thumb on the chin, the press of a forehead in between whispered sweetness.

Loki’s thumb brushes over your knuckles.

When Sylvie pulls the Commandant in for a tender, aching kiss, you look away.

You find Loki’s eyes are already on you.

Your face softens.

“You ready?” you ask in a whisper.

He nods. Then, his fingers brush your cheek. “Promise me you’ll stay close.”

You nod.

Loki’s breath is tight. “I cannot lose you. I won’t. Not when we’ve come this far.”

You pull his hand, holding his long fingers in your own. You turn his hand over and, oh-so-gently, you kiss his palm. It stokes a fire so bright in Loki that he fears he may just crumble into a pile of cinder at your feet. It burns, in the best way, the sort of way that has him wondering why he ever chased power when you existed. You are dangerous — the gesture is kind and gentle and met with a flutter of lashes and yet it has him wondering how he ever considered himself a God.

“I promise.”

His voice hitches; his eyes flash with something darker — so brief you almost miss it. “Best to keep to it.”

Your heart catches. Your skin on his is suddenly as hot as a lightning strike. You smother the thoughts that creep up, ignoring the burn in your gut, and turn back to Sylvie, Mobius, and the Commandant.

To your side, the older Loki looks on with a gentle smile.

“We should get this over with,” you say, voice shaking a bit more than you mean for it to as you pry your gaze from his, “Before I decide I’m too chicken.”

“No backing out now,” Sylvie says as she steps forward, her fingers trailing from the Commandant’s, “We’re staring the wolf in the mouth.”

Over your shoulder, the winds whip from the west — it stings your skin like icy rain would, but there’s no real storm. Only a brooding, horrible thing resting along the horizon searching for the breath of life that lingers on this hilltop. It’s almost as if Alioth can sense the gathered tribe of warriors; it lingers.

Mobius frowns deep; you catch his eyes and offer a fearful look. But the man, in his usual level-headed wisdom, just nods. “You’ve got this far, doc. I think you’re about as unkillable as a Loki now.”

You have to scoff at that. The smile on your face is touched with sadness.

You look up at Mobius, squinting into the overcast morning sun. “Promise me I’ll see you again?”

“No doubt,” he breathes, moving to pull you into a desperately tight hug; his voice is low against your hair, “Gotta get me a jetski anyways. Think you could build me a custom one? Y’know, with my name across the side?”

You laugh into his jacket. “Sure, Mobius. I can do that.”

As you pull away, you see Sylvie procure something.

Your eyes glimmer with recognition.

She steps forward, and hands it to you.

Her voice is low. “You don’t have to come with us.”

You take the TemPad. The weight is calming, almost. Familiar. A way out of this place, out of this nightmare. But, you realize that you can’t leave. You can’t possibly abandon them now.

You hand it to Mobius.

You grin up at Sylvie.

“I’m not missing out on this mythical showdown,” you say with a slight smirk as your eyes jump between her and Loki, “And I’m not leaving you two behind. When they sing songs of the slaying of the mighty Alioth—”

Behind you, the younger and older Loki’s snicker. You grin.

“—Not letting you two have all the glory.”

If only you’d known.

“I don’t even know if this is going to work,” she urges, pain in her voice, “I don’t... I don’t want to be the reason he loses you—”

“You go,” you say finally, “I go.”

Sylvie inhales. Then, she exhales.

Tiredly, she can’t help but break into a slight smile. “You’re the most stubborn woman in the world, you know.”

“I know,” you say, pulling on her hand and squeezing it tight.

Mobius laughs, and you catch a light smile dancing on the lips of the ever-severe Commandant. Her posture has relaxed, and she toes the hillside grass with her boot. When she looks up, her eyes remain on Sylvie. Longing sits deep in her silvery eyes.

It makes your heart hurt.

Mobius eyes the TemPad, and then begins to power it up. The golden, hazy door warbles along time and space to port itself into the Void, hanging just beyond the hill. As he creates a point in time to exit upon, he speaks up to the gaggle beyond his shoulder.

“You guys wanna ride outta here?” he asks, turning to look towards the older and younger Lokis and your teenage self. The capybara and alligator are considered, too.

“What?” asks the younger one, shaking his head; he stands close to your teenage self, “No, we’re staying here.”

“This is our home,” explains the elder firmly.

“Are you sure?” Loki calls out as the winds begin to whip up — it’s almost as if Alioth knows now that challengers linger along the horizon, and it has begun to revel in its gnarly hunger, “What about Alioth?”

“We’ve survived this long,” the older man says, “We know what we’re doing.”

You frown. The older Loki catches your eyes — and for a moment, his stubborn exterior melts. It only further drives the ache in your heart.

“You’ll need this on your journey,” calls out the dark-haired teenager on the hill. In a well-practiced pass of green magic, a dagger is procured from this air.

This dagger, however, is different.

You recognize it immediately from the legends you poured over in your time under Erik Selvig — the solid gold dagger is Lævateinn. Enchanted, no doubt. Though the Nordic language had been completely lost to you, you remembered a poem, a rooster, and something about the translation being less than convincing for some ancestral weapon. Erik had always been curious about the Mjölnir equivalent for Loki.

Now, you have an answer.

Loki seems to pause at the sight of the blade.

Love is a dagger indeed.

With a roll of his shoulders, Loki’s own magic ripples through the air like electricity. The holster for the mythic weapon sits between his shoulder blades. In one graceful move, he sheathes the dagger and exhales. You can see the readying look dart into his eyes — he is ready, now, for a fight.

You lean back, take one more long look along the horizon, and exhale.

The gaggle of friends begins to take their leave — only after the younger you doubles back for a crushing hug. It’s one that robs you of your breath; one that sends your face into her shoulder as she clings for dear life. Her eyes are red when she pulls away, stalking backward with a warning look.

“You promised to visit,” she says, waggling her finger, “We don’t break promises.”

“No, we don’t,” you call after her, “I’ll see you soon, kid.”

“You better!”

And like that, the Lokis, the alligator and the capybara, and your younger self trod off.

Mobius watches as your turn your eyes to the sky.

It’s time he takes his leave — and with one more kiss, the Commandant separates herself from Sylvie long enough to spare you a cordial nod.

“Looks like you both got away in the end, huh?” Mobius calls over the wind, “Funny how that works.”

“I suppose we always will,” Loki says as he casts a fond look your way; you meet it with a sweet smile.

There’s a pause between them.

“What will you do at the TVA?” asks the God.

Mobius thinks, for a moment, then speaks. “Burn it to the ground.”

Loki had threatened that very thing upon your arrival. Funny. All the pieces falling into place.

“Thanks for the spark.”

Sylvie grins. Loki laughs. You smile at the man.

And as Mobius turns to offer a handshake, firm and sure, Loki shakes his head. The gesture dissolves quickly when Loki is fast to pull Mobius into a long, warm hug that radiates thankfulness and friendship. The sort of hug you’d imagined impossible from the God when you’d first found yourself in the TVA, in that room, toiling over tapes of your lives.

You watch with a waning smile as Loki wraps his arms around your dear friend.

You’ve never liked goodbyes.

“Thank you, my friend.”

Mobius grins, whispering with faux-sincerity your way. “You’re my favorite.”

You laugh out loud and shake your head. “Go, Mobius. You’ve got a bureaucracy to topple. Both of you.”

The Commandant’s look is soft. “Thank you.”

“No problem,” you shrug, “Sorry for kicking your ass.”

Her grin is roguish. “I deserved it.”

And with that, the two are gone. The portal whines as the two step through and beyond the Void, back to their place along the timeline. As it slips shut, dread fills you. This is it.

All or nothing.

Lightning flashes and you turn to watch the mighty trans-temporal entity gather along the ravine. Down the hill, through the tall grass, you can see the wreckage of things that call to different timelines. All have been lost to Alioth.

The three of you begin to close in.

“When I get close,” Sylvie calls as she leads the two of your down the hill, “I’ll need a distraction. I latched onto it briefly when I came here. Whoever is behind all this and the TVA is beyond Alioth.”

“You’re sure this will work?”

“It won’t be easy,” she says, turning her eyes to the sky, “He knows we’re here.”

And that he does.

The sickly, lilac-colored cloud hangs above your heads — and he rumbles in anger. The trespass on his land is known. You can feel the temperature drop with every step closer you take to the ever-hungry entity. Its presence is enough to bring the hairs along your arms to stand on end. It’s like facing down the end of it all — and there’s something haunting about the way you’re almost drawn to the power of the beast.

It is the Cerberus to this equation’s Hades.

As you are drawn near, the hellhound notices you. The winds begin to whip with a ferocity that reminds you of the end of the world, back in that Roxxcart. As the entity begins to touch down to the soil, you can see the life being sucked from the flora — where green once lay, death remains. Beneath your feet, the land is dry, as if ravaged by drought.

You can feel it in your bones.

Exhaustion.

The haze of smog hangs thick in the air; it burns like soot and embers in your throat.

Alioth hungers.

You lift your eyes to the sky as a haunting bellow rips from the cloud, piercing the land, and splitting your head in two. Eyes as red as a smoke-hazed sun glow in the storm. It feels as if it has seen your very soul at that moment. Your heart races.

“I think it’s time for that distraction,” you holler, voice wavering, “And it best be quick!”

Loki reaches for your hand. You pause. You turn to look at him, eyes big.

His expression is weighted with worry.

“Together,” he says firmly, “For all time.”

You squeeze his hand tight. “For all time.”

With one nod from Sylvie, the two of you break into a sprint. Loki’s legs are miles longer than your own and carry him up the hill fast; at the crest, he straightens tall and gives a rasp shout. It's enough to cause Alioth’s gargantuan maw and snap hungrily at the God’s intrusion.

“Come and get us!”

As you turn and whip your head off your shoulder, you can see that the enchantress has dug her magic deep into the smaller tendrils of the anomaly trying to feed on her very life force. They glow an eerie jade color in the waning light.

The beast seems to take notice at the intrusion upon its form and casts an annoyed look towards the source — like a bull whipping a fly from its tail, it moves to pummel Sylvie with the smog.

Loki’s eyes widen.

He’s fast; Lævateinn is pulled from its sheath and swung in a grand arch — the act itself is graceful, and there’s a sort of beauty that comes with the sight of the dagger igniting itself in hellish flames. Loki can feel the magic ripple through his palm, coalescing through his aura. The connection is strong. It’s as if this weapon knows him already. In a way, he supposes it does.

Alioth’s eyes glow in the light, like a moth drawn to a flame. It deserts Sylvie, intent on swallowing up the fire.

As your legs burn and your lungs scream, you push yourself to move beyond Loki — farther from Sylvie.

You hold a hand out, eyes meeting the flaming dagger, and continue your sprint. With ease and an almost practiced grace, Loki hands the dagger off fluidly. You snag it in careful hands, and the connection is immediate. It’s as if someone has set your arm alight with electricity. Your palm buzzes. The feeling is hollow, warm, and exciting.

Then, familiar. Like holding the hand of someone you love.

Your own holler splits from your lips in a desperate sort of way. Loki can hear the fear — and in his chest, he feels a blinding rush of pride. You skid to a stop, waving your hands and the burning Lævateinn above your head, all in order to goad the storm towards you.

Loki’s pride, however, is short-lived. And suddenly, it’s traded in for gut-wrenching panic. The kind that grabs a hold of his throat and slams him back to reality.

Alioth has set his sight on you. A moth to a flame indeed.

The mammoth lets out a ground-quaking howl and you gasp — the sound is enough to split your head in two; you dig your palms to your ears hard at the wretched shriek. On instinct, you collapse to your knees and try to hide from the sound. It rattles in your chest. It bounds around in your mind and in the howl, you can hear voices. A thousand cries, crescendoing into a drowning cacophony of violence. It burns in a million horrible ways, and you can feel the serrated edge dig into your soul.

In the grass, Lævateinn burns.

Ice runs up your spine.

When silence falls, whispers remain. You open your eyes.

Alioth has set its intent upon you.

You realize, rather suddenly, that you may die.

You may just die here, in the withered grass of the Void, crumbled like no hero. You have never been the hero — no, not before, not now. The realization sinks in like a wolf’s bite in this very moment. You’re not immune to the horrible fate Alioth carries on its back. The maw rises open, never-ending and horrific, and another tormented bellow erupts from the depths of its being.

You may die here.

You only hope Loki will be alright.

As you turn your eyes to the man, you find his panic palpable in the air. It sits heavy on your tongue, and it muffles your words. You move to say his name — but nothing comes out. Not as he moves, trying to race to you, to pull you up and away from this gruesome, horrible end.

But, then, magic.

All for the sake of remembered brown eyes.

Magic ignites the horizon in an aurora borealis of power — the sort that rips the sky wide open with colors so dazzling and beautiful, not even Alioth can ignore the sight. You, his prospective meal, is forgotten in a blink. This meal is much more formidable than a small girl in the dirt. No hero of old. No magical being.

You sit there, in the grass, slack-jawed. Loki collides with you in a tumble of limbs.

His hands are desperate, but you fight to keep your eyes on the ebb and flow of magic building a world before your very eyes. Emerald waves of magicka break through the stormy air in pillars of gilded fortune. Loki tries to grapple with you, to pull you up, to usher you into his arms — but your wonder is impenetrable.

“Come along,” he whispers, hands wrapped around your shoulders, “Come on, we have to move—”

“You can do that,” you breathe simply, whirling around to pin him square in the eyes, “Your magic, you can do that—”

Loki’s hands secure to the sides of your face, and suddenly the world spins back into focus. He is terrified. You can see the fear in his eyes. His hands shake against your skin.

“We will discuss my strengths in the primary schools of magic some other time, yes, my little bug?” it’s said in an attempt to coax you back into action. It works.

Then, a voice echoes from the ever-expanding mirage of Asgard. Somewhere, in the palace of the Gods, Loki’s voice booms:

“Go!”

You do. You’re sure not to forget the thrumming, magical dagger.

Gripping Loki and Lævateinn, the two of you tumble down the hill towards Sylvie — she has seemed to hold her own, but you can see the exhaustion in her posture. She has been wearing down the beast, and trying her hardest to keep her latch securely on a portion of its consciousness. It seems that the older Loki’s distraction is enough, however, to make more room for her onward push.

You feel as if your legs are that of a newborn baby dear — you stumble beside her, finding an anchor along Loki’s arm. Sylvie strains, pushing, and then utters something about magic.

You’ve never believed in magic.

Science, yes. There was always an explanation. Somewhere, in the most winding of moments, there was an equation. Processes. Standard operations procedures. Step by step, how to create and recreate.

But magic is different. It’s as fluid as any human emotion. Chaotic.

The universe always manifests chaos.

And sacrifice? From a Loki?

Well, that sits bittersweet in your heart.

“I need help!” she’s saying, straining hard even against the distracted beast’s hide; the focus of its attention has turned towards the figment of Asgard beyond the hills.

“How?” you yell, winds beating the three of you furiously. A few feet away, a lilac bolt of lightning pierces the cloud cover and penetrates the cold, dead ground. It beats alive in your heart. Your hairs stand on end.

“Hold my hand!” she yells, and you reach, “Loki, reach out!”

“I don’t know how!” he battles back, shaking his head wildly.

“Yes, you do!” Sylvie almost laughs, “Because you’re me!”

You reach for Loki’s hand, and with a horribly hopeful smile, you squeeze.

So here you are, one hand in Sylvie’s and the other in Loki’s.

You’re an anchor for the two, grounding them to this reality. You’re a conduit. And the moment the magic zips awake in Loki’s aura, you can feel it. You can feel the buzz, electric and warm, ignite the skin of your palms. It’s almost as if you’ve just hit a ball on the bad spot of the bat. It isn’t painful, but you swear you can feel it in your bones.

And then comes the pain.

Alioth.

You wonder if maybe it’s because you aren’t magical — if that leaves you vulnerable as the go-between. One moment, it’s Loki and Sylvie. The next, it’s searing, unbearable pain. The sort that crumbles you to your knees as you gasp; the whispers are back, crescendoing into a horrific scream. At first, you’d believed it to be Alioth — but, when your own throat runs hoarse, you realize it’s you. You made the sound.

Loki is terrified.

He’s immediately pulling back. It’s a game of balance and when Alioth gains the upper hand, the pain gets worse.

“Keep going!” you bark through gritted teeth, “Keep going!”

You’re not really sure why you say it — in reality, you want nothing more than for them to stop, full-tilt, and for the pain that is now traveling up your arms and shoulders to stop. But, maybe it’s the push of free will. For the hope of being the hero — for the want of this story to end how you wish.

You can feel the whispers getting louder; they’re sharp and malicious, and they’re digging their claws into your mind in a way you’ve never felt before.

It’s Alioth’s thoughts, you realize suddenly, and the thoughts of those who it’s consumed.

The burn is flint to your panic. You want to wrench your hands away, to break the connection, to dig your fingers into the dirt beneath your knees and know silence. But you fight.

The wind cracks like a whip across your skin.

And with one big gulp of air, it stops.

Your ears are ringing.

The sudden quiet precedes the slow fade of pain — and before you realize it, Loki is on his knees beside you. His touch is gentle, urging you upright as you begin to sag from exhaustion. Your knees touch. Your chin rests in his hands.

“Open your eyes,” he whispers.

Heavy lashes part to an emerald sea.

The smog has parted to reveal a castle on a hill. In the wake, Alioth has dissipated and given way to the enchanting. Green swims around you like smoke. It’s comfortable. Calm. Quiet.

Your eyes flick back to Loki, leaving the sight from beyond, as he wets his lips and smooths a thumb over the curve of your cheek.

“Are you alright?”

In your lap, you give your fingers a tentative wiggle. They’re numb like they used to get when you had to walk across campus in the New York winters. When it was below freezing and you were too stubborn to fetch gloves. But, when Loki bends to scoop them into his own hold, they’re like fire.

All of you, really, feels hot.

Worry immediately flares in his chest.

You feel feverish, in truth.

And still, you give a little nod.

It earns you a kiss that steals your breath — a kiss that is all too gentle, all too kind, all too lovely. It’s careful and slow and wonderful, and he holds your jaw in his lithe, graceful fingers. Your reciprocation is less-than-so; brimming with adrenaline and the ebb of fear, it’s the sort that clacks teeth and bumps noses. And still, he smiles.

“You did good,” he says as he moves to stand, helping you up, “Very good, my little bug.”

“You might even have a bit of magical inclination yourself,” Sylvie says with a knowing smirk, “Wouldn’t that be nice?”

Your exhausted eyes brighten.

If this is a rallying tactic, it works. And despite the echoes of soreness residing in your arms and back, you’re keen on turning your gaze to the next part of the expedition.

You stand on shaking knees. The ground feels unsteady.

And still, there is a distance to cover.

Up there, on the hill, in the swirl of the cosmos, the devil lays in waiting.

Both Loki and Sylvie move to steady you; and in a few steps, you regain enough balance to trudge along on your own. You fall in step with Loki, hand tethered to his. Not one word is spared between the three of you. As jade smoke laps at your heels, you all wander on. The preoccupation of worry is an inevitable one.

The landscape is sharp. Obsidian stones puncture and mar the landscape, making everything glow the colors that reside beyond the cold land. Above you, the cosmos swirl. You find yourself tripping over pebbles; you’re far too preoccupied with gazing at the blinding ring running around this floating isle. You falter, and Loki looks back.

He watches you reach to poke a floating stone.

It tumbles away in a gentle roll, neither tethered nor bound by this place’s gravitational pull.

You’re tempted to call it magic — because, really, something like this should be impossible. The vacuum of space should have crushed and frozen the three of you already. You shouldn’t be walking. And while maybe you feel a bit heavier here than usual, you’re not entirely convinced it’s not the exhaustion of Alioth’s torment that brings the feeling on.

Loki watches, a few steps ahead, as you turn your eyes back to the bright flow of time running around the castle’s perch. Your face is painted with a glow. Entirely beautiful. Breath-taking. He understands immediately how the older version of himself felt in that place... Sakaar, was it?

Your beauty holds nothing in comparison to this place.

You push on and ignore the burn in your legs. You can feel sweat running down your back. Loki himself has begun to look exhausted — and between the three of you, there’s no doubt you’ve seen better composure. After all, you’re here.

Sylvie is silent on the trek up. On edge, as well. Her sword is gripping in white knuckles.

It doesn’t exactly surprise you, then, when you arrive at the castle’s doorstep to find that Sylvie is nervous.

Sylvie has to admit she hadn’t really ever considered what happens when she gets here — because, for the majority of her life, she thought it all ended with those damned Time-Keepers... Not some creature on a hill, beyond the Void at the end of time. Revenge is still angry within her spirit. She knows that. But, anxiousness has swept in the dampen the flame.

All this time... She spent so much time trying to find you again. And when she did, she set her sights on the TVA. After all, they stole you from her. They stole her life, then they stole her love.

She needs to remember that.

Her usual stubborn, steadfast demeanor is traded in for a breathless huff before the grand gate.

Your eyes roam the larger-than-life door, admiring the intricate architecture. It reminds you of some of the older Cathedrals back home. Maybe even like some of those homes on Bleecker Street.

Along the building runs cracks mended by gold — innately beautiful and inherently useful. You notice, as Sylvie readies herself, that the kintsugi-esque repairs make this place look like less of a home and more of a treasured object. Something to be gawked at, not walked into.

And yet, here you three are.

Sylvie steps up.

You tense.

For a moment, there's nothing but silence. Then:

"Aren't you going to tell me not to kick the door in?"

You can hear the apprehension in her voice — and it only triples when Loki forgoes his usual stubbornness for a more patient, passive approach.

"It never made a difference."

"Well," Sylvie turns as she exhales tightly; for the first time, you can see her age in her features. She's shockingly beautiful, ever the mirror of her darker-haired counterpart, but you can see the youthful vigor of revenge there. And fear. A rare spotting of fear, "If you think it's a bad idea, I prefer you speak your mind. Both of you."

"We've come this far," you say with a hoarse rasp, nodding her on.

Loki moves to press a hand to the back of your neck. He squeezes gently. The gesture is ground. You meet his eyes.

"I agree."

Sylvie looks between the two of you, inhales, and raises her brows. "Right. Sure. Yep. Exactly that."

She turns towards the door and hesitates again.

You and Loki share a slow look.

The God steps forward.

"...Everything okay?"

Sylvie inhales sharply. Her gaze is distant. "I just... need a moment."

Loki blinks. "Okay."

She turns, seeking some sort of comfort, and you move to touch her arm.

She grabs your hand tightly.

Suddenly, her worries rush out.

"I was pruned before the two of you even existed. I have been waiting for this moment my whole life. I just need a second to get my head straight—"

Suddenly, the doors are opening.

Immediately, the two snap to attention — their weapons fly from their holsters in a flash of protection; unspoken directives are shared in a look, and Loki is careful to close the gap between you and Sylvie. You're behind them now. Guarded.

The doors open with a sound that begs the question of how long it's been since a visitor last arrived. It's a painful sound. Grating and loud and it echoes deep into a cavernous, empty room. The dark greets the three of you. Behind the open doors lays emptiness.

You're hesitant to follow Loki and Sylvie in; but being left behind out in the courtyard seems like even worse of any idea. So, you follow. Step after step, the three of you are silent.

As you turn your eyes to the huge hooded statues — their faces clocks —that greet you, the doors behind you shut.

You jump six feet and smother a yelp with your hand.

The dark is now suffocating — the sort that makes your eyes play tricks on you. In the absence of light, you find that this place has remained relatively untouched by the universe. Dust floats in their air. The grand windows along the ceiling pour in celestial light.

In each hand of the statues, one holds half an hour glass.

Where time begins and ends.

If you weren't so fucking creeped out, it might just be beautiful.

Loki and Sylvie suddenly still.

You waver behind them, hand moving to secure a hold on Loki's. He's listening for something. Footsteps, it seems.

And as you move to peer over his shoulders —

"HEY Y'ALL!"

While your protectors remain relatively unphased, you're embarrassed by the flinch that rocks your whole body. You stumble backward, hands finding support on a cold, obsidian-colored column back by the door. Your heart is in your throat. And still, you find no comfort in seeing Miss Minutes of all things.

Sylvie and Loki raise their weapons.

You exhale, roll your neck back, and push off the column.

"Thanks for that," you mutter.

Sylvie snarls. "You again?"

Miss Minutes, with her usual cheery disposition, can either not recognize the malice in Sylvie's tone or decidedly ignores it.

"Welcome to the Citadel at the End of Time!"

The glow from the over-glorified alarm clock paints Loki's face all sorts of warm colors when he turns and gestures for you to take his hand once more. You do so willingly and keep close to him as he shields you from the faux, holographic Southern Belle.

"Come on," he breathes, moving to push past her.

"Congratulations," Miss minutes drawls, "Y'all had an awfully long journey to get here. He's impressed."

You still.

"Who's impressed?" you call, narrowing your eyes over Loki's shoulder.

"He Who Remains, of course," she winks, moving closer, "And boy, is he excited to meet you."

She pins you with her gaze. You shrink behind Loki.

He tightens his grip on your hand and scowls. "And who is he?"

"He created all, and he controls all," she says, walking backward — Loki and Sylvie press on, "At the end, it is only He Who Remains... And he wants to offer you a deal."

At the edge of their swords, Miss Minutes grins.

Your eyes widen, just a smidge, and you can feel a pit of dread grow in your gut. Loki looks back at you, brows knotted.

"He's been makin' a few creative adjustments..." she continues, waving her little hand as she speaks, "He's worked it out so he can insert you two back into the Timeline in a way that won't disrupt things..."

Loki and Sylvie share a look. Miss Minutes moves forward. They both step back.

"Won't disrupt things?" Sylvie breathes in disbelief.

"Mhm," she nods, stepping forward, "The TVA can keep doin' it's vital work and y'all can live the lives you've always wanted!"

"And what have we always wanted?" Loki spits back, gaze narrowed.

"Now!" Miss Minutes chastizes immediately, "Don't play coy with me, mister. You know how you got into this mess."

His fingers lace with yours tightly.

"What?" he asks, sneering.

"The Battle of New York, silly... You versus those self-righteous Avengers..." she crosses her arms behind her back, "How would you like to win?"

Loki stiffens. Suddenly, you feel his grip loosen on your hand. Icy dread pricks your face.

"But not just there... You can kill Thanos... Live out the rest of your days a God King! Doesn't that just sound peachy?"

The temptation... it is there. It's mended together in gold. The dark truths are hidden by momentary promises of beauty. Glory. Purpose.

His fingers twitch. Suddenly, Loki grips your hand tighter than before. The God can feel a wave of shame roll over him — and quickly he shakes his head as if to get the promise out of his mind.

Sylvie is next, though, and the animated watch is keen on flooding her with pretty little promises, too... About comfort, about love, about happy memories and home. Things she's so rarely had.

But, it isn't landing.

"It's fiction," she says, "And written out is the one person that matters most to us."

Loki's eyes find you.

"Oh," she huffs, "Well, He Who Remains has plans for her, little miss. Don't worry. He's been dreamin' about the day you three would finally waltz in here. You're esteemed guests, you know."

Your jaw tightens.

Loki snarls. "We write our own destiny now."

"Aw. Sure y' do. Good luck with that."

And like that, she's gone.

The light fades from the room and the three of you are left in the dark.

"Come on."

After a long, worried look, you two press on. Sylvie leads, and soon Miss Minute's disruption is a thing of the past. In here, there's enough to keep you preoccupied with staying alive than ruminating over the clock's ominous words.

He Who Remains has plans for her...

The next room is larger and beyond it lays another of the same conception. Like a neverending mirror, you can see arch after arch. Each room holds dust-covered paintings and black mirrors. Everything glimmers back at you; riddled with marbled gold, the castle seems impossible. Loki and Sylvie are cautious with every step.

Finally, the maze seems to come to an end.

"He Who Remains..."

"Not for much longer."

It's a grand antechamber — with intricate stained windows and guarded by three towering statues. There once were four, it seems, but that guardian remains upon the ground in a crumpled pile of black marble. Now, the three preside over the room. You realize rather abruptly that they're the Time-Keepers.

Overhead, a pendulum swings.

You'd only ever seen three of them — in renderings and even in their chambers. But, as you step over the shattered depiction of a fourth, you begin to feel an itch of conspiracy in your mind.

"Are we sure he's even alive?"

You turn your head to the sound of Loki's voice; he raises two fingers, covered with dust. You note the trail he's run across the base of the statue to his left. Your own curiosity preoccupies you — and you're about to move towards the head of the fourth statue when suddenly, somewhere above you, something shifts into place.

You freeze.

Then, beneath the door across the room, something heavy settles with a seam of bright light pouring from beneath. Almost like... an elevator.

You're quick to scramble close to Loki. His hand cradles you behind him.

Sylvie takes point. Her sword is raised.

The three of you still your breath.

And then, with a ding, the doors open.

You aren't really sure what you're expecting.

A man — with flesh and blood just as you — is perhaps the last.

He's handsome — with dark skin and a wide smile. When he lays eyes upon the three of you, it's almost as if he grows sheepishly excited. The apple in his hands is forgotten and immediately becomes more of a prop for his evident excitement than anything.

He stands. Loki's knuckles tighten on Laeveteinn.

When the man stands, you note that he's of average height. Certainly not a fighter.

He's dressed like an academic.

When he speaks, you catch yourself holding your breath.

"This is wild."

You shift on your feet.

"I mean... You're here. Two of you... Same person... It's... I mean, that's a little unnatural but..."

He grows quiet when his eyes land on you between Sylvie and Loki's shoulders.

"Oh."

It's said without any mind given to the two before you, and suddenly the man is stepping forward with wide eyes.

"Wow," he mumbles, voice lilting with shock, "It's you."

Your eyes hold his gaze. You let out a shaky breath.

Suddenly, the man laughs.

"I can't believe it."

"He Who Remains?" Sylvie asks, ignoring his evident awe at you.

The man suddenly takes a bite from his apple and nods. He waggles a finger. "He Who Remains. She still call me that? Creepy, right? But... I like it."

Loki leans forward. Confusion is evident on his face.

"Come on!" he ushers, "Come on, Doc, it's an honor, really —"

"Stay away from her," Loki snaps.

The man blinks, turning from his gestured turn to gather you all in the elevator.

He Who Remains offers a slow blink.

"Oh... Oh," a swallow, "I see. Right. That's... you two are one another's pair, then. Isn't that... something."

It's ominous is what it is. And you don't like it.

"Come on," he gestures once more, "Let's all talk in my office."

Office?

You squint.

Loki and Sylvie share a look with you.

You shrug.

Tentatively, and ever-so-hesitant, the two inch forward.

You were correct about assuming it was some sort of elevator. When the doors close, you can feel the tell-tale pull of gravity. Your knees wobble. You feel light for a second or so, and then your body acclimates. Now, your attention remains on Loki, Sylvie and him before you.

Loki and Sylvie haven't lowered their blades once.

"Not what you were expecting, hm?"

"You're just... a man?" Loki asks, wincing at the weakness of his own words.

He suddenly feels foolish. Had his fear been unwarranted? Had all the anxieties leading up to this been useless? Had the biggest threat of danger lay behind you three, in the mouth of Alioth?

"Mm. Flesh and blood," he mutters, "Just like Doc. Two humans, huh? None of that Asgardian God stuff. I hope it's not a disappointment."

"No," Sylvie says, her posture shifting; you can feel it coming — a call, somewhere in the back of your mind, "Just a little bit easier to kill."

She swings.

And... she misses?

Suddenly, behind you, there's a giggle.

In the tight confines of the elevator, you find yourself tumbling back into Loki as you nearly catch a desperate swing of Sylvie's — all in an attempt to pin the man down who is now seemingly phasing about the small room.

Then, suddenly, with a well-aimed miss, the man disappears.

Flat out.

Gone.

And then, the elevator reaches its destination.

The doors ding as the lift settles on its wires. With a mighty clang, the doors open to reveal a grandiose office — and He Who Remains standing before you. He smiles. He waves his apple. Then, he gestures the three of you in.

While Loki and Sylvie let him retreat back to his desk, you sense them trying to unravel whatever plot is going on here.

"One... two... three..." he mumbles, hunched over what looks like cups of tea, "Doctor, you prefer your coffee sweetened, don't you? You're not big into tea..."

As Loki and Sylvie creep into the room, you keep your distance. You eye the man critically.

"Nothing worse than bitter coffee."

"Ha!" he tosses his hands, moving to gather up a tray, "Quite the reference."

You squint in confusion.

What?

He seems to notice the way you tilt your head, the way you narrow your gaze. He Who Remains waves it off. "Go on, have a seat."

Each cup of respective tea is set down. In the middle, the cup of coffee sits.

You're the first, against Loki's pleading look, to sit down.

It's met with a smile from the man in purple. He offers a hand almost immediately, and Loki and Sylvie raise their weapons once more. But, when no threat comes, you simply eye his hand, then take it.

He beams, "It's an honor, really—"

"I don't see why," you bite back, shaking it firmly.

"Oh, well, please, let me explain..."

He rounds his desk. You eye the coffee.

"Really," he says, clapping his hands, "I have to thank you two for bringing her to me."

You freeze.

Loki narrows his eyes dangerously.

"What do you mean?" Sylvie spits.

This feels like a game of chess almost immediately.

And while the man in front of you, sure, is of flesh and blood, you can't help but wonder 'what's the catch?'. Is he some omnipotent ruler? The fourth Time-Keeper?

He talks in turns of phrase that remind you of home, yet bounds into conversation with a youthful sort of enthusiasm you can't help but think covers up fear. Anxiousness, even. There's something unsettling about He Who Remains, in his velvet purple robes with his apple.

Apples.

You scoff to yourself.

Of course the academic at the end of time would have an apple.

The reference isn't lost on you — and as the apple falls from the tree, gravity tethers us to our sun and moon. To time. Time is its own gravity, free from worldly bindings.

He Who Remains leans forward on his desk.

"You've brought me the Arbiter of Time. Architect of Alterations..."

"Spit it out," you say, expression level.

He blinks. Then, he leans back and wets his lips.

"You're special, you know," he waggles his fingers, "I mean — I spent decades pouring over your theory of Quantum Time Loops and Travel. It was a large part of my doctorate thesis, actually..."

"So you're from Earth?"

"No, well, yes, but not your time," he says dismissively, "No, my time. In the 31st Century."

"And why does that matter?" Loki snaps.

He Who Remains skirts him a slow look. "Coming from the God who just—" he pretends to check an imaginary watch; instead, it's a flat slate of marble, "—tried to conquer New York City a few days ago."

Days? Jesus.

"It matters," he continues, as he waves at you, "Because you are the one I have to thank for all this."

He gestures around to the room, to the castle, to the space beyond the windows. You are still in your seat; your frown is growing more severe by the second.

"I'm not quite sure you understand the situation," Loki hisses as he raises Lævateinn with a regal flick of the wrist. It's his delicate words that paint a threat, "No amount of flattery will save your life. You've lost."

Sylvie's chin is held high. "We found you."

He Who Remains blinks.

Then, he almost scoffs.

"Duh. Of course you did."

The unimpressed snark is enough to ignite the fire in Sylvie — her anger serves her right, however, it does little to remedy the situation. She swings viciously. Just like back in the elevator, He Who Remains bounds out of sight. This time, though, you catch his fingers fly to that little marble slate on his wrist from before.

Ah.

A TemPad of sorts.

This one is... different.

You turn to pass a look over Loki.

Had this not become some sort of Judgement Day, you'd reason he looks the part of a king. He is perched in that ornate black chair as if he commands it. With the golden Lævateinn perched across his lap, you note the stern look that's settled across his face. It softens only momentarily when you hold his gaze.

"Alright, alright," same He Who Remains as he stumbles down from his perch on his chair, "Let's get all of this out of the way."

While Loki and Sylvie move to stand, you remain seated.

You watch with burning intent.

From beneath his desk, he pulls out a book.

The papers are thin. Like receipt papers. They crinkle as he wets his thumb and turns a page. He procures three separate pages, then slides them across his desk.

"You can't kill me because," he says, landing back down in his chair, "I already know what's going to happen."

You cross your legs and lean back in your chair.

Loki can feel a bite of panic in his chest. "It's not true. It's a parlor trick."

"Okay!" says He Who Remains as he leaps up, seemingly intrigued by the potential line of questioning, "Don't you wonder how I'm able to get out of the way, just before you kill me?"

He waggles his arms, leaning back with a kick of the leg.

You snort.

"No," says Sylvie sharply, having noticed the same thing as you, "No, it's because of that little TemPad you have there."

Quietly, you take your turn to speak. "But, it's loaded up. He knows when to jump, and where to land."

All three sets of eyes turn to you.

You reach and talk a calm sip of the coffee.

... Not bad.

"See."

Loki's brows knot. Your worry permeates your expression.

"I know it all," He Who Remains continues, "And I've seen it all. And I've been waiting... for her. And you brought her to me. Protected her every," he crawls along with his fingers, "step of the way."

He lands in his seat.

Sylvie and Loki step aside, and you're left sitting face-to-face with the man at the End of Time.

"No," mutters Sylvie with a sudden flare of annoyance, "No, we broke out of your little game—"

"No, wrong," he runs his finger into the dark mahogany of his desk, "Every step you took to get here... New York, Lamentis, The Void... I paved the road."

It stings.

"You?" he points at Loki and Sylvie, "You just lead her down it."

This feels like the TVA again — everyone telling you how dangerous you are, how they knew you. It feels the same.

"Why me?" you ask, rolling your neck.

"I mean, c'mon. It had to be you," he croons mockingly before sobering up at your lack of amusement, "It had to be. You... You are... you—"

"That means nothing—"

"It means everything," he says, "You are — really — the universe's most important gift. After the creation of time comes the alteration of it. You gave us that. You added another spoke in the wheel. You did it to save the universe. To save what you loved."

He's quiet for a moment. His eyes fall to Loki.

"To save... who you love."

"Not me."

"No, no," he says, waving his hands, "Same you. A bit older, maybe. But still you. Still the girl who grew up on 89 Emerald St."

You scoff.

"You don't know me."

"No," he says as Loki and Sylvie both sit back down, "But I know how the rest of this conversation will go."

"What do you want?" you ask scathingly.

Loki's grip adjusts on his dagger.

"A successor."

Loki cringes.

You laugh out loud.

It's not kind — and, in fact, it's obvious you find no humor in the situation whatsoever. But, it's the sheer fact this man has the god damn audacity to ask this.

"We came to kill you," you say between laughs, "Not take the throne."

"I understand, I do — y'know... I get why you came to finish everything. Your moral objections to the TVA are understandable."

"That's an understatement," Sylvie breathes.

"My methods are deceptive," he continues as he stands and rounds his desk, "But the mission never was. Without the me, without the tee vee ay... Everything burns."

Loki leans back. He watches the man for a moment.

Then, he speaks. "Then what are you so afraid of?"

He Who Remains fiddles with his cloak for a moment. It's nearly boyish. Fearful. Anxious.

"Me."

"Variants?" you ask almost immediately.

And, it's enough to prompt the sudden crash course in how it all came to be... and the backbone? The backbone of Nathaniel Richards, the scientist, discovering those layered realities back in the 31st Century? Well, it's your research. Papers pioneered by you, collaborated on with Bruce Banner, Hank Pym, Tony Stark...

Suddenly, the enormity of the moment crashes over you.

"I weaponized Alioth, and I ended the Multiversal War!" the snap of rage that emerges pulls you from your dread, "And once I isolated our timeline, all I had to do is manage the flow of time and prevent any further branches. Hence! The TVA. Hence, the Time-Keepers and the highly efficient bureaucracy—"

He climbs up on his desk.

"—Hence! Ages, and ages... of cosmic harmony! Hence!"

He bounces down, smiling in your face.

"Your welcome."

He runs a finger over the golden cracked slate of marble on his wrist, and the elegant little TemPad swallows up the lead-like ball that had projected the legacy of He Who Remains on his desk. He crawls down from his desk as he speaks.

"You came to kill the devil, right? Well, I keep you safe," he tilts his head, "And if you think I'm evil, well, just wait 'til you meet my variants."

There's a heavy silence that lands between the three of you — and while Sylvie seems wholely unimpressed, you find yourself believe this to some capacity. After all, from what you've been able to garner from the time you've spent in the TVA, and in the Void, and surrounded by all this time-related trickery, you've understood Variants to be the biggest threat. It would make sense for He Who Remains to have Variants, and for those Variants to have varied interests. And, thus far, the flow of time has been rathered well managed.

"And, that's the gambit!"

"Where do I come in?" you ask slowly, narrowing your eyes.

"Oh! Oh, good question, doc, really great question," he rambles as he leans back against his desk, "I'm... I'm tired. I am. Exhausted. And... listen, you may hate the Dictator, but something far worse is going to fill that void if you dispose of him. But! You... you... I've lived a thousand lifetimes. I've gone through every scenario... This is the only way."

The gravity of it slams you in the chest.

Your eyes slip shut as you exhale.

"I know! I know," he says, sitting back, "It's not... y'know... It's not great—"

"This cannot be real."

Loki blinks at you.

He can see a rising tension in your posture as you sit forward and shake your head. "This is — this isn't fair."

"You're not actually considering this, are you?" Sylvie says with a sudden bite of disbelief. Her eyes are wide. Her expression is unkind.

"Syvlie, did you hear any of that?" you say, gesturing to him.

"He's a liar."

"—What if he's not?"

You question is enough to strike her in the heart.

She sits back, scowling. She gestures with her sword. "So, you'd rather prune innocent timelines—"

"That's not what I'm saying—"

"I mean, who knows! Maybe Doc's a little bit more benevolent when it comes to running the TVA... but, either way, there are two options. It's either her, or you kill me and destroy the Sacred Timeline. Hence, Multiversal War."

"Stop saying hence," you hiss, moving to push your hands to your forehead. You press your palms to your eyes, "Shut up."

"Doctor—" Loki says slowly, only to be cut off.

"He treated real people's lives like some kind of game," Sylvie hisses at you, "And you want to do the same?"

"It wasn't personal," cuts in the man across the desk, "It was practical."

"It was personal to me—"

He lets out a long groan, then snaps. "Grow up, Sylvie! Grow up! Murderer! Hypocrite!"

He looks you square in the eye when you remain unflinching.

"We're all villains here."

Oh.

Dread pricks your face for the hundredth time in the hour. You can see Loki's look out of the corner of your eye — it's pity, you think. Pity for the sudden realization that your work starts this. Your work has lead to the breaking of time, to the beginning of Multiversal Wars, to... to this moment. And yet... Here you are. Having not an ounce of any idea of how you did any of it. You're young. A child compared to the eons of influence you have on the shape of the universe.

And yet, a villain.

Suddenly, the room is quiet.

Somewhere, in the back of your mind, there's a whisper. A lone voice. A woman. Far away.

YOU DON'T KNOW WHAT YOU'VE DONE...

When you look up, He Who Remains has turned his eyes upwards and to the sky beyond the windows. You see a dash of curiosity, then of panic, and then of acceptance... Like a man stumbling across his own grave.

"We just crossed... the Threshold..."

He lets out a startled laugh, and at the roll of thunder, he jumps.

Almost as if he hadn't heard it coming.

He picks up a piece of parchment, then drops it — testing gravity.

You squint.

"So, I fibbed."

Anger flares at the words.

"I fibbed when I said, earlier, I know how everything was going to do. I know — I knew — everything up to a certain point. And that point was about... seven seconds ago?"

There's another whisper now. Same voice. Saying something else. And another. And another. You shake your head. They dissipate into silence.

Loki is... well, he supposes there aren't really words for how he feels. No. This is all...

"So that's it?"

"Yes! I — there's... There's two options and..." he exhales tightly, "I mean, I just... they're branching. Out that window? It's happening as we sit here. As we... wait. Back at the TVA, things are falling apart. But, it's better than those Variants of me—"

"This is ridiculous," Sylvie spits, "Another lie. Another manipulation."

"But what if it isn't?"

Sylvie scoffs. Loki grits his jaw. Then, He Who Remains plucks his TemPad from his wrist and leans back.

There's a breath of calm.

Then, Sylvie.

She springs quickly to her feet — and He Who Remains does not move. He simply snaps backward with a wide-eyed look on his face. He laughs, albeit terrified, and shakes his head.

Loki is the one he is just as fast to grab Sylvie by the scruff of the neck and drag her backward. However, she turns, and as you pull yourself up from your chair she raises her blade to Loki's throat and corners him.

"What are you doing?" she snaps.

"Sylvie, hang on a moment—"

"Let's talk about this—" you say, moving towards the two.

She seems to hate the idea of pausing. "Or, how about we finish what we started and we kill him—"

She lunged again, but this time it's you who steps up to put yourself between Sylvie and He Who Remains. Her eyes flash with betrayal when you refuse to move, grabbing her blade's handle with your hand and twisting. "What if he's telling the truth?"

"I can't believe you're really considering this—"

"I believe him," you snap, forcing her blade away as she staggers back, "I do."

"What? That a gazillion boogeymen are going to show up just because we give people free will? He's a liar."

Loki is fast to step between the escalation as Sylvie rears up in your face. 

"So am I," he pants, "But I don't think he's lying. Not about that."

"So what are you suggesting?" she snaps.

"Think about it, Sylvie," you step past Loki, waving your hands, "That's the gambit. If he isn't lying..."

Her face suddenly falls.

The look she pins you with is icy.

Then, she scoffs.

It's desperate. Horrible. Mean.

"Oh, I get it."

You shake your head in confusion. "...What?"

"You," she says beginning to stalk around you in a circle, "You are not myDoctor. A throne? Really? Seems he was right about who the villains are."

That hurts worse than any cut of a blade.

Loki, suddenly, seems to realize where you're going with your own protests — and it nearly pulls his heart from his chest entirely. He turns to you, shaking his head.

"No. No, no, do not go where I cannot follow—"

"If this," suddenly your voice is shaking, and suddenly you're turned to face Loki completely — his own unfallen tears beg to a betrayal worse than you could imagine, "If this is what needs to be done—"

"We don't know that—"

"I know, but! I can't let my legacy be... be death and destruction and war—" comes the desperate wring of emotion from your throat. Loki shakes his head as he nears, as you shake your head vigorously.

"That's who you are."

"I don't know that—"

"This throne is not yours to claim," snaps Sylvie, "And I'm going to finish what I started."

"No!" you both shout, but it's Loki whose blade matches her own. As always, you feel pitifully unhelpful in the midst of the fight — and this one is scathingly brutal. It's clear the two are distraught, and as the fight moves on you find your eyes turning to the branching timelines just beyond the window.

It's already started.

He wasn't lying.

How could he know the ends of a thousand timelines?

"Sylvie, please—"

"Keep my name out of your mouth," she spits, "Liar!"

In that moment, you swear she could have done it.

She could have driven the final blow.

The anger in her eyes... the hatred...

Her rage reflects on you, and suddenly you find yourself pinned to He Who Remain's desk with her blade at your throat. And while you screw your eyes shut in horrified panic, her swing fell short. Her intention is clouded. You can see her fighting with the reality of the moment — that killing you will get her to the devil at the end of the story.

You don't move. You won't. Desperate tears fall from your eyes.

But, it's Loki who lifts the blade from your throat as you let angry, hot tears roll down your cheeks. "Sylvie, please — just stop."

"Stop it," Loki echoes, moving slowly to push the blade far from your throat as he pulls you away from the blonde Variant, "Stop."

Her blade clatters to the ground, and she seems to realize what she had almost done. It seems to be shame that sends her leaning against He Who Remain's desk. Her palms dig into the dark wood. She lets out a ragged sigh.

You can see her heaving a breath, you can see tears staining the wood.

Loki's hands are careful. He pulls you close and presses a terrified kiss to your forehead.

You're safe. You're alright. You're together.

"Sylvie..." you say, fingers wrung in Loki's shirt, "I don't want to lose you..."

"You never had me," comes a sad voice, "But, you two always had each other, didn't you?"

There's something else in her words.

A lingering sort of malice.

When she looks up, you see that her tears are gone. There's a hollowness to her eyes.

It's a moment too late when you realize she has the TemPad in her hands.

Everything is slow for a moment.

The stars spin overhead, and outside the window, time begins to weave its own path. The office is heavy with silence. In this place, beyond the Void, there is no grounding anchor. It's only fallacies and lies and half-truths. The domain of the God of Lies, it would seem. However, the one who holds you tight has no home here. No, it seems this place is Sylvie's.

She's won the game.

You know it the moment she looks at you.

All of this... was it in vain?

Before you can open your mouth, there's the tell-tale sound of a warbling Time Door hurdling towards you — all gilded and full of promise. But... this one is different from all the others. In its hue resides a deep green. Not unlike Loki's magic, really. You turn your head, and the moment you catch sight of it, there's a concussion burst of magic that sends you hurtling backward through it. You screw your eyes shut and prepare to hit the ground but... It never comes.

Instead, it's the burning blue light of the tesseract that greets you when you open your eyes.

It's there, in front of you.

It's there and it's humming alive and it's Thursday again.

It's fucking Thursday.

It's Thursday and New York City has just survived an invasion and Tony Stark is gasping awake on the floor beside you and Thor is shouting and panic grips you so hard you lose all breath in your lungs. You scramble backward against the floor, eyes running up the length of the God of Mischief as those familiar eyes bloom wide with panic — and as he realizes he's once again shackled and muzzled and being paraded down in a glorified perp walk.

Loki's eyes are wild.

Your breath stutters.

You claw at your shirt; it's no TVA-issued uniform. It's the same one from before. And Loki is... well, he looks just how he looked when you first saw him.

But he knows.

He knows you.

He knows you and he loves you and suddenly, everything that had happened in the Void is but a dream. A nightmare, really. Somewhere, out there, Sylvie has inevitably killed He Who Remains. Somewhere, out there, Kang the Conquerer has begun his reign.

But, it's Thursday again.

In a bustle of panic, Loki is ushered off — you can see that he tries to fight it, he tries to see you, he tries to call your name... But in the fray, you're all but left behind in the wake of the Avengers, S.H.I.E.L.D. and S.T.R.I.K.E. and W.S.C.; all of them leave you, crumpled in a heap on the floor of Stark Tower.

No, no, no no no.

No, it's Thursday again.

This is not how you thought your week would go.