Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

What we call the beginning is often the end

And to make an end is to make a beginning.

The end is where we start from…

We die with the dying:

See, they depart, and we go with them.

We are born with the dead:

See, they return, and bring us with them.”

• Little Gidding, T.S. Elliot

—

* 89 years ago, Remains of The Citadel at the End of Time *

His fingers—clawed as if holding onto the edge of a cliff—were stiff and ached in their solemn vigil holding the threads of time.

The sacred timeline, it’s children, it’s children’s children, and it’s children’s children’s children in an eternal expanse, an infinitely swelling multiverse inside an infinitely widening void. 

And he, Loki of Asgard, Odinson, Laufeyson, Silvertongue, Liesmith, God of Mischief, Discord, Time, and Stories, sat at the center, the seed from which first the roots and then the sprout would grow. Not unlike any tree.

And not unlike the various plant life that could be considered trees across this multiverse, the seed must die for the plant to grow.

Or so he’d thought as he’d first sat on the throne of what would become Yggdrasil. He never breathed a word of it to Mobius or any of the others, but Loki fully expected that the planting of the World Tree would require his death.

But they were worth it.

He’d dragged the dying branches together with the last of his strength on the throne fabricated from the rubble of the Citadel at the End of Time—stricken through with gold like the lightning his brother so favored, and the color his mother had passed down to him.

Time held no sway here, and so it was both an infinity and a nanosecond when Loki again opened his eyes to the pulsating, vibrant, alive branches encasing him, glowing with life and speaking to him as a chorus of a billion voices in every thread.

On the day Loki was supposed to lose— to die —he blinked against the brightness of the thriving branches, and silently wept.

He was alive.

But he couldn’t decide whether death would have been kinder.

—

* Present *

The human brain can process 11 million bits of information subconsciously every second, but only 40 to 50 within the conscious mind. 

No one had ever thought to measure if Asgardians were any different, but as it turns out even the God of Time has limits.

This week had been B-15’s turn to dump music onto his ever-expanding playlist. Loki opened his TemPad to the greeting of 261 additional songs she’d accumulated in the weeks since her last round. He didn’t recognize a single track on the list—but that was the point, wasn’t it?

Loki doesn’t really understand how they all managed to compile so many songs from different universes, realms, and time periods onto his TemPad, but he imagines that compared to altering the throughput of the temporal loom, it was likely an unchallenging task for O.B. It was probably more challenging to prevent Mobius from somehow downloading a virus to the system in his attempts to contribute. For someone centuries old who was accustomed to using reality-bending technology, Mobius still had his foibles.

Loki had been skeptical at first. He had never been particularly interested in listening to the breadth of music the wider universe had to offer, falling back on the classic Asgardian verse or the occasional Midgardian ballad. 

But after decades of living every moment and every point in time across the vast Multiverse, it was understandably hard to parse out anything usable from his experience. 

The music was suggested as a meditation tool, a way to disconnect from his other senses so he could tap into the memories laden in his subconscious. Most times he found himself constantly straddling the line of too much and too little stimulation when he tried to recall what he’d seen. 

“It’s worth trying,” Mobius had urged, voice soft but with an edge of urgency. “If it doesn’t work, we try something else.” 

Loki finds himself replaying everything that voice had ever said in his mind far too often.

Silence ached now. It reminded him too much of hollow echoes in the vast emptiness at The End of Time, accompanied by the soft murmur of so many voices his ears never heard but he knew all the same. Being in the tree felt like both Valhalla and Hel, the experiences of all beings all at the same time like seeing the pendulum at both ends and everywhere in between at any given moment. Life, death, and the mundane, all in one second.

He’d never really been able to explain to anyone what it was like. That alone was an odd experience for someone previously so proud of his silver tongue.

But for all he could never explain the experience, they needed the information. 

Though existing within the tree was its own form of torment and euphoria, he never regretted his decision. He only regretted the decades he spent unable to communicate the growing threat of the He Who Remains variants to the TVA.

This was how he would repent. Even if he’d been trying to do the right thing in the first place. 

Maybe Sylvie was right. Loki’s really are destined to lose, even in an infinite multiverse.

Loki lay back onto the cushions and mat that rested on the floor of the apartment Mobius and he shared. The lights were dimmed to near darkness, his Tempad in reach should he need to make notes. He used it to start the music, relaxing his bones and muscles into the cocoon of the plush cushions beneath him. Closed his eyes, breathing deeply to the unfamiliar music. Goosebumps tingled along his arms, the hair at the nape of his neck raising as the atmosphere of the room shifted into something deeper. Electric. Dangerous .

The novel melody seemed to dig into the recesses of his brain and pulled . 

He remembered .

—

‘ Bittersweet Symphony’

Timeline #9884716

2016, Boston, Massachusetts, 

There was no Asgard in this universe. No Vanaheim, Jotunheim, Niflheim… No nine realms. No supernatural or alien usurpers or heroes. Just mundane, boring, glorious Midgard.

There were no Thanos’, no Infinity Stones, no Doctor Dooms. But there were still heroes and villains.

The villains started wars, planted bombs, and trafficked human beings. The heroes fought for the marginalized; placed themselves in front of literal and metaphorical bullets to protect the innocent; pulled the broken from the rubble of natural and unnatural disasters alike.

There was still pain and suffering, death and destruction. Things that reordered lives in a moment.

<'Cause it's a bittersweet symphony, that's life>

There were also the quiet joys. Something Loki had never really had the chance to taste for himself. Didn’t know existed until he held the branches of Yggdrasil in his own hands.

There was a Loki and Mobius here, too. Human, both of them. Loki, a mystery author. Mobius, a public defender. They’d been in a relationship for decades, and were finally able to marry after a nationwide amendment had instilled that right into law. Tragically unremarkably, beautifully banal joys and worries that he could practically smell, hear, and taste in the moment it lasted.

< Trying to make ends meet, trying to find somebody then you die>

The sweet, floral smell of lilies from the bouquet and vases lining perfectly styled tables. Sniffles, ‘aww’s’ and a string quintet playing during the ceremony. Laughter, the thrumming bass from the speakers, the murmur of conversation during the reception. The taste of brisket, latkes, and rugelach from Mobius’ family. Beef wellington, confit roast duck and old English trifle from Loki’s.

There was a moment, after the best man speeches, once the food was mostly gone, the party (and drinking) dying down to a lower volume, that This Loki caught This Mobius’ eyes. Saw them wet with held back tears. This Loki entwined their fingers with care, used his other hand to trace a wrinkle down This Mobius’ face.

“Everything okay?” This Loki asked. So easily, without a second thought. No manipulation or second guessing. Sure enough of himself and them, the safety of their bond that there was little that couldn’t be shared.

This Mobius sniffed, dabbed his eyes with a stray tissue. He leaned into This Loki, their voices quiet in the cocoon they’d built for each other at this table, in this moment. “Happy. Just insanely, incredibly happy, Lokes.”

This Loki titled his head so their foreheads touched. As if their thoughts and love could be shared through osmosis in their every cell.

“Me too. I was afraid I’d never have this,” This Loki said. “But it’s real. We’re here.”

<I'll take you down the only road I've ever been down>

He wondered, not for the first time as the timelines overlapped in his mind, what it felt like to simply be in the presence of people he loved.

He was so caught up in watching This Loki shove the cake into This Mobius’ face he almost missed the He Who Remains variant in the second row.

<You know the one that takes you to the places where all the veins meet, yeah…>

Chapter Text

* Present *

It always takes hours After for Loki to feel more like himself: Loki Odinson. The God of Mischief. Prince of Asgard. A mischievous, insubordinate, unpredictable scamp.

Though even as his chaotic, hedonistic urges re-emerged, he could not fool himself into thinking he was the same. Like a tiger declawed and collared—everything tempered by ‘Glorious Purpose.'

He could strangle his younger self for throwing around the words with such lack of care.

‘Most purpose is more burden than glory.’ Mobius may not remember uttering those words, but Loki would never be able to unhear them—no matter how many times he had time slipped, or how many timelines he whisked through.

If his pranks increased in frequency and scope in these hours Between, could anyone really blame him? It was one of the few times he felt truly himself.

“Loki!” B-15 (Verity, he reminded himself) hissed, holding up Mr. Peter Welles close to her chest. The (normally) grey tabby had his face tucked into the crook of Verity’s neck, unbothered by his now green and gold coat in lieu of receiving extra cuddles.

“What?” he asked, feigning ignorance to her concern. “I think he looks lovely. Don’t you, Doctor Welles?” Loki reached a single finger under the cat’s chin to scritch softly, Welles purring increasing in volume and sending a pleasant thrum through Loki’s fingertips.

Verity sighed, turning to bring the cat out of Loki’s reach. Rude.  

“His name is Mr. Welles. He’s not a doctor. And we did not start allowing magic in the TVA so you can pull pranks, Loki. If you’re going to abuse it, we’ll just block it again. You’re the only one who consistently uses magic here, and even then you rarely use it for anything but just terrorizing the hunters.”

“I do not just terrorize the hunters,” Loki amended, tone dripping with fake offense.  “Though I’ll admit to some bias due to the fact that it was the hunters that dragged me here and wanted to prune me in the first place.”

Verity winced, a barely there twitch of one eyelid that most wouldn’t have noticed. But Loki did, because she was his friend. He had those now, ones that weren’t his brother’s first. He felt a twinge of guilt that perhaps that had been a step too far. Loki’s smug grin wavered, avoiding Verity’s eyes.

“Though I suppose if you hadn’t dragged me in, I wouldn’t be here to do any pranks at all. I’d be dead due to chiropractic malpractice, my body floating endlessly in space until it gets sucked into a black hole or scorched to ashes by some exploding supernova.”

Verity did laugh at that, a brief huff of a thing that at the very least made her shoulders droop just a bit from her tense posture. Even though that had been a macabre joke even by his standards. You didn’t get far in the TVA without a healthy (or unhealthy depending on how you looked at it) dose of gallows humor.

“Be that as it may,” he continued, “It’s either I stop the pranks, stealing, or compulsive lying. You can’t take away all my unhealthy coping mechanisms all in one go, B. I mean, V.” He let his smile grow as his words gained momentum, donning his ‘Professor Loki’ mask as Mobius fondly (and irritably) called it whenever he went off on a tactical tangent.

“Why, after all the childhood trauma, the post-traumatic stress from being confined to a tree powered by my lifeforce for decades, let alone from literal torture and mind control by a madmen bent on killing half of his universe, and apparently I display certain characteristics of borderline personality disorder, so really I think choosing just one habit to work on at a time—”

“Okay, okay. I get it. You’re finally dealing with your shit.” Verity shifted the puddle of purring cat to her other arm where he melted his face onto her shoulder. Not-so-coincidentally further from Loki. “Breathe, Loki, You may be a god but you do have to inhale at some point.” 

Loki snorted in a decidedly un-prince-like manner, to his own horror. This having friends thing can be so unseemly.  

“Technically I don’t need to breathe quite so much as you mortals,” he paused, mouth growing into a feline grin, “Which comes in handy for—”

“Nope. Don’t want to hear it,” Verity interrupted. “Just… Please leave the few animals the TVA has out of it. It’s one thing to prank Casey, another to prank sweet little Mr. Welles.”

“I daresay Dr. Welles doesn’t seem particularly traumatized by the event.” Lokk forced himself to pause. Comedic timing was an artform thank you very much. “Unlike me, considering I spent my childhood being measured against an unattainable standard and-”

Verity held up the hand not clinging to the tabby to stop his aside, her expression oozing with impatience, though Loki would swear there was amusement in the creases at the corners of her eyes.  “I would be more inclined to listen to you talk about all of this if I thought you were actually working through the emotions and not just reciting what your therapist said and secondly, if you weren’t doing it to distract me from you dyeing the office cat green and gold. ”

Loki scrunched his nose, the wrinkles still feeling odd on his face. Sometimes being present in his own body felt unpleasant and awkward after his time in the tree. “I thought you would be impressed, honestly. The green is one thing, but do you know how difficult it is to get a good, metallic gold with the correct sheen? I had to go through—”

“I do not care, Loki. Put him back how he was.” Welles meowed in a low rumble as irritation caused Verity to tighten her hold on him. I understand, Doctor , Loki thought. It can be trying when loved ones cling too tightly to the old you.

Dr Welles, not being telepathic or able to understand English, predictably didn’t respond in any perceptible way. Loki still appreciated the cat's slow love-blink aimed at him regardless. Love is so trying, isn’t it my doctoral feline companion?  

“No imagination,” Loki bemoaned with no heat. “No sense of whimsy, the lot of you.”

Verity sighed, and not for the first time Loki was reminded that while he was quite good at the manipulating, wooing, and tricking parts of existence, when it came to the friendship parts of life he could never quite find solid footing. At times he would find himself responding like the old Loki, like it was some muscle memory that would take control of his body and new Loki would be stuck watching, proverbial mouth agape as old Loki proverbially ‘stepped in it.’

“Loki. I meant what I said,” she said. “I’m proud of you for seeing the TVA’s therapist. And it seemed to be helping at first. But now I think you’re falling back on the old habit of intellectualizing everything so you don’t have to deal with the emotionality of it.”

“Rude.” And too close to the truth, he didn’t say. Old Loki took control then— again —his internal mantra of retreat! pulling the conversation back to the safe. Turn the conversation back onto her .  “I don’t call you out on your obvious crush and thus avoidance of Sylvie.”

She stared at Loki, face flat but her dark brown eyes a torrent he couldn’t begin to detangle. The silence drew Loki back towards her orbit even as old Loki tried to step away.

“I give up,” she said finally. “He can’t say I didn’t try.” 

There was one emotion detangled, then. Disappointed. That, at least, is an emotion I am quite familiar with.

“Fix. The. Cat,” she grumbled, and plopped Dr. Welles into Loki’s dangling arms. Loki scrambled not to drop the poor Doctor, and by the time he’d regained his wits all that remained of Verity’s presence and disappointment was her retreating back. 

Once that, too, was gone, he let himself slump back against the off-white hallway wall. It was quiet—the kind of quiet bred from disappointment, unworthiness, and the echoing murmurs of all time, always, on his lonely throne.

The cat meowed and sniffed at Loki’s chin, his whiskers pulling Loki back from the Möbius loop of endless universes and infinitely expanding realities.

“You’re my only true friend, Doctor Welles,” Loki whispered, carefully rubbing tiny circles under the cat's chin. “You understand me at least.”

The Doctor’s languid purr rumbled through Loki’s ribcage, and he found his mind wandering—not along the branches of the tree or his melancholy and rage tinged memories, but to the friend’s he had made when he had resigned himself to being incapable of making them. I might not be great at being a friend yet. But you have to become something before you can be it, right?

The memory of Verity’s parting words tripped his contented internal stroll.

“Wait, who did she mean by he ?” He asked Doctor Welles.

The Doctor didn’t even bother slow-blinking this time.

—

‘ Hero Part II’

Timeline #66606

2018, Remains of the Andromeda Galaxy

<If I could only spin the world backwards

I would know the things that came after

That way, I could save the day faster, faster , f̸̡̨̼̒a̵̻͐̕s̷̢̛̙̩̪͓̔̄͝t̶̰̼̲̋̓ͅę̴̨͖͍͍̓͒̈́ȓ̴̖̋͘̚>

When he was young, Loki thought his weakness in capturing minds over long stretches of time was due to being unable to nurture another living being. An intrinsic, insurmountable character flaw. There was something dark and twisted in his soul. Everyone thought so.

Even later, Loki could admit his logic was sound. To capture a mind momentarily, as in battle or for a trick, was like plucking a flower's bloom. Beautiful. Useful. But fleeting. Cut off from its roots, it would eventually wilt.

To ensorcell a mind you needed to tend to it, he’d thought. Feed roots, prune away disease and overgrowth, ensure the proper light. To really take a mind, surely one must be able to nurture .

The Loki after The Other could forgive his youth's naivety.

The Loki ensnared by The Other just wanted everything to burn.

<If I could only make the world slow down

Weaponize the lives that I know now

I could fan the flame that won't blow out>

As it turned out, Loki had never been proficient in capturing minds not because he could not be nurturing. It was because to capture a mind, you had to break it of knowing it was one at all. The Loki of Before, for all the death, destruction, and chaos he caused, could never quite force himself to sever that final tether. 

In some way, “Freedom from freedom” to Loki meant security in certainty, the breaking of the inner dialogue that picked, picked, picked at every decision. It did not mean the breaking of self. He only wanted for others what he wanted for himself. What he thought he wanted.

The Loki of After, in his infinite knowledge of all time, always, knew how close-minded this want was.

The Loki ensnared by The Other was too broken himself to care.

<I could run away now

I could try to hide and pretend>

These were the variants that The Loki of After struggled to watch. The ones not defeated by The Avengers, either due to the group not being formed, the invasion taking place elsewhere first for the variant to cut their teeth on commanding an army, or because the mighty Avengers succumbed to The God Who Fell from Asgard.

These were the variants that left him feeling a deep solidarity with He Who Remains Remained. As his own variants wreaked havoc among the many-verses, he began to understand what could have driven that Man at the End of Time to go to such extreme measures. The ones that opened old wounds of self-hatred and remorse.

The Variant no longer needed the Mind Stone to break his victims. A hand to the forehead, a strangehold, the clawing grip on the body reaching into their minds and then a violent grip and ripping as they tore the tether from the mind to the self in taloned fingers. The hands were removed, but the body never fell. Blank eyes tinged in a nauseating green light awaited orders, an ever-expanding hive-mind that tore through the universe.

“Very Good,” the Mad Titan murmured, tinged with praise underneath the quiet rumble. “He was the last obstacle against us. With his help, we can start on Phase 2. You have done well.”

Thor stared blankly forward, past his not-brother’s shoulder into the distance. Blood that had been trickling down from a gash on his forehead slowed and stopped as The Variant extended his healing to their newest soldier. Soot and blood stained once burnished silver and leather armor, the colors dull and near unrecognizable from the proud King of Asgard as he stood at the helm of Asgard’s now dead and decaying army.

<But this is not a story

Where the hero dies at the end

w̸͚̓h̴̲̏3̷͇͋r̸̗̓4̴̼͒ ̶͎̔t̸̙̔h̴̩̒3̸̹̄ ̶̯̔4̸̩͝ȅ̵̮r̸̻͗0̶͚̈ ̷̼̑d̴͒͜!̸͖̚ę̶̾$̴͍̽->

The Variant felt nothing.

The Mad Titan heaped no more praise but a gaze lingering on blood stained cheeks before turning to head back towards the ship. “Get him in gear and let’s get off this decrepit planet. The whole galaxy should be purged.”

“Of course,” The Variant purred, not exchanging a word with his not-brother-turned-soldier as they moved in unison to follow.

<I should just walk away

But I've got my price to pay.>

Phase 2 went sideways within a fortnight. Rumbles of uncertainty and unsatisfied bloodlust spread through the ranks of Thanos’ Children and unwilling-soldiers alike. 

The Variant had made sure of it.

When the rumble became a roar, The Variant was ready. His not-brother and himself were the well-oiled machine Loki always knew they could be were they not tied to the whims and wants of an arrogant, spoiled God of Hammers. As Thanos’ ironclad grip on his army and the Infinity Gauntlet waned, The Variant already had all the power he needed broken as his own playthings. 

Better yet, he knew how to wield them in ways they never could have themselves.

“I think it’s time for a change in leadership,” The Variant sing-songed, boot kicking the viscera of what was once Thanos’ head up the ship’s gangway as if it were gravel on a sidewalk. “Don’t you, Thor?”

“Of course, brother,” Thor said in an even tone, eyes looking at The Variant but seeing nothing. “You always know best.”

“I do, don’t I?” The Variant beamed, blood-stained teeth blinding through his manic grin. He chuckled before grabbing his not-brother’s hand, manipulating Thor’s own fingers to paw away at the flesh splattered on his clean-shaven chin. 

“This is why you don’t get a beard anymore. You’re too messy with your kills.”

<They made a big mistake.>

—

* 72 years ago, Remains of The Citadel at the End of Time *

After decades of combing Timeline #66606, the Loki of After was certain there was no He Who Remains in Timeline #66606.

As his variant brought the universe under his thumb, an army of broken-minded loved ones and enemies wielded like marionettes, he could find no comfort in that fact.

—

* Present *

When Mobius found Loki several hours later, he was still shuddering through a cold sweat, staring off into the middle distance. He couldn’t feel the agent's arm around his shoulders or hear the quiet, gentle words caressing his ears.

His vision was overshadowed with eyes so much like his own assessing his domain of piled bodies and blank-faced, hollow-minded soldiers.

Of a Thor who no longer had the reason or means with which to smile.