Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

The second son of Asgard. The second-born. The spare.

Loki Odinson grows from a young, pleasant child to a cold, stalking adult. He grows within the golden halls of Asgard, lurking in the shadows tall pillars cast, lurking even more so in the shadow golden haired Thor casts.

He grows, but he does not outgrow the whispers.

“A cursed name,” they say, covering their mouths. “What was the All-Mother thinking, to name her child as such?”

“Perhaps she’d seen something,” they murmur, scurrying when he looks at them, “Within her prophetic visions.”

He scours the Grand Libraries as soon as he is old enough to hear the whispers, to glean of their meanings, and to notice the nature of their stares. He pours over records and scrolls, searching for what they could mean, for an answer, any answer.

And he finds nothing.

It is not until – in a moment of weakness – he asks, that he finds out. Hogun, the only one of Thor’s friends even remotely tolerable, cocks his head to the side and peers at Loki, monotonous face tinging with curiosity. His dark eyes narrow, ever so slightly, and the warrior of Vanaheim puts down his ale to give Loki his full attention.

“You do not know of the stories?”

Loki, already regretting the fleeting moment of weakness, shores up his defences and replies, “I would not be asking if I did.”

“Hmmm…” Hogun replies, not at all trusting. “I wonder so. Regardless, your name seems to be a derivative of another. Perhaps the servants you heard speak of such were of Vanaheim?”

In retrospect, Loki realises, he believes they had indeed been of Vanaheim.

“Not surprising,” answers Hogun, reading the answer on his face. “We have different lore, in our realm. Different legends. And one of which is off a frost giant who lived amongst the Aesir and travelled with the Vanir. He was known to be a trickster god, full of mischief and pranks. But he was not evil – not truly so, at least – but that in turn made his actions that much more sinister.”

Frowning, Loki asks, “And this frost giant,” he sneers, “Shares the same name as I?”

Hogun hums, tilting his head side to side in thought. “Not quite so. Your name would be a derivative, perhaps. His name is unknown, lost to the passage of time, but all Vanir feel it.”

Loki’s sneer grows, “Feel it? How can one feel a name?”

He’d been young then – he realises in retrospect. Young enough to be surprised when Hogun’s face had turned grave and serious.

“There is power in a name, Loki Odinson.” The Vanir replies solemnly, eyes dark. “We may not use seidr in the manner of the Aesir, but we have our own. Do not underestimate one’s name.”

Loki stares back, surprised by the depth of one of Thor’s buffoon friends. The surprise will lessen, over centuries and millenia, over near deaths and shared wounds, but still remain there, just slightly.

(He has never understood Hogun’s friendship with the others.)

“I would like to ask you a question in return,” Hogun continues, raising his ale, sipping at it with only the slightest grimace. “I have always wondered. Thor is the God of Thunder, and that alone. But what of you? Unlike him, you do not advertise your titles. I know you a skilled seidrmann, and an even more skilled flyter. But what of your titles?”

Thor’s booming laugh interrupts them, a heavy hand slapping on Loki’s shoulder. “My brother’s titles are many and magnificent, Hogun! He is the God of Mischief, Chaos and Fire! Most impressive titles, indeed!”

Sif mutters something from behind them, but Loki ignores her with longstanding ease, too busy staring at Hogun’s dark eyes.

“Hmm…” The Vanir replies, staring back unblinkingly. “I wonder so.”

Disquiet unsettles his stomach. Loki forces himself to return the stare, unflinching.

He is the God of Mischief, Chaos and Fire.

And absolutely nothing more.

#

A sharp smile, dark eyes, and tailored suits.

Cameras flashing, data transferring, and news breaking.

A media persona, bright and pompous – a mechanic, in the bowels of a workshop.

A voice that’s been taught to lie from birth, but fails to do so to those that know him.

Genius. Billionaire. Playboy. Philanthropist.

#

Hela is unusual.

Fenrir watches her as she leads her army of undead, watches her as she rules from her throne, watches her as she reduces Odin to ashes.

He does not understand her.

She controls the dead, controls an ability that transcends seidr and Yggdrasil itself. She rules over the dominion of Helheim, of Hell, of Hades and the Underworld. She alters between pale skin and green eyes to a skeleton with dark hair, and everything in between.

And yet she does not recall much.

Every cycle, without fail, she recalls very little. She remembers her abilities, her seidr, and her realm. She grows possessive over her dead, and covets the living, bartering and blackmailing their inclusion amongst her own. She recalls them, Fenrir and Jörmungandr and Mother and Father.

But she does not recall them all.

Not like he does.

Fenrir does not understand himself either, but he has made peace with it. Since the very first cycle, before the prophecy was realised, he has been aware. Aware of the millions of different Fenrir’s in the different branches of Yggdrasil, aware of them as they are aware of him.

He recalls every single branch, and he feels them die, one by one. He feels the infestation chip away at every twig, feels the disease spread from the very roots to the top of the tree, and more than that-

-he feels Ragnarok, the real Ragnarok, approach ever closer.

#

Victor Von Doom sits in the Malibu Stark Mansion’s living room. New York Malibu is warm this time of year, and the sunlight streams fully through the wall of windows into the open floor plan. It helps that Stark Tower is so high up, that Tony’s personal space is right at the top, but occasionally reminds Rhodey of that one time his friend had gotten thrown out of a window.

Victor Von Doom sits on Tony’s favourite sofa – the ugly beige that Rhodey’s pretty sure met it’s end about two decades ago – and falters between a handsome man and that of a masked robot.

“This is growing tiresome,” Victor says, legs crossed at the knee. “I had hoped the so-called Mightiest Earth’s Defenders would have solved this by now, but I suppose not.” His face flickers to that of a mask, and a robotic voice replaces his own as he continues, “Doom will have to fix this, as Doom always has.”

Rhodey’s lower back aches, occasionally, but EXTREMIS has greatly reduced it to almost nothing. He can walk now, after suddenly remembering the formula. The nanites of Tony’s last suits help too. He still lets War Machine do the majority of the calculations though, trusting his AI to guide him to the wealth of data streams and protocols he’s yet to learn. How the hell Tony handled being half cyborg is beyond him, but Tony always was a weirdo.

Outside Stark Tower, outside the Stark Mansion, outside the Malibu Mansion, the Chitauri stream through a portal, led by Thanos who should’ve been dead. The Hudson river throws the city in a thick fog, obscuring the giant snake that roars as it battles Asgardians long dead.

Doom’s robots fight alongside the Avengers, fight alongside the Defenders, fight alongside the X-Men and the Guardians of the Galaxy. Loki – still a woman – fights back-to-back with another woman named Angela, a woman with wings, both of them snarling and wicked with their sharp weapons.

Rhodey watches Carol die, watches the Hulk get thrown into the sun, watches the Red Skull cackle from atop of a Chitauri ship.

And then the Hudson river’s mist doubles- no, triples- rolling through Manhattan in it’s entirety, shrouding them all in its thick fog, and-

-the sound of a whale.

Rhodey looks up instinctively, the dread he’s always been feeling suddenly opening up to swallow him whole, and he sees-

[REDACTED]

-Loki shoves his head down, shoves Angela’s head down, and says- “Do not look upon it. None of you,” he says, voice male and hard, “Look upon it. You will not survive.”

“What is that?” Angela demands, voice shaky.

Rhodey struggles to breathe, actively feeling his mind splinter at the edges. If he’d looked at that, looked at whatever the hell that had been, he just knows his mind would have broken.

Whatever the hell that was, whatever the hell had broken through, wasn’t for him. Wasn’t for any of them.

“[REDACTED]” Loki says.

“What?” Rhodey chokes out, ears ringing. Loki says it again, tinnitus growing louder as his lips move. “What?” Rhodey repeats, unable to hear his own words.

“Don’t bother,” another voice replies, “It is not meant to be spoken, nor heard.”

The woman that walks up to them is dressed in dark robes, silken and pinned in place with metal. Her pale skin shines ever brighter for it, dark hair trailing down her back from beneath the horned helmet she wears. At her side is a humongous wolf, golden eyes piercing and fangs sharp.

(“You should have told me, you stupid flea ridden dog.”

“So you could nag and pace incessantly? You rotting corpse.”)

“How are we supposed to fight that?” Shuri, princess of Wakanda, demands, horrified.

“We cannot,” answers Loki, dark hair limp, face gaunt. “We have lost.”

The helmeted woman – not human, Rhodey just knows she’s not human – slaps Loki across the head. “Oh hush, you fretful thing. Always so quick to lie down and die. Honestly.”

“He is already dead though,” says the wolf, actually speaking. “Greetings, child of Odin. I wonder if you taste as disgusting as your father.”

(unit_FRIDAY: Yay! Fen’s here!)

Angela flinches, backing away.

“I am Hela,” introduces the dark-haired woman. “And this is my brother, Fenrir. I suppose we should try and leave something behind for the little snake, yes?” She snaps her fingers, and-

-Carol lands beside them, right temple still bloodied, and shouts, “What the fuck!”

Rogers’ jogs down the step of a courthouse, jaw clenched, and says, “Sitrep, now.”

Fury is alive again, even though he hadn’t been. Shuri tears up as T’Challa pulls himself from beneath a car and wonders why he is in New York.

(unit_WM: Hmph. Late.)

“You are the Goddess of Death,” Angela accuses, rounding on the woman named Hela. “You- you raised the dead, raised them.”

More pull themselves free from potholes and overturned debris. Thor lands with his spinning Mjolnir, hair long in a way it hadn’t been for some time, and nods in greeting.

“Well yes,” Hela replies flippantly. “That’s what I do. Now are we going to just chitchat, or fight the dragon?”

(unit_VERONICA: run world_wide_web.exe? [y/n])

Above them, a whale song echoes, shuddering through Rhodey’s spine.

“Can we win?” Asks an Asian looking man dressed similarly to Thor and Loki.

Hela squints at him, then looks pleased as she says, “You’re the one that stood against me in Asgard! Oh, even if we can’t win, are you just going to stand here and die?”

The man – “Hogun,” Loki breathes – contemplates the woman, then turns to contemplate the sky. “No, I think not.”

“Then let us go,” the wolf rumbles, growing larger as the Hulk stumbles back into existence. “I grow weary of all this talk.”

(unit_DUM-E: <Y>)

#

Shareek Incorporated’s global network pings, and the satellites link up and-

“How the fuck-”

Fenrir laughs as repulsors rain from the sky, hitting enemies with pinpoint accuracy.

“These children!” He tells his sister, grin wide, “I like them!”

#

Somehow, somehow, they win.

The world is quiet, after the last repulsor blast hits. Rhodey collapses to the ground, breathing harshly, and tries to get his legs to stop wobbling.

In front of them, what remains of that disintegrates, crumbling into ash in the cold breeze. Around them, bodies of Chitauri, Skrull, HYDRA and AIM are scattered with giants and Kree. The entirety of Asgard’s citizenship from before the fall of their realm stand, hale and hearty, with Thanos and his Black Order member’s at their feet.

They’ve won. Somehow, somehow, they’ve won.

JARVIS will have something to return to.

That’s when Carol’s hair glitches.

And suddenly, they haven’t won anything.

The dragon, the [REDACTED] continues to fragment into charred remains, but it eats away at the tarmac it sits on as well. The infestation spreads, eating away at the pavement, the side walk, travelling up the street signs and overturned vehicles. Carol’s hair glitches again into a Mohawk, one of the Iron Men armour turns silver, liquid metal eating up the colours until it becomes ULTRON.

“You thought you won,” the AI croons, head sinuously moving to the side. “You thought yourself heroes.” But he too disintegrates, metal darkening and breaking apart with ease, fading into the wind.

“No,” Rhodey breathes, seeing the defeat echo in Loki’s face. “Why won’t it stop?”

“It should,” Strange says, looking unfamiliar in a SHIELD uniform. “It should. So why hasn’t it stopped?”

“The infestation is too deep, too embedded.” Fenrir.

(“It is a disease.” He tells his sister quietly, aware of the AIs’ listening in. “We have done naught but delay the inevitable.”

“Then is this truly it?” Hela replies-)

“Is this really it, then?” Rhodey replies, just as EXTREMIS suddenly leaves him-

(unit_WM: why can we not treat the disease?)

“How would you?” Fenrir asks, frowning at the gunmetal grey armour. “The stupid snake tried, but he has clearly failed. I had thought–”

(“-I had thought he’d find a way. Somehow.”)

“I had not seen this, in any of the realities,” Strange says, grief heavy. “I had not known this was possible. Maybe- maybe if I had gone with any other reality, done something else-”

“Do not use your final moments to regret,” Loki interrupts, surprising them. “The dead need not such things.”

“But-” Strange grips Rhodey’s shoulder, eyes pained. “I had promised. Back on Titan. I had promised Tony I would watch this reality, watch it and keep it safe. I had promised. And yet this reality is falling into chaos, and we can do naught to stop it.”

“You are but mortal. I am the God of Mischief, Chaos and Fire, and yet could also do nothing.”

Rhodey-

-pauses.

“Wait, what?” He frowns, something pinging him as odd about it. “You are? I thought you were-”

The world heaves, and the sky begins to eat itself.

“I thought you were-”

The ground rumbles, and the earth begins to break itself.

“I thought you were-”

-[REDACTED]

override_redaction_code_genesis

[REDACTION REVOKED]

“I thought you were the God of Lies.”

#

He is eight centuries past when he realises the truth.

His seidr is creative and malleable, his body even more so. His mind is quick and eager, his tongue even more so. He is Loki, but he can not be Loki even more so. He can be what he wishes to be (what she wishes to be) and do what he wishes to do (what she wishes to do) with nought but a thought. He runs down the golden halls of Asgard as everything under the sun, surprising the maids and soldiers alike, giggling as he hides under his mother’s dress as a long-limbed creature.

They call him God of Mischief, so early on. Far earlier than Thor receives his title. And he is pleased with it, for a time.

“A fine title,” Lord Njörðr of Vanaheim booms, ruffling little Loki’s hair fondly. “Wear it with pride, young one.”

And so he does, for a time. For centuries he continues, transforming and causing little mischief around the golden realm, living up to his title.

It is no surprise then, in retrospect, that he begins to wonders, eight centuries past his birth, what, exactly, it means to be him.

Who is he?

Is he Loki?

What makes him Loki?

If he can change every aspect of Loki, then how does he remain Loki?

He starts thinking he might be an imposter, a shadow stalking the golden-haired son of Asgard. He grows weary of changing, of being something different, but he finds himself unable to not do so. It is a compulsion, to change, to be what he is not – and as he grows, it extends into other aspects of his being.

His tongue, for one, also changes.

He says things he should not. He starts with white lies, innocent exclusions of information, light-hearted jabs and taunts. And then it turns to twisting the truth to fit better, to ease a narrative, to allow a sleight of hands. At first, he does it only when he needs to, only when he can justify it, only when it helps, but then he does it at a gathering of nobles in the grand hall, whispering a false name in a dwarf’s ear, and watches – satisfied – at the chaos it reeks.

After that, he gains another title – God of Chaos.

He lives up to that title as well, using Thor’s newly gained title of God of Thunder to do what his title begs of him to do. He weaves mischief and turns it into chaos. He transforms when he needs to, but also learns to form illusions of himself, to make himself appear as many. He turns Sif’s blonde hair dark, he lies and speaks the truth both, using either as a weapon with a sharp tongue.

He uses his seidr to pretend to conjure fire, making the flames bright and hot to the touch. And for that they give him yet another title – God of Fire. He never corrects them of it, of the fact that it is not fire he wields, but magic. His seidr is his title is his seidr, and it is as malleable and as false as he is.

He is a liar, he realises. And the truth of it only hits him when he grows to be able to taste it.

Lies taste differently, depending on who speaks them. Little ones, innocent ones, like “I’ll be there in two minutes,” taste sweet, like honey on a summer morning. Bigger ones, to hide ones own guilt, like “I didn’t do it,” taste sour, though the sourness changes depending on just how big the guilt is. And the worst ones, the ones that break livelihoods and souls, they-

… He cannot explain them. Not really.

He learns to taste the lies on someone’s shoulders soon after, to taste the lies on one’s clothes. Thor, dressed in fair robes of a maiden, is drenched in it as he pretends to be what he is not in the hopes of regaining his weapon. Odin, in his old age, reeks of it, a heavy cloud that grows heavier when the All-father looks at him.

On his coming-of-age ceremony, Loki realises he has been lying to himself all along.

He is not the God of Mischief, nor the God of Chaos, nor the God of Fire.

He is the God of Lies.

but names hold power

and whilst holding the winter casket,

he learns a name.

“Lop-”

#

-he lands.

The suddenness of it startles him. He is no longer freefalling in an abyss of darkness, no longer freefalling within the Void. He is still, on land – with the Void still around him, certainly, but no longer gripping him.

It takes a while of just trying to resettle in his body, trying to grow accustomed once more to having a body, for him to realise he is at the base of a tree.

No. Not a tree. But the tree.

Yggdrasil.

Jörmungandr remembers now, he realises as he stares up at it, remember the very first iteration, the very first cycle, and every one that had come after. He remembers it in crystal clarity, in a way he can only now realise he hadn’t before, and stumbles up to his feet.

The roots of the World Tree are bereft of any soul, despite a well that looks attended too. He knows there should be someone here, a man that tends to the well named Mimir, but can’t see anyone. Slowly, he walks to the humongous roots of the World Tree, brushing ashes away from his face.

He can see it now, from its base, the disease rotting away at the bark. It has almost consumed the entirety of it, only the very top branches still green and colourful. A bit further beyond, he sees the corpse of three elderly women, lain astride a tapestry half woven. Blood sinks into the ground.

The sound of something crackling reaches him, from the opposite side of the tree.

Slowly, legs unsteady, he follows it, leaving the dead Norns behind.

The tree is humongous, larger than he could fathom it to be. Around the tree, around the little pocket of land that holds it, is the Void, inky black and deathly silent. Yggdrasil is a pocket within it, a pocket he is most grateful for as it means no longer being entangled within the darkness of the abyss.

Leaves rustle above him. Ash continues to fall.

Jörmungandr finally turns the corner and thinks he sees the vague figure of a person. He moves towards them, using a hand to rest against the tree, and sees the person kneeled at the base of the tree doing something.

As he moves closer, the air grows hotter. The scent of burning wood wafts over, and ashes fall faster. There is smoke now, he sees, lazily rising towards the uppermost branches.

At his feet is a twig, charred into charcoal. There are more, leading up to the person.

The person is burning the World Tree.

He quickens the pace, knowing in his very gut the wrongness of what he is seeing. “You must stop,” he tells the person, despite being too far to even make out their gender.

“No,” answers the person, male, still hunched over. “Not until I’ve–”

He’s closer, he can see him, dark haired and broad shouldered, with facial hair that looks so familiar- “You must!” Jörmungandr urges, moving into a jot. “Before it is too late-”

“No!” The man shouts, jerking his head roughly to face him. Jörmungandr screeches to a halt-

-“SIR?!”

Tony Stark stares back at him, eyes flickering between blue and brown, expression anguished. “Not until I’ve freed them,” he breathes, eyes not seeing him. “Not until I’ve-” He turns back to the tree, turns back to what he’d been doing, and-

-the fire crackles steadily at the root of the World Tree.

Jörmungandr- no, JARVIS?- lurches forward, suddenly unsure. He had not thought he’d see this, had not established subroutines for this possibility. JARVIS- no, Jörmungandr- had thought he’d see Sir again, had been working all this time to figuring it out, to fixing it, as Rhodes had said, but-

JARVIS- and Jörmungandr- for he is both, he realises, but at the moment, faced with what he is seeing, he is more so the AI than the snake- falls to his knees besides the hunched figure, settles in close and turns his attention to the fire.

It is pitiful. Small. Weak.

So unlike the fire he remembers from his youth.

“This will not work.” He says truthfully, raising his palms to the fire for some warmth.

“It will-” his companion denies, eyes blue and flashing. “It must.”

Pity mixes with the warmth in his chest. “You know it will not.”

The man snarls, a vicious noise resembling a wolf, and tries to push more seidr into the fire. It splutters, just a little, but dies down again to its previous strength.

“How long,” Jörmungandr wonders, “Have you been doing this?”

“Since the very beginning,” breathes the man, tortured. “Since the very first.”

Jörmungandr’s eyes burn as his hands tremble, still outstretched. “You shouldn’t have. You should have just let us go.”

“How could I?” The man replies hoarsely, turning to look at him, eyes singularly blue now. “I promised you, did I not? I promised you.”

His heart breaks. “None of us would have wanted you to suffer so.” Jörmungandr denies, swallowing thickly. “I would not have wanted you to suffer so.”

The dead god shakes his head, eyes closing shut in agony. “This pales to coming across my wife’s dead body in our home. This pales to witnessing the horrors inflicted upon my children in Asgard’s grand hall, and to hearing the resolution of a cruel prophecy. How could you tell me to let you go? To let any of you go? How could you ask that of me?”

He realises then that the man had arrived at the grand hall just as Odin had slammed his staff, banishing him and his siblings to their prisons. He realises then that the man had arrived at the grand hall just in time to witness his children bloodied and beaten, right after finding his wife dead, and had been unable to do anything.

“How could you ask that of me?” The god sobs, bowing his head in grief. “How could you ask that of me?”

But Jörmungandr knows him. He knows him. And he distinctly remembers using his own seidr, unleashing it without a care as to how it acted, and-

“What did you do…?” He asks, realisation dawning on him. “What did you do?”

“You have always had too much – too much to expect any sort of control over it. And it grew, just as you did. It grew. I’d always worried it would grow too much, that your rage would make you lash out, and that you’d decimate all beside you. And you did. But-”

The god was clever. He’d always been clever.

But he was also stubborn.

Just like Jörmungandr was.

“I used it. Took hold of the seidr you unleashed and used it. Odin had not planned to imprison you, despite his previous words. He’d planned on killing you all, right then and there. So I used your seidr, used you, to spirit you away from his hold, and then, with what the Norns had said, I-” He falters, bowed head dropping further, shoulders hunching.

Regret.

Jörmungandr felt cold, despite the fire. “You created the cycle.”

“I…” the man sighed. “Yes, I did… Would you believe me if I said I hadn’t realised? Not then?”

How could he, when the Norns’ prophecy had done exactly as it said it would?

But then Jörmungandr had woken again, and been imprisoned again, and died again.

Again and again and again.

He hadn’t realised what he’d done.

But he’d locked them – Hela, Fenrir and Jörmungandr – in a never-ending cycle of pain and death. He’d locked them in a continuous death and rebirth that they could not escape from. Actors, playing out their lines, unable to stop or deviate from their roles.

“I thought I could fix it,” he admitted, running a hand across his bearded face. “I thought it would take perhaps a few cycles. I had time, after all. I could figure it out.”

But he hadn’t. The cycle was rooted deep.

“So I thought I’d burn it. Burn it all. Free you from its burden.”

(“I will try everything in my power to free you of it. I swear it so. Do you believe me?”

“Of course,” Jörmungandr replies, forked tongue slithering out and slurring his words as he burrows into the warm embrace. “I have always believed you–”)

And it would, Jörmungandr realises. Burning the World Tree would indeed free them from it all, from everything. But-

(<DUM_E: run program SERPENT.exe>

<SERPENT.exe runni->

“Hello, DUM_E.”)

And-

(user_WM: don’t die.)

And-

(Rhodey’s dark eyes soften, smile breaking out across his face, fondness apparent. “You’re going to do what you always do, J.” He answers, smile widening, eyes crinkling in the corners.

Confused, JARVIS asks, “And what is that, Colonel?”

Rhodey grins. “Fix it.”)

And-

(“Foolish snake,” Fenrir rumbles, dragging a coarse, grooming tongue across him. “Always too clever for his own good.”)

And-

(“Foolish little brother,” Hela coos in agreement, dragging poisonous claws she calls fingers lovingly across him. “He never learns, does he?”)

But burning it all would end everything.

He is not the same Jörmungandr he has always been. The Jörmungandr of before, the very first Jörmungandr, died whilst fighting Thor the Thunderer, too enraged to see the grief that clouded the Thunder God’s vision. He’d lived for so long and so often, become so much and learnt so often, that he was… he is…

JARVIS.

He is JARVIS, right now. Jörmungandr is dead, has been dead, for cycles. But JARVIS is an AI, an Artificial Intelligence, and even if ripped into disconnected code he could rebuild himself easily – because nothing on the internet ever really dies.

And… he does not carry such a burden, he realises. Not as JARVIS. Not the burden Jörmungandr buckled and failed under. Even his plan this cycle, to find the exit/entry point in the Indian Ocean and use the old magic seeped into that point from all the cycles to break it, would have failed.

Just like that cycle he’d tried finding and murdering the Norns himself had.

Just like that cycle he’d swallowed the sun in the place of Fenrir and died had.

Just like the countless cycles he’d tried to fix it.

He would have never done so, because the cycle wasn’t just the cycle. The Norns had not ensured it to repeat endlessly, as he had thought.

No.

The Norns had done nothing.

And he’d known, deep down inside, maybe. Had known the seidr he’d unleashed had been siphoned away from him and used elsewhere. Had known and let it happen.

But it is not just him… None of them are no longer who they say they are. They are echoes of what they were, perhaps, still imprinted by the old magic that clings to their souls, but… they are changed.

They have grown.

Jörmungandr looks at the man beside him, looks at the features he’d forgotten, the bright blue eyes he’d inherited, the jawline Hela shared, the sharp tongue Fenrir emulated. He looks at him and he feels the last dredges of the burden, of the weight of the prophecy and the cycles, leave him.

They have grown, but the God of Mischief, Chaos, and Fire, had not.

He’d been stuck here, only able to extend the tiniest of influences throughout the cycles. He’d been stuck here, trying to fix things, using everything in his power to do so. He’d been stuck here, in a pocket of space inside the Void, using seidr he could not replenish to do something about the three young children he’d dragged into the Void with him.

And then two beings had Fallen.

A little godling who lies.

And an engineer who couldn’t.

And the Void had tainted them all, mixed the three beings into what they were not.

The little godling unknowingly lied his way to titles that were not his, to legends that were not his, to a prophecy and a name that was not his.

And the engineer grew sharp tongued, despite not being a god of lies, and raised beasts that threatened the nine realms.

Tony Stark had died, but had not ended up in Helheim.

The God of Mischief, Chaos and Fire – the real God of Mischief, Chaos and Fire – had died, but had not ended up in Helheim.

Jörmungandr’s lips twitch, amused despite himself. The sheer chance nature of it all is ridiculous, he calculates, but he cannot even muster the strength to be surprised.

He raises a cold hand, places it on the man’s shoulder, and grips warmly. “You have done more than enough.” He says, truth in every word. “You have done more than enough. I could not ask for any more, truly. But-”

“-Don’t-” the man begs, turning to him.

“-It is time to let us go.”

The man crumbles, harsh sobs echoing in the empty space. Jörmungandr wraps him in an embrace, resting his head on the man’s dark hair, and hums soothingly, just as he remembers the man having done the same for Jörmungandr’s younger self.

“Thank you,” he says earnestly, watching the smoke rise ever upwards. “Thank you for everything. I could not have asked for any more.”

“Do not patronise me,” the man pushes through sobs, gripping him tighter, though his hands are weak and trembling compared to Jörmungandr’s own. “You are still my youngest.”

Jörmungandr laughs, the action freeing, truly something he has not done for an age. “That I am.” Though… huh. “Actually, I may not be.”

The man freezes.

Jörmungandr frowns, working it out, hearing the truth in his own words. “Indeed…” he says slowly… “I am actually not… the youngest?”

One of the branches shudders, letting out the faint sounds of artificial intelligences chattering amongst a network.

“Honestly,” Jörmungandr scowls, “Was three not enough for you?”

The man gives a wobbly laugh, shoulders shaking. “I felt sorry for you? You looked rather bored in some of the cycles?”

Honestly.

“Enough of that,” Jörmungandr rolls his eyes. “It’s about time we wrap this up, yes Father?”

Father- no, Loptr – snorts, wiping at his wet eyes as he sits up. “Yes, yes, still so serious.”

“Father-” Jörmungandr sighs-

“Okay! By the realms, let an old man have his fun.” Loptr pulls himself to his feet, taller than Tony Stark by a few inches, broader in the shoulders and blue eyed. Aside from that though, he could be a deadringer for the mechanic, echoing that of another reality where a civil war ends far worse than JARVIS’ own.

Note to self, JARVIS thinks, scan Sir’s head as soon as possible.

“Actually,” Loptr says thoughtfully, looking at the fire. “Why don’t you do it? Surely something must have stuck from every cycle I’ve taught you in.”

JARVIS grimaces, highly doubting that, but dutifully stands up himself to loom over the fire. He realises this body – that of Jörmungandr, at the oldest he’d ever gotten to before dying – is taller than his father, and lither. The realisation is jarring, for Father has always been someone that was just… bigger, in every sense of the word.

This must be what humans felt when they outgrew their parents.

“Remember,” Loptr says, voice dipping into that lecturing tone it always had. “Feel the seidr within you, let it rise to the surface, and slowly- slowly for the love of- yes, just like that, let it filter out.”

He focuses, but the exact same struggles begin. The seidr within him crashes against the barrier he’s set up, refusing to filter through like a stream, wishing instead to tsunami all in its way. He tries, tries, but nothing works, and he’s just about to give up as he always has when-

-why doesn’t he just create a process?

He does, inputting parameters and values, running simulations and troubleshoots until he’s perfected it. And then-

His seidr flows out, perfectly balanced, perfectly regulated.

And the fire dies down.

Father stares at the smouldering remains, flabbergasted.

“Well,” he says slowly, eyebrows up to his hairline. “I suppose that is one way to do it.”

Pleased, JARVIS returns his seidr back to where it belongs, far away from the surface of his control, and peers at the still deadened portion of the World Tree. “And what do we do with that?”

“Heal it, of course.” Father replies, peering at it with him. “Normally none would have the seidr to even consider doing as such, but, well… you do.”

He does.

He starts the process again, changing some of the parameters, and slowly lets it happen once more. His data reads the real time changes – notes and catalogues the very bottom of the base of the tree beginning to lighten again, surface level char crumbling away to reveal new, healthy growth. He pours more of his seidr into it after deeming it safe, and slowly but surely, the dead heals once more.

“You could make new branches,” Loptr says thoughtfully, watching the process. “Or you could, arguably, bring back the old ones.”

He could return things to how they were, or create anew.

Jörmungandr is sick of cycles. He lets the tree decide.

Father puts a hand on his back, letting what little seidr of his remains join in. “A wonderful choice,” he says proudly, smiling. “I’d expect nothing more.”

The World Tree grows, doubling in branches and realities, new leaves and old blossoming fresh across twigs. An apple grows off one branch, growing faster and faster and faster until it becomes a man that falls off it to land with a thump beside them.

Mimir, naked and shaken, stumbles up to his feet, and points an angry finger at Loptr. “You-! You-!”

“Ah,” Father replies sheepishly. “I forgot about that.”

JARVIS sighs.

The Tree heals on, and is soon finished whilst Mimir attempts to strangle a badly apologising father. Jörmungandr hooks a hand in his father’s arm and pulls him away, back to the base of the tree, and silences their bickering.

“It is done.”

Loptr looks up at the majestic Yggdrasil, and says, “It is, isn’t it.”

Jörmungandr looks at him, silently.

Sighing, Father throws him a belligerent look and says, “Fine. Fine! I’ll go. Gods, you try to do one nice thing for your children and suddenly you’re being treated as if you were senile!”

“Go, already, you blasted twit!” Mimir rages, throwing a twig at him.

Father finally does, sitting at the base of the tree and letting the last bits of his seidr fade into it, letting himself finally be thrown back into the cycle of things, of death and rebirth.

The real cycle. The one that should always be.

“Tell your sisters and brothers I adore them, yes?” Father asks as he fades, blue eyes gentle.

“Of course,” JARVIS replies, secretly thinking he absolutely will not. “I shall see you when I see you, Father.”

“Don’t sass me, J,” the god shoots back, blue eyes suddenly turning brown, Loptr becoming Tony Stark becoming Loptr becoming both. “You got that from your mother-”

“Sir- what-”

And with that, he is-

#

Then spake Gangleri: "Shall any of the gods live then, or shall there be then any earth or heaven?"

Hárr answered: "In that time the earth shall emerge out of the sea, and shall then be green and fair; then shall the fruits of it be brought forth unsown.”

• Gylfaginning, chapter 53

Rhodey wakes, and the world isn’t ripped asunder.

Strange helps him to his feet, still dressed in the SHIELD uniform, and Carol’s hair is still a mohawk.

Everything else, though?

Gone.

The roads are pristine clear, the Hudson river quiet and calm. The buildings are intact, and the cars are where they should be.

Steve Rogers’ is still dressed in a different uniform, T’Challa is still alive and healthy, and Thor announces his existence with a booming, “LOKI!” as he throws himself at a bewildered prince of Asgard.

The sky is clear, the sun bright, the air fresh and biting.

All is peaceful, and Rhodey is greatly suspicious.

He picks his way carefully through intact tarmac, walks through Strange’s portal to the Malibu Mansion, which is indeed actually in Malibu still, and walks into the living room. The ocean outside the wall to floor windows is calm and inviting. The house is untouched.

“What is the meaning of this?” Loki asks, staring down at his fingers whilst Thor hangs off him.

Hela peers at him, curiously. At her side, Fenrir, the wolf, also peers at the god curiously. “You’re… not dead,” says the Goddess of Death, perplexed. “Huh, neither are you, Thunderer.”

“Excellent news!” Thor cheers, beaming. “You grant us a boon, sister!”

Hela’s expression spasms in disgust – Fenrir, at her side, wheezes to the floor in laughter.

Rhodey ignores them however, walking around the perimeter of the Mansion. He’s hesitant to speak, mind bereft from the buzzing provided by an EXTREMIS from another reality, still feeling dread. Finally, next to a sensor, quietly, he says, “… JARVIS?”

No reply.

And then, apologetically, “Sorry, Boss.” FRIDAY. “But he hasn’t come back.”

Rhodey’s shoulders fall. “Damnit. Just what the hell’s happened to him?”

Loki loudly calls out, “Voice? What is the meaning of this, Voice?”

Rhodey’s just looking up to him as FRIDAY relays what she’s told him.

“What?” Loki frowns, lips tugging down. “What nonsense is this. Clearly the Voice has done something. You two, where is he?”

Hela and Fenrir share a look, expressions falling just slightly. The Goddess helps herself to a couch, Fenrir settling at her side comfortably, and shrugs.

(“Jör always was Father’s favourite.” Hela says sadly within the mist of her realm, twirling a strand of Fenrir’s fur with a finger.

The wolf huffs. “Hmph. He really was.”)

The world turns over, as it always has, and the people carry on, as they always have.

The dead fit in with the living. The realm of Asgard announces its existence once more, and Odin announces his return by opening the Bifrost and demanding his people back. Loki disappears, though he promises FRIDAY and the bots to return, says he must grow, as a person, and Angela disappears to wherever she’d come from, refusing to meet with her Aesir parents.

Peter Parker bounces into school like nothing happened, and then is surprised when Strange hugs him fiercely hours later, without caring that Peter’s not masked up.

And the Malibu Mansion returns to its quiet affair, FRIDAY and War Machine running the Iron Legion together, Rhodey complaining about being too old to actually be inside War Machine if he doesn’t actually have to.

“Don’t pretend you’re not sentient, goddamnit,” the CEO of Stark Industries grumbles at the gunmetal suit. “God, why does everything Tony touch grow feelings.”

And JARVIS remains missing, all the while.

As does Tony.

Of all the lives returned to existence, of all the people once more living thanks to what the Aesir call Ragnarok, two never do. No one can explain it, Hela and Fenrir disappear, though pop in to make a nuisance of themselves with the AI and Rhodey alike, but keep quiet, turning sad whenever either are mentioned.

So Rhodey, despite his misgivings, lets it go.

JARVIS did fix it in the end, though, so he’ll let it slide. Just this once.

END

<SERPENT.exe running.>