In the infinite stillness where the Time Loom once spun its golden threads, there now existed only silence, and a throne.
Upon that throne sat a figure both ancient and reborn, no longer merely a god, and far more than a man. Draped in robes that shimmered with contradiction: tattered yet regal, old yet new, Loki gazed out into the spiraling multiverse. Behind him stretched the World Tree, Yggdrasil, a lattice of timelines branching outward like arteries of possibility. Green strands of magic wove into its roots, binding him to it, and it to him.
His expression was serene not the cold arrogance of the trickster, but the quiet awe of a soul who had fulfilled his glorious purpose. He watched as a new branch of reality budded and grew, pulsing with potential. His eyes gleamed with intrigue, wondering what ripple this universe might send through the ocean of fate.
But then, a shift.
His breath caught. He felt them before he saw them; two presences breaching even his elevated domain. Two beings... above him.
To his right and left, they appeared without fanfare. The one on his left was regal and strange clad in black robes trimmed with gold, over which a deep violet cloak flowed like liquid starlight. In his outstretched palm hovered a miniature galaxy, flickering with life and then slowly dissolving into dust. The universe in his hand unraveled silently, like sand slipping through time.
To Loki's right sat a very different figure: a man on a modest wooden chair, hunched over a clattering typewriter. He wore the attire of a 20th-century novelist tweed, suspenders, wire-framed glasses perched on his nose his fingers dancing across keys that glowed faintly with each stroke. Lines of reality spilled from the machine as ink on parchment.
Loki adjusted on his throne and cleared his throat, masking a rare flicker of unease. "To what," he asked, voice cautious yet composed, "do I owe the pleasure of your arrival?"
He might have spoken their names if he knew them but the man with the typewriter raised a hand without looking up. Instantly, Loki fell silent. The air grew heavier, reverent, and tense.
After a pause, the purple-cloaked man on the left spoke, his voice smooth, resonant, and almost amused. "We have a task for you, Loki."
He gestured into the void. From nothingness, a green orb materialized in his hand luminous and pulsing, marked with a black insignia shaped like a stylized hourglass. As it hovered between them, echoes danced from within: a child's laughter, a teenage boy's voice shouting in excitement, and the trill of alien technology powering up.
Loki leaned forward, enchanted. His fingers reached toward the orb, curiosity warring with caution.
"Place this being into your newest branch," said the cloaked man, the edge of a smirk curling his lips. "Keep him off the radar of that little agency of yours. Give him a chance to live."
Loki blinked, briefly glancing toward the man at the typewriter who still hadn't spoken. The steady rhythm of keys never faltered, but Loki's gaze drifted to one of the pages emerging from the machine. For a heartbeat, he caught a glimpse.
He immediately wished he hadn't.
The writer's fingers paused. Slowly, he raised his eyes and the multiverse shuddered.
Behind those simple spectacles glowed twin orbs of pearlescent gray, cold and absolute. Reality around him fractured. Tears split the space beyond reason, spiraling into oblivion. Even Loki, once Prince of Asgard, Master of Magic, and now anchor of all time, could not grasp the scope of what he was witnessing.
"No one. Gets. To peek." The writer's voice was calm and it echoed through creation like a hammer to the soul. Time itself flinched. The man in purple gave his partner a sidelong glance, stern yet understanding. With a dismissive click of his tongue, the writer relaxed. His glow faded. The tremors ceased. The typewriter resumed its eternal rhythm.
Loki exhaled only now realizing he'd been trembling, sweat slick on his brow. He straightened, recovering composure, and nodded slowly.
"I understand."
He looked back to the orb and found himself alone. The two figures had vanished without trace, as if they'd never been there at all.
Silence reclaimed the throne.
Loki stared at the green sphere now cradled in his hand, its core pulsing like a heartbeat. Something ancient. Something new.
"Well," he murmured with a faint smile, "it seems you have a glorious purpose of your own. I do hope you can live up to it."