Chapter 1
It is in the quiet moments—or whatever passes for quiet, now—that Loki remembers Heimdall. He had never wondered before if it had been lonely, what Heimdall did. The watchman had the whole of the Nine Worlds at his fingertips, and the palace next door. He had been beloved by Odin, revered by Asgardians all—how could he have been lonely?
Now, Loki wonders if he might have been. Deep in the trunk of Yggdrasill, the Time Tree, Loki sees all, just as Heimdall once did. He has the whole of the universe before him, he can bend time and space to his any whim, and he can only think of the old watchman.
He knows what happened to Heimdall—his Heimdall, the Sacred Timeline’s Heimdall—the fate he suffered at the hands of Thanos. But since Sylvie killed He Who Remains, there are infinite new timelines, infinite new Asgards and infinite new bifrosts. Loki supposes that there must be a few in which Heimdall still holds vigil. And as Loki weaves timelines through his fingers like threads of a tapestry, as his power surges infinitesimally through every new branch like a living thing, Loki’s heart goes out to Heimdall, and it makes him feel a little less alone.
Because he is alone. For all he fought—for all he kicked and fussed and moaned—Loki is alone in this. He can watch his friends: infinite Sylvies and Mobiuses and O.B.s and Caseys. He can watch them live out their lives in their own times. He can watch as Mobius goes back to watch his old self—his pre-TVA self—and his kids. But he cannot touch. He cannot leave his Throne Outside of Time. It is the price he paid willingly to let the others live out their stories. They may live, but he must remain.
Loki tries not to let himself think about it too much; there is enough distraction in Yggdrasill to keep his mind busy. There are billions of lives on every new growing branch and, if Loki focuses his power, reaches out with his magic like a probing hand, he can feel every single one. He can live billions of lives, trillions of stories, all in the blink of an eye. With such eternity in front of him, surrounded as he is by the thunderous din of all existence, it should not be possible as it is to hear, over and over, a single voice.
I might just wait here for a little bit, it says. Let time pass.
Time is free. Mobius is free: free to wait and watch and live whatever life he chooses. Loki made that happen. That should be enough for him.
Let time pass, Loki thinks, and closes his eyes.
Mobius has gone back to his timeline three times since that first visit, and after every single time, he returns to the TVA. He just can’t make himself linger on Earth for more than an hour or two. He watches long enough to catch a glimpse of himself—Don—and the boys before he conjures up a time door and ends up back at his desk. He doesn’t know what it is that stops him, but it feels like cowardice. It feels like the same thing that stopped him from looking at his file after he found out he was a variant. Fear of a good thing.
Mobius still isn’t quite sure what happened with the Temporal Loom—what Loki did to save the timelines. But he knows that Loki gave everything so that the multiverse might exist and that it could exist on his terms, not He Who Remains’ or anyone else’s. It feels like a betrayal that Mobius doesn’t use that sacrifice. Like he’s thrown away this incredible gift.
But he just hasn’t been able to make himself leave.
Mobius glances up from his desk at the monitor in the center of the room, its screen now modified to show the timelines in their multiplicity, growing and intertwining like the branches of a mighty oak. He wonders, not for the first time, if Loki had consciously chosen that shape when he harnessed and revitalized the multiverse. Mobius has been studying Lokis and Asgard for the majority of his time as an agent; he knows Norse myth. It can’t be a coincidence that Loki’s renderings would take the shape of an all-powerful World Tree, of Yggdrasill. Mobius watches as the branches of the tree slowly break off and twist and grow. His eyes search the screen to find the thickest tangle of branches, the trunk, and he smiles softly.
“Mobius,” a voice probes. Mobius’ eyes snap to the woman who has managed to sneak up to his desk without him noticing.
“Sylvie,” he greets, tearing his mind away from the trunk of the World Tree. “We really should get you a bell, you’ll give me a heart attack one of these days.”
“It’s the calories that’ll do that,” she quips back, dropping a greasy McDonald's bag onto a stack of his files. He sighs at her indignantly, making a show of removing the bag to an empty surface and brushing off his (arguably still spotless) files. “You’re still here,” Sylvie continues, her voice betraying her lack of surprise.
Mobius opens the bag and makes a noise of delight at the contents, taking out a perfectly greasy fry and shoving it into his mouth. He narrows his eyes at Sylvie as he chews. “How are these cold already? It’s not like you had to commute.”
She waves a hand in dismissal. “You get what you pay for. So? You’re staying?”
Mobius sighs, putting down the bag and gesturing for Sylvie to take a seat in his other chair. Loki’s chair. Sylvie sits, still staring at him expectantly. “Yes, I’m still here,” he sighs. “But I haven’t made any decisions yet. I’m taking my time, not rushing into anything. You should try it, you know. Could solve a lot of problems.”
She ignores the jibe, leaning her elbow on his desk intently. “No, you’re doing the same thing you did when you refused to look at your file. You’re stalling.”
“I’m not,” Mobius protests weakly, aware that he had just been thinking the same thing moments ago.
“You are. You’re going to ignore your life on the timeline that Loki gave everything for just so you can sit here and pine at your desk,” Sylvie insists, her voice rising in frustration.
Mobius waves his hand in a quiet-down gesture and splutters, “There’s no pining happening–”
“What’s stopping you, Mobius?” Sylvie interrupts, leveling him with that intense blue gaze. “Because Loki is gone.”
Mobius doesn’t know what to say to that. Luckily, he’s saved from responding when a frantic-looking O.B. careens into the room like a hurricane, a wide-eyed Victor Timely hot on his heels. “Mobius! Where’s Mobius?” O.B. is calling. All heads in the room turn to him.
“Woah! O.B., woah,” Mobius stands to intercept the man, his hands out like he’s trying to calm a spooked horse. “What is it, what’s wrong?”
O.B. looks at him for a moment, his hands clutching white-knuckled to the new TVA guidebook, and then he blurts: “I think I know where Loki is!”