Glorious Purpose
Moments ago, Loki failed Sylvie as a shield brother as well as a friend. Now he’s preoccupied with ignoring the high-pitched wailing, strobing lights, and Hunters giving chase as he fiddles with a stolen device he doesn’t understand. Fear rakes at him, dragging its nails along his ribs. The sensation mingles with his guilt and self-doubt until it forms a heavy, suffocating weight in his chest. The god is alone in an unfamiliar, familiar setting and doesn’t know where or when to go — other than away from the TVA. Particularly this reiteration of the TVA, which appears to be run by a very dangerous person.
He hopes Sylvie is okay. Loki didn’t regret voicing his concerns in the beginning. However, a deep sense of shame soon washes over him when he realises he’s tried to impose his will despite the overwhelming evidence of her unwavering conviction. He let her down when she needed him the most.
Sif’s right, I deserve to be alone. I’ve betrayed everyone who’s ever loved me, after all.
How could he be so naïve? Even if they share many similarities, that doesn’t mean he knows her emotions. Sylvie spent her considerable life at the end of a thousand worlds, hunted like a dog as she struggled to find those responsible for the unexplained abduction. Every memory lost, every hardship endured, has shaped her understanding of the Multiverse and fuelled her relentless determination. In contrast, Loki enjoyed a privileged upbringing as a prince of Asgard, cared for by a loving mother and flawed father before being snatched from the Sacred Timeline just a few years before he was supposed to die. His understanding of pain and loss, while present, lacks the visceral intensity that Sylvie carries. Although he still believes He Who Remains is telling the truth about his death, if Loki had made the wiser choice, the pair would have handled the fallout together. Instead, Sylvie has pushed him through a portal and he’s revealed intel to a hostile, well-equipped, dictatorial organisation.
Just as Loki is about to drown in regret, the TemPad lights up and a Timedoor materialises a few strides away. By the Norns! The only TVA with the mischief maker’s temporal aura on file is his TVA. He’s almost free of these despotic doppelgangers. It’s unclear where or when the passage leads, but it doesn’t matter. He needs somewhere to think. Preferably some place out of imminent danger. The beleaguered trickster dives, twisting his torso as he does so in order to see if any Minutemen sneak through the closing gateway.
As he descends onto the soft grasses of a hill overlooking the sea, Loki recalls the events of Lamentis and conceals the TemPad within his pocket dimension. It’s nearing dusk and, taking in the fresh taste of freedom, he catches nag champa, juniper berries, as well as wild herbs on the wind. It’s thick in the air and coming from a nearby settlement.
Loki’s heart aches. For his family. His friends. Sylvie. Nonetheless, he presses forward as his stomach grumbles at the prospect of a meal. And ale. Lots of ale. He will conjure appropriate attire once he assesses the population.
*
With his presence concealed, Loki determines he must be in Midgard around the time of his birth. It’s a wonder why Heimdall hasn’t made himself known to the son of Odin. Locals speak of their Lord’s victory against a bewitching Jotunn, now to be sacrificed. Others whisper of a cruel Jarl and a supernatural warrior from across the sea. Immensely brave. The last of his kind.
A clamour of drums causes the crowd to part as a small-stature beardless man with dark mid-length brown hair, braided on one side, attempts to drag himself to the podium barefoot. He’s gravely injured, but keeps his head held high while sneering at his tormentors. He wears a gold collar bearing Jormungandr around his neck.
Loki, immediately liking this fellow, moves closer with no particular plan in mind.
After the priest pleads for the Allfather’s blessing, when he seeks to grasp the young man’s hair, the brunette manoeuvres himself in such a way that the priest is now pressed against his chest, choked by the chains of the condemned, with a dagger to his neck. The fighter then declares in a rough but husky tone, spitting blood as he does so, “I am not a prize to be won or given as a gift. Instead, I offer myself to Loki in the hope he wreaks havoc upon the tyrants of the apocalypses who have slaughtered my kin. In this way, I pray they may be avenged.”
His plea given, and with the priest pushed aside, the courageous rogue makes to slit his throat. However, by the time his skin meets the blade, Loki has leaped into action.
He seizes the weapon, revealing himself to the terror-stricken crowd. “Fear not, noble warrior. It would be my pleasure.”