Afterward, Loki visited Frigga in the Golden Palace.
His mother held his hand, speaking at length, but Loki’s entire focus was on holding back tears. He couldn’t even recall what she said.
"I want to see Father."
Loki kept his head down, voicing his request. If he lingered, his resolve would falter. He couldn’t speak of the future.
Nor of the outco where all might turn to ash.
"He’s not here."
Frigga’s expression was troubled. The false Odin had gone to Hell.
"No, I an the real Odin, not that imposter. I understand now."
At life’s end, Loki saw clearly. If everything tied to Ragnarök, Odin should be in his slumber.
The one running around, roasting at on the World Tree, was more like Old Loki.
Perhaps Old Loki’s illusion?
Loki envied his future self. He’d always wanted to grill on the World Tree but lacked the courage. Now, he’d never get the chance.
Frigga looked at her son, stroking his hair, pausing as if in thought. Gullveig, sitting quietly nearby, hid her laptop.
Had that tipped Loki off?
"You’re acting strange today, but since you know, I won’t hide it. I’ll take you to Odin’s Sleep."
"Good."
Loki knew Gullveig well, but he hadn’t glanced at her since entering. He studied the table, the curtains, but not her.
He didn’t know what role she played in Old Loki’s script.
Frigga took his hand, warm as countless tis before, leading him to Odin’s Sleep.
Odin lay on a golden longship, clutching his spear.
Loki ant to say sothing, but face-to-face, words failed him.
Not all-knowing, did Odin understand? Did he know his son’s fate?
Loki gazed at him, touching Odin’s beard, then the Eternal Spear he couldn’t lift.
He hated Odin’s patriarchal air, but in trouble, Loki instinctively turned to him.
Odin always solved problems, then locked him away. Not this ti. No chance.
This was Loki’s burden alone.
His future self was too powerful, surpassing even Odin—not in strength, but in inescapable sches.
"It’s fine, Mother. Seeing you both well puts at ease."
"Oh, then go play with Thor. Don’t forget to eat."
"I will, Mother. I take my leave."
Loki bowed with a smile, leaving Odin’s Sleep. Outside, he vanished, racing toward the cavern.
He’d said his farewells. Ti to face his fate. He didn’t want anyone seeing him cry in the Golden Palace.
"Are you sure this is right?"
Two ravens flew in, landing on Frigga’s shoulders, whispering Asgard’s affairs. Odin rose from the bed.
A rainbow shimr faded, revealing the real Frigga as the one who’d led Loki in showed her true form.
The one-eyed old man had always been there. A shapeshifter, mimicking his wife was child’s play—form, thoughts, and words.
No need to hide now.
He stepped to the longship, spoke a word to the Eternal Spear, reclaid it, and addressed the air beside him.
Frigga didn’t know why Odin had her impersonate him or deal with Deathstroke, that terrifying mortal bandit.
As she opened her mouth, a golden vortex portal opened by the bed. A strange woman stepped through, smiling gently.
Odin hadn’t been asking the All-Mother.
"I’ve scoured millions of tilines. This is the only path. To preserve our world in the multiversal collision, Loki and Deathstroke are indispensable."
Odin donned his helt and cloak, regal once more, but his words admitted defeat.
"Using the cosmos as a chessboard, peering into all futures? Ancient One, I’m never playing chess with you again."
"You should’ve thought that sooner."
Ancient One nodded to Frigga, then unleashed a silent barrage of spells—mory wipes, body control, dinsional probes blocked.
Frigga’s ager magic was nothing before her.
Odin watched Frigga sleepwalk out, closing the door. He stayed silent; Ancient One stood quietly, hands behind her back.
Odin and Ancient One were the true insiders, part of a deal.
Ancient One let Loki manipulate ti and Earth; Odin let Deathstroke roam the heavens. A trade.
Even Deathstroke’s amulet, blocking Heimdall’s sight, was Odin’s, passed via Ancient One. Recalling Garth was Odin’s order too.
All to get Deathstroke to Asgard.
Ancient One nudged him with a mission: Ragnarök and the Serpent as foes.
Not entirely false—the Serpent was loose, but Ancient One wasn’t clueless. Nothing on Earth escaped her.
She didn’t lie, just omitted.
Deathstroke was unreadable, uncontrollable. So truths were better hidden.
Future Loki wanted the Serpent to stir chaos—perfect. Its strength was just right for Deathstroke to handle.
The Supre Sorcerer and God-King existed outside Future Loki’s story, giving them an edge.
Odin was excluded because Loki despised him, making him a non-character. Alive, he was an outsider.
Ancient One was unknown to Loki. The Ti Stone shielded her from scripted fates, making her an outsider too.
As observers, they saw Future Loki’s book clearly. Before the Revealer began, Ancient One had read it via the Ti Stone.
Their plan ford. Sorcerer and King struck a deal.
One wanted Loki as Asgard’s savior; the other wanted Deathstroke to guard the universe. They wove a grand sche, ensnaring all.
Odin had to remain harsh to Loki to stay out of the story.
Ancient One had to make Deathstroke the Supre Sorcerer to prevent future ddling.
That was their cost.
"He’s my son."
"He’s my heir."
"They’ll hate us if they learn the truth."
"Actors or writers, it’s hard to escape the script. Their vision’s limited. Maybe one day Loki breaks free and sees. Deathstroke might find proof elsewhere. But above Loki’s story is another, written by a higher dinsion."
"Hah, we’re all puppets of an invisible hand. So be it. This day was inevitable. Loki cos from the future, seeking change, but that’s the greatest constant. Loki is Loki—his nature endures."
They exchanged a few calm words, then fell into long silence.
Ancient One couldn’t act openly. Odin pondered how to keep the charade.
Their goals differed slightly—one for Asgard, one for the main dinsion—but they could win together.
A deal between protectors was easier than bargaining with demons or dark gods. For their worlds, no cost was too high.
That’s what a Supre Sorcerer and God-King did. Right or wrong didn’t matter—the world never cared for good or evil.
The fireplace crackled. They sat by the ship, watching the flas dance.
"So, Loki, are you done?"
Young Loki returned to the cavern beneath the pond. The green flas parted for him. Head bowed, he faced Old Loki.
His older self flickered in the fire, arms crossed, asking with concern.
"Completely. Now what?"
Loki looked up, questioning the figure across the flas.
Old Loki lowered his gaze, his wrinkled face complex. "The curtain falls. If you’ve seen movies, think of it as your role wrapping. Might make it easier."
"I haven’t seen movies, and that’s not what I’m asking. That’s my end. You know what I an."
Loki calmly deflected, uninterested in that.
Old Loki raised an arm, stroking his chin, expression obscured. Only his voice carried.
"Ah, that. If I recall... the crown ceases to exist, the throne stays empty. phisto’s attempt just entertains the masses. Families reunite, love blooms, the fallen rise, the mighty fall. A new future, guarded by heroes. You’ll rest in Eternity’s garden, with a familiar yet strange love, forever."
Old Loki spoke clearly, each word deliberate.
"That’s the grand finale."
"..." Loki snorted, a derisive sound. "A beautiful lie, but it won’t happen. I’ll vanish forever. We lack the power to make the story go that way."
"...True, sadly. Ti to swallow the lie."
The black magpie flew to young Loki, landing between his hands, its dark eyes fixed on him.
The Revealer had asked countless tis who it was.
The blind fool knew—it was Loki. It was the lie.
"I thought there’d be a ga." Young Loki brought it close, slling its feathers, a familiar sensation enveloping him.
"The ga’s always on, just not between us. I’m you, so we skip it. The house always wins."
Old Loki answered kindly, flipping his wrist, gesturing to proceed.
Young Loki bit the magpie’s neck. As flas twisted, Old Loki’s form surged into him like smoke.
Blood and feathers filled his mouth. Loki’s tears dried. Minutes later, he spat out the feathers and approached the stone platform.
The feathers withered instantly, turning white, scattered by the flas’ breeze.
He tossed his helt into the fire, donned the one from the platform, and wiped blood from his face.
"Damn it, I even fool myself!"
He spat in disgust. Not just young him—he had no choice either.
Young Loki saw through him in the end. He couldn’t finish the story; he lacked the power.
The God of Stories could only write beginnings, not endings.
He didn’t know what to do.
The only way was to find soone who did.
Adjusting his cloak, he stepped out of the fire circle. The erald flas licked his clothes and skin, as if crowning a new king.
Reviews
All reviews (0)