November was cold. He stood on the edge of the multiverse, watching timelines bloom like flowers from a corpse. He Who Remains had called it a loom. Loki called it a garden. And gardens needed gardeners. But not masters. Never again a master.
For the first few months—January to April—he did nothing. He sat in a small apartment in a reality where Asgard had fallen but New York still stood. He drank cheap coffee and stared at the ceiling. The TVA was gone. He Who Remains was dead. The loom of fate was unspooling into infinite, beautiful chaos. And Loki was… tired.
He left before Thor could ask his name.
“To 2021,” he said to the void. “The year I learned to stop running. The year I learned to stay.”
He was Loki. God of Stories. And he had lived an entire lifetime in twelve months. Loki -2021-2021
That was the pact of 2021: love without possession.
October. Halloween. A child in a cheap Loki mask knocked on his apartment door. Trick-or-treat. Loki had no candy. He gave her a dagger. Her mother screamed. Loki turned the dagger into a chocolate bar. The child grinned. For one perfect second, Loki felt like a god again—not of mischief, but of small, impossible kindnesses. November was cold
So he waited.
He drank. The year ended. And for the first time in a thousand years, Loki did not feel the need to lie about who he was. Loki called it a garden
When Loki stepped out again, the year on a Midgardian calendar was 2021.
November was cold. He stood on the edge of the multiverse, watching timelines bloom like flowers from a corpse. He Who Remains had called it a loom. Loki called it a garden. And gardens needed gardeners. But not masters. Never again a master.
For the first few months—January to April—he did nothing. He sat in a small apartment in a reality where Asgard had fallen but New York still stood. He drank cheap coffee and stared at the ceiling. The TVA was gone. He Who Remains was dead. The loom of fate was unspooling into infinite, beautiful chaos. And Loki was… tired.
He left before Thor could ask his name.
“To 2021,” he said to the void. “The year I learned to stop running. The year I learned to stay.”
He was Loki. God of Stories. And he had lived an entire lifetime in twelve months.
That was the pact of 2021: love without possession.
October. Halloween. A child in a cheap Loki mask knocked on his apartment door. Trick-or-treat. Loki had no candy. He gave her a dagger. Her mother screamed. Loki turned the dagger into a chocolate bar. The child grinned. For one perfect second, Loki felt like a god again—not of mischief, but of small, impossible kindnesses.
So he waited.
He drank. The year ended. And for the first time in a thousand years, Loki did not feel the need to lie about who he was.
When Loki stepped out again, the year on a Midgardian calendar was 2021.
