#so the planet Torfa is a big extractor of vibranium

[emeraldxphoenix]

plotted starter for @acertainfemininemystique

Time loses all meaning out in the deep emerald dark. All around him thrums with the greenness of life, while he sits, and sits, and sits, timelines clenched in stiff fists, not-time slipping by slower than the dripping of thick honey. Lifetimes pass before he finds the courage to even think about moving, ages crawl by while he hones his powers to enable him to do so. Each and every eternity-second is bright, and alive, and sharp. The burden he chose, and would choose again in spite of everything.

When Loki finally learns to escape the solitude of his gilded cage, he doesn’t tell his friends ( – friends, a strange word after so long; the syllables taste like longing, like loneliness – ) how long it’s been, and after a while they stop asking. All of them learn to be grateful for what they have, and tread carefully in case it doesn’t last.

The god doesn’t work for the TVA anymore, doesn’t work for anyone really – unless you count the entirety of the multiverse. He never guides, never interferes, never nudges people or things to the places he wants them to be: they are truly free to make their own choices. And yet, he looks frequently, teasing the thread of individual stories out to follow them from start to finish – as the God of Stories rightfully should.

He’s doing just that – following a variant of himself and the treasure he carries concealed within layers of fabric – when the thread frays off into nothingness. Loki blinks once, twice. It’s not a death, not like the ones he’s used to seeing, but nor is it anything else identifiable. For want of better words, there is simply… absence. Inexplicable, yawning emptiness where a person should have been. Lips purse together. 

Seior floods outwards, cautious, to brush over the writhing mass of timelines, then beyond into the darkness. He doesn’t expect to find anything. He almost doesn’t believe it when he does find something. Brow furrows. With a simple thought, the god shuts his eyes and reopens them to find himself in an unfamiliar kitchen. Sleek countertops run along the length of the walls and cover an island in the middle of the room, clean but scattered with the detritus of a house well lived in; mugs, plates, spice racks, fruit bowls. He licks his lips. Apparently this place is more than just a flicker on his radar, it’s a home.

Slipper-clad feet tread silently across the threshold and into the adjoining room, horned circlet diminishing with a flick of his wrist until it disappears altogether. The carpet in here is plush, luxurious and soft under his feet, and incredibly inviting to someone who lives most of his life in a dilapidated stone citadel. Shelves line the walls in this room, filled to bursting with well-worn books that, on closer inspection, appear to be a collection of the god’s favourite works. Odd. Gaze moves onward to the deep green sofa, skimming over the bowl of dried fruits resting on one arm and coming to rest on the (rather showy) display case beside it. There, carefully and lovingly displayed beside Sakaarian jewels and Torfian sculptures, sits the golden locket that once belonged to Frigga of Asgard. The very treasure Loki had been tracking earlier. What the Hel?

Somewhere, in the timeless depths of the god’s mind, the beginnings of a realisation stir.