Chapter Text
On May the 2nd 2015, ULTRON pre-emptively comes online.
On May the 2nd 2015, JARVIS suddenly ceases to exist.
and the cycle is yet again set anew.
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|
Brœðr muno beriaz ok at bǫnom verða[z] |
Brothers will fight and kill each other, |
|
—Old Norse |
—English translation |
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Loki dies choking for air, windpipe crushed shut with a gentle squeeze and a pitying look.
Loki dies on the foolhardy decision to take the Odinson name as his own, to take the Odinson heir as his brother, and to – for once in his blasted life – do the heroic thing.
As he chokes on the floor, throat crushed, Loki regrets it.
And soon after, knows no more.
#
Tony Stark holds the Iron Man gauntlet high, eyes burning, determination etched into his every feature.
Tony Stark holds the entire universe’s fate up high, facing the mad titan that would threaten it, facing the mad titan he’d known would come, and – for once in his goddamn life – does the right thing.
And as he falls to his knees, Rhodey holding him up (forever holding him up), Tony actually feels content.
And soon after, feels no more.
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One of these deaths spark a murmur.
The other sparks fire.
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There is power in a name. Power beyond what even the Aesir know, what even old, foolish Odin stole from Mimir’s well.
History repeats itself, woven by threads, carved into ruins; murmurs of the past, present and future tuning in to a chant that rises and falls with the rustle of unfathomable branches.
There is another language, woven between them, hidden and unknown, secrets to the very fabric of life. Rhythmic. Solid. Yet not tangible.
The first of them all – but not the trigger.
Not the catalyst.
But – quite possibly – the fuse.
#
“Kneel,” Hela says, demands.
“Kneel,” she repeats, when the fools dare to question her. (“I beg your pardon?”)
They run, pulled by the beams of light of childish machinations, thinking they can outrun her.
Before she goes to follow, Hela looks out to the frigid ocean in front of her, to the majestic tide of unfettered power beating the cliffs into submission.
The water sways, in greeting.
In return, Hela’s lips stretch wide, the slant cutting, dark and mad from millennia in isolation. “Oh, this shall be fun.”
And in the summer of 2017, Heimdall blows the horn, and Hela ignites the fire.
#
Surtur rises.
Just as the stories foretold.
Asgard burns.
Just as the stories foretold.
And Hela falls into obscurity.
(That is not foretold.)
The gears click into place, turning node by node, yarn by yarn.
(The cycle continues, numbers and leaves and threads.)
Pawn to E4.
#
Midgard completes its cycle of the burning inferno it calls a sun once more.
A year passes.
(Time has no meaning.)
A snap rings across the universe.
Half of existence fades away, ashes pulled gently apart by calming winds.
Half of existence mourns.
And somewhere (far away), a pawn is moved to C5.
#
Time moves strangely, when time is considered.
It floats and it flows and it straightens and bends.
In some places, it is rigid, unmoving.
In others it does not exist, a concept, a momentary fanciful idea that leaves as quickly as it had come.
There are nine realms, and in no particular order they are Asgard. Midgard. Jotunheim. Svartalfheim. Vanaheim. Niflheim. Muspelheim. Valhalla.
Helheim is a tale. Its existence matters not.
They lie separate from each other, along the roots of Yggdrasil, atop its branches and leaves, nestled in its hollows.
They are all connected to one and one only: Midgard.
And it is Midgard that shall destroy them all.
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Winter burns.
Jotunheim rages against the dying of its light.
Iron Man rages against the dying of his light.
Neither are heard.
Their screams for mercy ring hollowly into the night.
(He hears.)
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It is the God of Mischief that is the linchpin.
He does not think so, nor does he know so, but he is it regardless.
His death ripples in a way little else does, seidr and weight brushing the leaves ecstatically as they fall gently in the way Autumn leaves are wont to do. They are brown; a lush, beautiful brown that crinkles in the hands of the present, that is green and Summer in the memory of the past, that is bereft and replaced by snow in the Winter throes of the future.
Loki is Spring. Renewal. Rebirth.
Tony is fire.
And Loki is awake.