Destiny's garden was a lie that told the truth.
Loki understood this the moment his borrowed feet touched the soil. The paths were not paths—they were choices made visible, forking and merging and forking again across a landscape that had no geography. The stones were not stones—they were consequences, worn smooth by the weight of every decision that had ever been made. The lanterns were not lanterns—they were moments of clarity, flickering in a darkness that had existed before light and would exist after it was gone.
He hated it immediately.
Not because it was unpleasant. It was beautiful, in a solemn and eternal way. He hated it because it reminded him of his throne. Of what he had become. A function instead of a person. A purpose instead of a life. The garden was not a place—it was a job. And Loki had spent enough millennia being a job to recognize the weariness that clung to these paths like dew.
Delirium released his hand. Her fingers left smears of color on his borrowed skin.
"We're here!" She spun in a circle. "The garden. It's not really a garden. I mentioned that already, didn't I?"
"You did."
"Good. Consistency is important. Dream says so. Dream says a lot of things, but that one is actually true."
Loki looked past her. At the center of the garden—if a place without geometry could have a center—stood six figures. No, seven. One of them lurked at the edge of the lantern light, gray and still, so easy to miss that his eyes had skipped over her entirely.
The Endless. Waiting.
---
Destiny spoke first.
His voice was the rustle of pages turning in an empty library. "Loki Odinson. Laufeyson. God of Mischief. God of Stories. Anchor of Yggdrasil." A pause. The chain on his wrist rattled. "Godbrother."
The word hung in the air like a bell that had just stopped ringing.
Loki inclined his head. The motion felt strange in his borrowed body—the neck was thicker than his own, the muscles less accustomed to courtly gestures. "You have me at a disadvantage. You know my names. I know only your titles."
"I am Destiny."
Robed and hooded, face hidden in shadow. But the book was visible—massive, ancient, chained to his wrist with links that seemed to absorb the lantern light. The pages flickered as if they were turning themselves.
"You are in my book," Destiny said. "You were not in my book before. The book does not change. The book cannot change. And yet."
"Delirium mentioned that. My existence, it seems, has caused some disruption."
"Disruption." The word came from the second figure—a tall man wrapped in a cloak of midnight. Stars flickered in its folds. His face was pale and sharp, carved from marble and old grief. His eyes were older than hope. "A delicate word for what you've done."
Loki turned. "And you are Dream."
"I am."
"The Prince of Stories. The Shaper of Forms. The Lord of the Dreaming." A thin smile. "I've heard echoes of your work. Dreams drifting across the branches of my tree. Very operatic."
Dream's expression didn't change. "You've built a domain of stories without my knowledge. Without my consent. Without any apparent understanding of what you're doing."
"I understand perfectly. I cultivate narratives. I tend a garden of free will. I give stories space to grow without a single author dictating their endings." Loki held his gaze. "You shape dreams. I shape lives. The distinction seems clear."
"They're not separate things."
"No. They're complementary. Which means we're not rivals, Dream of the Endless. We're colleagues."
The silence was sharp enough to cut.
Then someone laughed.
---
It was a golden sound. Warm and rich and thoroughly dangerous. It came from a figure lounging against a pillar that hadn't existed a moment ago—a being of impossible beauty, with golden skin and golden eyes and a smile that had started wars and ended dynasties.
"I like him," Desire said. "He's been here five minutes and already found Dream's weakest spot. Colleagues. As if Dream has ever had a colleague. As if Dream has ever wanted one."
"I didn't come here to antagonize." Loki's voice was steady. "I came because I was invited. Is this an interrogation or a conversation? I'd like to know before I waste anyone's time."
"An interrogation would be simpler," rumbled the largest figure. He was broad and red-haired, with hands that looked capable of crushing stars. A face that had forgotten how to be cruel. "But Destiny says we're not to destroy you. So conversation it is."
"Destruction. Formerly."
"I left my post. Walked away from the family business." He crossed his arms. "But I came back for this. For you. The cycle is changing—creation and destruction, the rhythm I was made to serve. It's shifting. You're the cause."
"I'm the Anchor. I sustain the tree. If that affects the cycle, it wasn't my intention."
"Intentions," said a soft voice, "are the seeds of sorrow."
Loki turned.
She was gray. Everything about her was gray—skin, hair, eyes, the hooked ring she clutched to her chest like a wound that wouldn't close. She stood at the edge of the lantern light, so still she might have been a statue.
"Despair."
"You know my name. That's more than most beings can say. They feel me without knowing me. Think I'm a mood, a phase, a chemical imbalance. They don't understand that I'm a person." Her wet eyes fixed on him. "You will bring me many new sorrows. I can see them. The stories you cultivate will end in grief, some of them. In loss. In me."
"And you're grateful?"
"I am what I am. Gratitude is for beings who can feel something other than me." A pause. "But I am curious. That's rare."
"Then I'm honored to be a curiosity."
---
The sixth figure stepped forward.
She was not beautiful in the way Desire was beautiful—all sharp edges and dangerous promises. She was beautiful the way a sunset was beautiful. The way a final breath was beautiful. Pale skin. Dark hair. A silver ankh gleaming at her throat.
And she was smiling.
"Loki."
"Death."
"You know me."
"Everyone knows you. Eventually."
Her smile widened. "Good line. Rehearsed or improvised?"
"A bit of both."
"I like you." She said it simply, without pretense. "I wasn't sure I would. Dream doesn't like you. Desire is fascinated, which is dangerous. Despair is curious, which is unprecedented. Destruction is worried, which is rare. Destiny is confused, which has never happened before. So I wasn't sure what I'd think."
"And now?"
"Now I think you're exactly what this family needed." She glanced at her siblings. "We've been the same for so long, Loki. The same seven beings, doing the same seven things, forever and ever. Nothing changes. Nothing grows. Nothing surprises us."
"Until me."
"Until you." She tilted her head. "You smell like our father. Did Delirium tell you?"
"Several times."
"Does it bother you? Being claimed by something you didn't know existed?"
Loki was quiet. The borrowed heart beat steady in his chest. "I've been claimed before. By Odin. By Thanos. By the TVA. By He Who Remains. A son, a prisoner, a puppet, a pawn. Other people's purposes, all my life." His voice hardened. "If Time has claimed me, Time will learn what the others learned. I'm not a possession. I'm not a tool. I'm Loki. I belong to myself."
Death's smile never wavered. "Good answer."
---
Destiny opened his book.
The sound silenced the garden. Paths stopped shifting. Lanterns dimmed. Every Endless turned toward their eldest brother.
"You are not a threat," Destiny said. "That is my conclusion. You are a variable. A new path in a garden that hasn't seen one since the first page was written. You exist outside our rules—our taboos don't bind you, our limitations don't constrain you. You can do what we cannot. Grow where we cannot. Change where we cannot."
"Change isn't always improvement," Dream said coldly.
"No. But it's always inevitable. And this change—this tree, this Anchor—isn't ours to control. It is his."
He turned his blind face toward Loki.
"You are the God of Stories. The Anchor of Yggdrasil. The godbrother of the Endless. These things are now true. They cannot be unmade. They can only be understood."
"Then understand this." Loki looked at each of them. Destiny. Death. Dream. Destruction. Desire. Despair. Delirium. "I didn't ask for any of it. The baptism. The singularity. The attention of beings older than the multiverse. I made one choice—save the timelines, give free will a home—and everything else followed. Your father's claim, your family's attention, these are consequences I didn't anticipate. But I won't apologize for them. I won't justify them. I won't explain them."
"What will you do?" Death asked.
"Cultivate my garden. Plant my avatars. Harvest my stories. Hold the multiverse together." His smile returned, sharp and familiar. "And I won't be bored. A bored god is a dangerous god. I should know. I was one."
---
Delirium clapped.
The sound shattered the tension. Lanterns brightened. Paths resumed their shifting. The Endless blinked, startled out of solemnity by their youngest sister's joy.
"See? I told you! He's wonderful! He doesn't apologize for existing and he's not afraid of Dream and he made Despair curious and Death smile and Destiny admit he doesn't know everything!" She spun, hair cascading through a dozen colors. "This is the best meeting we've ever had!"
"It's the only meeting we've ever had," Dream said.
"Which makes it the best by default!" She grabbed Loki's borrowed hand. "You have to come back. Not now—now you have to go back to your tree. But later. We have so much to talk about! Colors and stories and dreams and—"
"Delirium," Destiny said.
"Despair and destruction and death and—"
"Delirium."
She stopped. Her hair settled into purple.
"You're overwhelming him. The link strains him. Let him go."
She pouted but released his hand. "You will come back."
It wasn't a question.
"I will. I have questions. You have answers." His eyes flicked to Dream. "Some of you have questions of your own."
Dream said nothing. But his silence wasn't refusal. It was acknowledgment.
---
Death walked with him to the garden's edge.
"You handled that better than I expected."
"Adaptability is my nature."
"No. Adaptability is your choice." She stopped. "You could've been bitter. Could've let the tree wither just to spite the universe. But you chose to cultivate instead of destroy. To grow instead of stagnate. To live."
"Living is more interesting than dying."
"It is." Her smile was soft. "You'll die someday, Loki. Not soon. But someday. Even gods die. Even Anchors fade. Even the Endless will end."
"I know."
"Does it frighten you?"
The borrowed heart beat steady. The distant tree pulsed at the edge of awareness.
"No. I've died several times. It loses its novelty."
Death laughed—warm, genuine, human. "I like you. Don't tell Dream. He'd be insufferable."
"Your secret's safe."
She offered her hand. "Until we meet again, Loki Odinson. Laufeyson. God of Stories. Anchor of Yggdrasil. Godbrother."
He took it. "Until then, Death of the Endless."
The garden faded. The paths dissolved. He opened his eyes on a throne of crystallized time, the tree blazing around him, the shopkeeper released to his quiet life.
He was alone again.
But not entirely.