Chapter Text
Even as a Flerken, the nightmares find Loki. They hunt him down past his wards and through his mind like a fount of blood, spilling secrets he almost wishes he didn’t know.
What did it cost? A green-skinned child. The Soul Stone. Thanos. Everything.
“Mischief.”
The crack of lightning, the blaze of a star. An Infinity Stone’s blaze. Thor screaming, dying.
Then it will be the noblest ending in history—Loki, I thought the world of you—Your father killed my brother—
“Loki, wake up.”
No! The girl, Gamora, terrified as her father drags her to her death. This isn’t love!
A whisper of sensation down his spine. Warm.
One way or another, the path that we’re on leads to Thanos—there is no version of this where you come out on top—If things go wrong—There was no other way—I want you to promise me—we are out of time—you’ll kill me—
Loki wakes, the phantom sensation of ash on his fur and someone else’s despair at the back of his throat. His claws dig into Aldis’ sleeping mat.
Aldis herself sits next to him, her much larger body angled away as one warm hand strokes his back. Her fingers pass through his fur, combing life and reality back into his flesh. Anchoring him in this skin. How embarrassing. He dislodges her touch with a shudder, pushing himself away. Loki curls his spine in cattish stretches, reminding himself where and who he is.
He keeps one eye on the sorceress the whole time, irked by the solemn weight of her attention. She knows nothing. Loki shakes off her sentiment with a hiss and sets to grooming the fur on his paws. They don’t taste like ash.
Sunlight streams in through too-large openings, bright enough to be mid-morning at least, so he would venture to say he fulfilled his end of the deal.
“I often peer down potential futures, taking action at the correct moments to bring about the lesser evils, because there must always be an evil. However, I am never completely certain that I chose the correct one. A single mistake in the course can bring about a worse fate than any foreseen. For that reason, I try to stay my hand whenever possible. I keep my influence small, my footsteps light, and my friends few.”
The Time Stone. She must be using Time as Strange had in the vision.
She continues, ignoring his sudden tension. “Time is a strange thing, its nature changing by the minute. Often being the disruptive rock in the riverbed, others as the water coursing around it, yet occasionally resolving into a dam to control the flow entirely. Your people understand it as a tapestry, a confluence of infinite events set to create something larger and more beautiful than a single thread can comprehend,” Aldis says gently, without looking at him. “A few days ago, I felt a great change in the fabric of time unlike any I’ve felt before.”
He freezes. In this form, he can reach the casket within seconds, unleashing the full power of three Infinity Stones. The only question is whether the sorceress would allow him those seconds.
She turns to him with a solemn frown. “You stand at the heart of an infinite web. Whatever changes you wreak will touch every life in the universe.”
He unfurls the pocket dimension in his mouth. She senses it, she must, but she makes no move.
“Peace, friend. I will not stop you yet. I don’t know what you want, or what you’ve seen, or even what you’ve changed. You are not my enemy. I won’t go so far as to call us friends, but I do hope to earn your trust.” Slowly, she reaches into her sleeve and removes a shining golden thing. “Because I am placing mine in you.”
It’s a sling ring. Those enchanted slabs the sorcerers use for portals, but connected to a single leather strap instead of the two finger loops. A collar. Hilarious.
She wiggles it. “Well?”
Symbolically accurate. Trust; an illusion of power, of freedom, but a reality of ownership and control. Much like friendship or family.
A humiliation he must briefly endure for the doors it opens.
He sits still while she fastens it around his neck, the brush of her flesh against fur ridiculously soothing. Passive spellwork hums around the collar, identical to that of the rings he’d spent the days observing. Nothing untoward that he can find.
He stretches, feeling out the magic’s blocky limits and simple activation methods.
Under Aldis’ expectant gaze, he mrrps and fixes his stare on a fold in space-time near the center of the room. A slightly weaker point might make his first portal easier.
He pictures the library. The smell. Soft whispers down the hall. The way light tumbles through dusty air and onto chained books. Aims for it.
A dozen other pathways open up, but none of them the right kind of magic or the right destination. The Space stone, faded and muffled, itches to be used.
Breathe through it.
A connection forms, weak and fading.
The air spits out two individual sparks and the connection drops. He growls.
Son of a blue-horned goat.
Aldis smiles that infuriatingly knowing smile and pats his back. “All in good time.”
Loki pushes down the urge to lean away from her. All in good time, indeed. Once he learns all the Master of the Mystic Arts have to offer, he’ll vanish with the Time Stone in tow. This ordeal will fall behind him as so many others have.
Mischief isn’t at the first morning practice. Mordo tries not to worry.
He does an equally poor job of not worrying when second practice comes around and there is a distinct absence of cat.
Despite his love for cats, Mordo has never owned one. The closest he came was when he made his sniper’s nest in a barn and a farm cat slept on his leg.
Cats sleep a lot, right? He read that somewhere. Mischief probably found a nice, warm corner to curl up in. Or he got bored of watching the sorcerers make bright lights appear in mid-air and found something better to do.
Or maybe Kaecilius traumatized him and he’ll never want to be near another sorcerer again.
Mordo cracks a student’s head with his staff when the thought occurs to him. He contemplates how ridiculous it is to worry over such matters while he waits for Hamir to finish checking the student, Lucian, for a concussion.
“Have you seen Mischief today?” Mordo asks him.
Hamir doesn’t look up from where he sketches out a healing spell over the student’s skull. “No.”
Lucian grimaces up at Mordo from the courtyard bench he’s laying on. It’s too small for his massive build, so his arms and legs hang off the edges. “Didn’t know y’could hit that hard, teach,” Lucian slurs.
Yep, that’s a concussion. Good thing they have magic on their side.
Mordo pats Lucian’s shoulder—a very large, very muscular shoulder—with a tight smile. “I’m stronger than I look.”
“Not a spell?”
“No, but there is one to dampen blunt force trauma. It’s a bit above your level,” Mordo chances a look at Hamir, “I’ll dig it up for you anyway.”
Lucian nods and gives him a thumbs-up through his wince.
“Ask the Master,” Hamir says.
“What?” both Lucian and Mordo ask at the same time.
Master Hamir levels Mordo with a judgemental stare, ignoring Lucian as the novice sorcerer tries to get up and fails. “The cat. She’ll know.”
“Yes, I was going to go check with her after—"
“No.” Hamir points to the nearest door. “Now. Before you break another novice.”
Fair enough.
Mordo finds the Ancient One at her office, her attention wrapped up in correspondence with Daniel Drumm, the protector of the New York Sanctum.
The Avengers have been collecting the Asgardian weapons and handing them over to SHIELD for safekeeping, and Daniel has been collecting the weapons from SHIELD. It works out well enough in the end.
He takes a moment to smile at the sight of the Ancient one kneeling in her traditional sorcerer’s garb, painstakingly searching the keyboard on her iPhone for the appropriate emoji.
Sure enough, there’s a second platform next to her seat. Smaller, and bearing an engraved plate with its resident’s name on it, as though anyone else could make use of the tiny seat. Mischief has his chin propped up on his crossed paws and is staring at the screen, the Ancient One angling her phone so he can see. The screen light reflects off a dashing golden collar around Mischief’s throat.
Mischief looks up with a small mew and Mordo’s heart melts all over again.
Kaecilius strides through a portal, barely noting that Kamar-Taj is exactly as he left it. The empty courtyard points towards it being time for supper, all the other masters wandering off to their favorite restaurants across the globe.
He can’t think to do the same, not with his robes reeking of sulfur and smoke. Not with the tantalizing whisper of power at the edge of his consciousness.
Master Tina Minoru, his ‘partner’ on the mission, curses as it closes too close to her heel. “Hey, Kaecilius,” she says.
He keeps walking, ignoring whatever frivolties she wants to throw at him. All he sees are the echoes of a near-invisible crack in space-time where the dimensional fold was particularly weak. Nearly broken by the chaos of a fire-headed revenge demon running rampant in the streets of Los Angeles. He and Minoru sealed it with ease, but something about its energy calls to him still.
“Hey!” She claps a hand on his shoulder. Instinct alone makes him duck around her hold and slam a fist towards her sternum.
He presumes instinct drives her response as well: she steps into the strike, trapping his arm under hers and spinning him off balance.
There’s a split second where his feet don’t touch the ground, Master Minoru easily flipping him mid-air so he lands on his back instead of his face. The uncushioned ground crushes air from his lungs as he hits.
Kaecilius closes his eyes, struggling to breathe, and spares a moment of gratitude that she didn’t simply snap his arm at the elbow. Master Minoru is swifter than he, nearly as gifted, and cares little for his personal wellbeing.
“What put the extra stick up your ass today?”
He wheezes on his first attempt, then clears his throat. The next try is a little breathy, but at least consists of actual words. “You, at the moment.”
She rolls her eyes. “We just watched the Spirit of Vengeance take on a new host while sealing a fissure in the Dark Dimension’s border, but you’ve been grousing like we’re taking out the trash this whole time. So I’m asking what’s up because things tend to go to shit real fast around here and it’s in everyone’s best interest for you to be on your A-game.”
Kaecilius all but snarls. He pushes himself up, ignoring the hand she offers. “Perhaps I am not content as a blind follower.”
Minoru raises an eyebrow. No, she is still deeply entrenched in the Ancient One’s doctrine. Too wrapped up in her own power to question the so-called Sorcerer Supreme and her wisdom. Still, Minoru’s cynicism may run deeper than her quips.
He looks to the Kamar-Taj’s tower, where the Ancient One’s chamber lies. “What did she promise you, when you came?”
“That’s a personal question.”
“She offered me enlightenment. Understanding. Peace.” Kaecilius clenches his fists. “I am still as lost as I was the day my family died.”
Minoru says nothing.
“We give her everything—our blood, fists, minds. What has she given in return? Not peace, nor guidance or understanding. Certainly not trust.” Kaecilius checks her reaction. Stony-faced as ever. “There are things she hides from us. Things we deserve to know.”
Minoru eyes Kaecilius with suspicion, leaning away. “Maybe we don’t deserve the trust.”
Without another word, she breezes past him, vanishing inside the sanctum.
Kaecilius grinds his teeth, leaning into the ache from his sore ribs and the phantom stench of Hell clinging to his clothes. Damned Ghost Rider. The early evening light settles over the courtyard, and someone turns the lights on in the library. Wong, probably. He’s still enchanted by one of the books they found in the Ancient One’s new collection; the source being a total secret, of course.
He scoffs in disgust and makes towards the dorm hall when a flicker of movement catches his eye. Kaecilius walks slowly, pretending not to notice the little shadow until it resolves itself into—that cat.
He stops and stares at the creature.
Mischief stares back. It has a golden collar now, engraved with familiar markings that take his tired brain a moment to identify as the markings of a sling ring.
But why would—
The floor drops out from beneath Kaecilius, replaced by asphalt in a band of familiar orange sparks. Bright yellow sunlight floods his eyes, nearly blinding him, and the smell of gasoline fumes burn his sinuses.
A shrieking horn cuts the air.
“Get out of the road, asshole!”
Wong flicks through the Asgardian encyclopedia with growing concern. The bilgesnipes and frost beasts are interesting enough, but he keeps gravitating back to the first page he saw.
The cat-like animal—a flerken, according to the Codex Imperium’s small section on extradimensional beings—is an extremely dangerous being capable of devouring entire ships whole and often eats sentient beings for entertainment. Pests, apparently, which reproduce asexually and can create dozens of full-grown offspring within days.
While his two sources disagree on their level of intelligence, they unanimously advocate for their immediate destruction lest the flerken wipe out entire planets through its progeny.
The Ancient One must be aware of this. Nobody with her level of awareness could miss a creature with a portal for a mouth.
Or maybe he’s overthinking this.
The Ancient One, unpredictable as she is, could have simply adopted a stray cat.
Wong tilts his head when he hears footsteps down the hall. At this hour, Kamar-Taj is typically deserted. He looks up as the person passes by the doorway. Ah, one of the foremost in interdimensional travel. Just the person he needs.
“Master Minoru,” Wong says.
Minoru stops. Backtracks. She eyes Wong lurking in the empty reading room, lit by a single lamp. “Master Wong.”
He taps the nightmarish flerken painting. “Are you by any chance familiar with flerkens?”
She raises an eyebrow and steps inside to get a closer look, bringing the stench of sulfur over to his seat. He suppresses a wince.
Then, she smirks. “When did you figure it out?”
“A few days in.” Honestly, he’s shocked his wild guess panned out.
“Master Drumm told me the day she brought Mischief here. He thinks she’s testing our awareness, I think she’s just fucking with us. There’s no way in hell anyone here could peg a flerken unless they’ve already met one. I made him promise to keep his mouth shut.”
He would love to think the Ancient One would never put their lives at risk for a simple lesson on situational awareness. She would. She totally would. “How many know?”
“Four, including you. Five if you count the Master. I think Hamir suspects. Maybe Mordo.”
“Mordo?”
“You haven’t noticed? He’s obsessed with the thing. If Mischief goes monster on us, he’s ready.”
Wong seriously doubts that. Mordo’s heart-eyes are unmistakable, whether they’re aimed at a gorgeous artifact or a cuddly feline. He hums. “I don’t think he knows.”
“What?”
“I think he just really likes cats.”
Minoru squints, then shakes her head. “No way. I don’t buy it. He’s too much of a hard-ass.”
“Fifty dollars says you’re wrong.”
“Done.” Her eyes flick to the book. “How do we find out?”
He shrugs. “Watch and wait?”
Loki slinks past the reading room, preening at once again being the topic of conversation. Had he a human form, he would have rigged the bet to his favor, but alas. Not in the cards tonight.
The sling ring was easier to master than watching the drills led him to believe. His first impulse was to throw Kaecilius to another realm. Muspelheim, perhaps. But his words stayed Loki’s hand. Paw. Whatever.
Simmering betrayal, desire for more , desperation for approval—all traits that simply beg to be manipulated.
How can Loki possibly refuse a call like that?
He slows at the library, where the Eye of Agamotto sits undefended atop a pedestal. Unlike with the other stones, he feels no pull, no calling. It may as well be any other relic. Taking so soon would attract unwanted attention. But still...
Loki curls towards it. Such craftsmanship demands admiration, however begrudging.
The intricate spells, the carvings, the sheer mechanics of the Eye are art of the highest order. And to think it may one day fall into the hands of the obnoxious Stephen Strange. And then the fool would hand the stone over. And then—
( Please. Please, I don't want to go. I don't want to go— )
( Half the universe falls silent. )
No.
Whatever happens, Thanos will not win.
The Avengers came close. The Avengers and the Guardians, that is, and the Guardians hindered more than helped. He need only focus on the Avengers for now. Eliminating the Guardians can come later, if necessary.
With the Masters winnowing away at the remaining Marauders and the weapons Loki had carefully selected for them, the Avengers have no threats great enough to truly challenge them.
This is a problem.
Perhaps dear Kaecilius might provide some assistance on that front.
The longer Kaecilius observes the Ancient One’s new companion, the more convinced he becomes. His initial suspicions came about in a fit of boredom, idle thoughts given life through the endless potential of the mystic arts, but now he’s certain.
That is not a cat.
Setting aside the portal incident, which he told no-one of and is relatively certain was not committed by another Master, Kaecilius knows cats. They’re predators. Not terribly smart—even an aberrantly intelligent cat is no cause for concern. More importantly, they sleep half the day away.
Mischief does not sleep.
He roosts atop bookshelves, suns himself at the training courtyard, lounges about on various sorcerers and their books, but he is always awake. Always watching. Hungry. The only time Kaecilius imagines he does rest is when the Ancient One does. The black cat trails at her heel more often than not, and disappears into her room when the sun sets. When not with her, he clings to Mordo or Hamir, draped over their shoulder while they study.
Kaecilius was caught off guard in past encounters. He has to plan the next so it plays to his advantage.
“This spell looks familiar,” Kaecilius says. He holds the book out to Mordo and taps the page in question. A week later and they still haven’t completely sorted their way through their library’s new collection. “But I can’t place it.”
Mordo abandons his own reading and scoots down the bench to peer at Kaecilius’.
Toward the end of the table, Mischief bats at a dust bunny, apparently ignorant of their conversation. Kaecilius ignored the creature’s existence when Mordo brought him in, but Wong left as soon as he laid eyes on it—claiming some other urgent task.
“That’s the shadow summoning from the Book of Morphesti,” Mordo muttered. The exact conclusion Kaecilius drew.
“Perhaps we might—”
“Compare the two, right. This is the closest match to our magic I’ve seen in any of these.” Mordo is already on his feet and moving to the door. He realizes he’s still holding the book with a wince and returns it to Kaecilius. “Keep reading, I’ll go get it.”
He half-jogs out of the room, almost childish in his excitement. Mischief interrupts his game and hops off the table to follow.
With a twist of Kaecilius’ fingers, a bright mandela spirals into existence in front of Mischief’s whiskers, barring the way. The not-cat stops. Turns to Kaecilius with an almost bored expression.
He releases the spell, and sure enough, the not-cat stays.
“What are you?” Kaecilius asks.
It blinks, curving to stroll in his direction. Those bright green eyes fix on his. Kaecilius resists the ridiculous urge to get up and run. He manages half. Without realizing, he’s on his feet and falling into a basic defense stance.
The not-cat chuffs and gives him a cat-smile, eyes closing slightly. It sets its haunches down and curls its tail primly across its front paws.
Inviting him.
Kaecilius cautiously lowers his guard, feeling foolish as he kneels in front of the creature. He senses no ill intent, for all his instincts beg him to flee.
A wry voice, breath warm against his ear, “Silly human.”
Kaecilius jumps and spins, an Eldritch whip sizzling to life between his hands. His pulse beats hard in his ears.
There’s nobody behind him. Not even an astral signature.
Mew.
“Didn’t your mother ever tell you not to wander into the dark? Because that’s what you’re doing now.”
Kaecilius bares his teeth, one hand spinning a shield while his other twists the spitting whip in the air, searching for a target. “Show yourself.”
“Sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong.” The voice, male, English accent, seems to echo in his head. “It’s awfully presumptuous. Then again, most sorcerers are.”
A telepathic link. His eyes return to the not-cat.
“Very good. A round of applause for the clever human.”
He keeps his spells up. Whatever this thing is, it seems impossible to predict. Powerful. Dangerous. “What do you want?”
“Me? Little. The question, dear sir, is what you want.” The not-cat leaps up onto the table, almost casual as it avoids stepping on the books on its approach. “I heard you speaking to Minoru. You feel unsatisfied with your current Master’s teachings?”
He knew it wasn’t another Master. That sling collar must be real. Which means the Ancient One knows about Mischief’s ability. Yet another secret. “So it was you.”
“You bother me, I drop you into traffic. I’d say that makes us even.”
Considering the context, Kaecilius decides to take that in stride. He dissipates his whip, but keeps the shield humming. “Might I ask your name?”
“Mischief works well enough.”
“Mischief, then.” Kaecilius licks his lips. “What are you?”
The not-cat lies down and crosses his paws, tail curling behind him. “A flerken at the moment.”
Flerken. The term scrapes at some half-forgotten memory, buried in hours of reading. Something to do with extradimensional entities. The latter part of the sentence attracts his attention. “‘At the moment’?”
“Yes.”
“You can change form? Are you a sorcerer?”
“Yes.” Mischief’s eyes droop. Kaecilius gets the distinct feeling he’s being laughed at.
Teach me, the request catches on his lips. Maybe as an animal, as an alien, he won’t feel the ever-gnawing agony of losing his family. Their rotting faces won’t haunt his eyelids.
Despite him not moving from his perch, Mischief’s aura grows. It brims with magic, knife-edged and carefully controlled. Green. More powerful than anything he’s ever seen. He can almost hear the song of the universe in the magic racing out of Mischief’s body. His words are a distant afterthought. “I can do much more than that. Your current teachings limit you, constrain you to fit a safe range that the Ancient One carefully keeps you in. I have no such limitations, nor moral compunctions to guard your innocence. All I have is power. I do whatever I dream.”
Kaecilius wants that. God, he wants that. His mouth goes dry. “Can you—can you bring back the dead?”
Mischief’s tail pauses its thoughtful sway.
Blood thunders in Kaecilius’ ears, heartbeat pounding ever louder as Mischief considers him. Does that mean there is a way? Has the Ancient One been lying about that, too?
Finally, Mischief’s voice: “Have you a person in mind?”
“Yes.” His wife. His son.
Mischief licks his chops with cattish nonchalance. “It might take some work, but resurrections are quite doable. All you really need is the Soul Stone, the right celestial alignment, a steady flow of human sacrifices, and a solid background in necromancy, healing, and blood magic.”
This—this is too good to be true. A lie. It must be a lie. Another one of the Master’s tests. His fist clenches beneath the shining heat of his shield. But Mischief’s magic isn’t a lie. The last time he felt anything like him was when exposed to the direct power of the Eldritch realm. Even that pales in comparison.
“The Soul Stone?” Kaecilius asks. “One of the six?”
“The trickiest to find,” Mischief says.
His mind races nonetheless. He could see them again. Hold them again. Protect them. But nothing comes without a cost, especially magic. “What would you ask in return?”
“Would any demand I make change your mind?”
In truth, no.
“Good. Now that’s settled, why don’t I meet you at the library tomorrow evening for our first lesson? Eight o’clock?”
“We can start now.”
Mischief mrrps and rolls over, spine twisting as his green eyes blink guilelessly at him.
“Mischief. I’ve been waiting years for a chance like this.” The flerken merely purrs and bats at his nose with a soft paw. Kaecilius jerks back in surprise, then fury as his hands blaze with hot orange magic. “You will answer me.”
Someone clears their throat.
Kaecilius flinches, whirling to face the door. Mordo stands there, bemused and slightly concerned. He holds up a tome. “I, um—I found Morphesti. If you... still care about that.”
Mischief meows, entirely unrepentant as he trots over to Mordo for head pats.
“He’s such a handsome man, isn’t he?” Mordo scratches Mischief under the collar with a single finger as the lean cat melts in his arms. A loud purr vibrates down his bones. Literally the only downside to having him around is that nobody can wear pale robes anymore.
That, and the weird looks people give him when he walks into the dining room cradling Mischief like a baby.
Whatever reputation he had before is gone—he is now The Softie. Or the Cat Guy.
“Uh-huh,” Master Sol Rama has an unreadable look on his face. He hasn’t touched his noodles since Mordo arrived.
“So, what brings you down from London?” Mordo asks, almost as an afterthought. “Been a while since you’ve visited. Is it official business?”
Master Rama still has that pinched expression, bordering on horrified.
Mordo offers Mischief a piece of chicken from his salad, which the cat plucks daintily from his fingers, chewing with his tiny knife fangs. Fucking adorable.
Kaecilius has a sudden coughing fit on the other side of the room.
Kaecilius kneels across from Mischief in one of the meditation rooms. No windows, just tatami floors and walls charmed to silence. A single candle between them illuminates the small space and the two white mice trapped in a mason jar next to the candle. The mice are quiet, still, as if awed by the magic taking place around them.
“Try again,” Mischief’s voice rings in Kaecilius’ mind.
Sweat beads down his temples as he obeys. His ragged breathing is the only true sound, all the rest is in his head or beyond this reality. One hand outstretched, his entire being burning, he touches the edge of infinity.
A single grain of sand sits in his palm.
The fire rises, scouring his bones. His teeth crack under the strain. Deep violet lines glow around his fingertips, filling him up with foreign magic and boiling his blood until—
The grain vanishes.
Not impressively, mind you, it was simply there one moment and gone the next.
Kaecilius folds over as the magic releases him. No, not magic. Seiðr. He takes in great lungfuls through a throat that burns as though he’s been screaming. He might have been.
He registers that the mice are squealing.
No, wait. His mind clears. Only one of them is.
He lifts his gaze to the jar—one mouse scrabbles at the slippery walls, trying fruitlessly to climb out. The other slicks the jar and the other mouse with its blood. Scraps of fur and the tiny mouse carcass are all that remain to identify it with.
Kaecilius’ breath catches. Blood magic. Similar in concept to the sex magic he read about, but far more adaptable. Far more brutal.
“Congratulations,” Mischief’s condescending snark grates on his bones. “You just made your first interdimensional cache. Only took you five days.”
Kaecilius barely withholds a snarl. He calms himself by imagining the smell of Adria’s hair, knowing she lies at the end of this torturous cycle. Sweat soaks his robes. “Have I passed your test?”
“Hardly. All you’ve done is blow a bubble the size of a flea. Creating folds in soul-based dimensions isn’t even the first step to navigating the domains of death, let alone actual resurrections.” Mischief flick his ear. “But it is an auspicious beginning.”
If that is what is required, then so be it. Kaecilius will reclaim his family from the realm of the dead no matter what.
“Now, use the other mouse and bring it back. Let’s see if your cache holds.”