Chapter Text
In a tradition as old as time itself, when a child turns of age, a timer appears on the inside of their wrist.
From that day forward, it will begin its countdown, ticking down the years, days, seconds, until the day that child will first meet their soulmate. When it reaches zero, the clock will vanish, leaving the name of their soulmate written across their pulse in pitch black ink.
Some children, in rare scenarios, are lucky enough to never be burdened with a timer. They will wake on the day of their birth and be blessed with the name of childhood friend, perhaps even someone they only met in passing, years ago.
The day Loki turns of age is done with much fanfare. In the run-up, a large banquet is to be prepared, with plenty of food, wine, music and guests. As much as Loki loves a party, he isn’t sure how he feels about the soulmarking tradition alongside it. The idea of having his life destined for one path, with only one person who is supposed to complete him, just doesn’t sit right with him. Thor had scoffed at his theory that it is all one big farce concocted by the universe to see how gullible everyone is. The tradition is sacred and not to be questioned, even by princes of Asgard.
The night before he becomes of age, he sits awake in the darkness, running his fingers over the unmarked skin of his wrist. His pulse jumps beneath his fingertips as the many moons of Asgard reflect some light onto his creamy skin. Tomorrow is supposed to be momentous, yet all he feels is the dread of something outside of his control. He runs the palm of his hand over the bare skin for one last time before closing his eyes.
When he wakes the next morning, the early Asgardian sun beaming through his room, he can’t help the flutter in his stomach as he rolls back his sleeve, ready to see how long he must wait to meet his soulmate. Even as he mocks the tradition, there is something akin to excitement as he pulls back his nightclothes.
He has seen many Asgardians with thousands upon thousands of years marked on their skin, ticking down one painful second at a time. As an impatient boy, he couldn’t fathom how anyone could wait that long, but he would also welcome a long wait before the call of fate ruins his life.
The black ink that greets him is unexpected and makes him freeze. He has a timer, but it doesn’t look like any timer he’s seen before. The numbers are flickering back and forth, counting up, then counting down. In one moment, it states over three thousand years, in the next it’s counted down to mere days, then it jumps back up to over ninety thousand years. Every so often the timer disappears completely, and for a brief moment it reveals a name that makes his heart sink.
Loki, it reads in cursive scrawl.
“No no no-” he says, but the name flickers out of existence and is once again replaced with the faulty timer.
8,368,329 days, it reads.
Then it changes again.
2,428 days.
Loki rubs the numbers desperately with his thumb. This must be some kind of cruel prank, an enchantment perhaps, pulled by his brother and his friends while he’d been sleeping. He rubs harder, trying to remove the ink. His skin reddens from the ferocity, but the numbers continue to erratically change.
As far as Loki is aware, this has never happened before. He’s never heard of someone being born with a broken countdown, or even their own name appearing etched on their skin. He regrets scoffing at the idea of soulmarks now, he can’t bear the thought of being singled out as being different. Odin would never let him live this down.
Before Loki can even think of covering up his shameful mark, Thor bursts through the door with about as much grace as a riled-up stallion.
“Let me see! How long must you wait?” He cries, jumping on the bed and reaching over to grab Loki’s arm.
“No!” Loki immediately snatches his arm away, holding his wrist above his head and away from his brother’s prying eyes. It’s beyond humiliating; he is supposed to be a prince, he is meant to set an example. If the name that briefly appears on his pulse is true, then that means he is destined to only ever love himself, like the narcissist everyone tells him he is. Loki’s not sure he could cope with Thor’s mirth.
Thor studies his brother for only a second before letting out a deep, booming laugh.
“Are you playing coy, brother? There’s nothing to be embarrassed about. Come on, show me.”
Before Loki can respond, Thor throws himself at him. They tumble to the floor in a mess of limbs. If he’d been thinking more coherently, he probably could’ve used magic to counter the attack, but Loki is still groggy from sleep and reeling from the shock of his soulmark.
Thor easily pins him, straddling his chest and grabbing his arm. Loki winces; his brother often doesn’t realise his own strength.
“Please,” Loki begs, “Don’t look. I beg of you.”
With a huff, Thor ignores him and studies his wrist. Loki watches as his expression changes from amusement to confusion to disgust as he takes in the irregular numbers and, eventually, the fateful name. His hand painfully tightens around his wrist and Loki winces, starts struggling against him.
“What trickery is this?” Thor asks, voice laced with accusation, “How can this be?”
“I’m as surprised as you are.”
Thor studies him, as though trying to work out if Loki has purposefully done something to himself to wreck his soulmark. Finally, after a very long moment, he is released. Loki pushes his brother away and retreats across the room, cradling his arm to his chest. There’s a bruise blossoming on his pale skin.
“You’d do best to hide that. The kingdom would not respond well to having a prince with a broken soulmark.”
Loki nods tightly, averting his gaze. He can feel his cheeks flaming. He wishes he could take back his conceited words about soulmarks now, his monumental day has instead brought shame upon their family.
It is only inevitable that his parents are to inspect his wrist too. Frigga’s eyes soften when she reads her son’s soulmark, embraces him with a kiss to the forehead that only makes him feel slightly better. Odin, on the other hand, is steely faced but looks wholly unsurprised. Later that day, he wordlessly gifts Loki a bracelet to cover the timer and never speaks of it again.
For many months after, he scours the Asgardian records, obsessed with finding more information on soulmarks. He cannot possibly be the only one to have been cursed with a faulty one. The more he searches, the more desperate he becomes. Records regarding the matter are minimal – there are only handfuls of occasions where some people never receive a timer at all, but there are no explanations around how or why. Usually, these individuals die young or end up living a life of solitude, which doesn’t fill Loki with confidence.
He had never wanted a soulmark in the first place, but now his wish has been granted and the idea of being alone forevermore is a painful one.
Years pass and Loki takes many lovers. Most of the men and women he takes to bed don’t bother hiding their own soulmarks, many of them still have thousands of years to wait before meeting their one true love. A fumble in the sheets is the least they can do while they wait.
Sometimes he is asked what lies beneath his bracelet, how long he must wait to see what person he is destined for, but Loki just flashes them a winning smile as he moves his wrist out of reach, giving them spiel on how only time will tell. He’s lucky really, that word never got out about his defective soulmark. Occasionally, curiosity will get the better of some lovers and they will try to take a peek or remove the bracelet entirely. They are quickly met with a swift dagger to the throat and icy words commanding them to get out. There is the odd rumour that floats around Asgard that Loki bears no soulmark, or he is embarrassingly blessed with a name of a Midgardian, but there is no proof in the accusations and the whispers quickly fizzle out.
Sometimes Loki wonders whether the reveal of his soulmark is the catalyst for his bitterness, his anger. These days he is so consumed by rage that it frightens him. He wonders if that fateful day is the moment when his father had started to distance himself from him, wonders if that is when he started favouring Thor – the golden boy. The favourite.
It is only when Loki learns his true heritage that it makes him realise that no, it had been nothing to do with his soulmark. He had been set up for failure from the day he was taken from Jotunheim.
“Is that why I am broken?” He’d asked his father in the midst of rage and despair, his fingers unconsciously brushing his wrist.
“No, my son,” Odin had said, “The Frost Giants follow the same traditions as the rest of the universe. There’s no reason you should be any different.”
In the end, Loki has to accept he likely has no soulmate, he is destined to spend the rest of his life alone, unattached. Perhaps his heart is too black, too incapable of love. It is a tough pill to swallow, but it is a burden he must carry.
At least, so he thought.
Sylvie never keeps track of birthdays. It had been impossible to count the passage of time when all she does is hop from one apocalypse to another. At some point, in what feels like a blink of an eye, she has matured from an innocent and scared young girl to a capable and feisty young woman.
Where she had once received concerned looks by adults who thought she had been a lost child, now she gets eyes raking her body with desire, hands touching in her places she’s never felt before.
At some point she'd become of age, and she hadn’t even realised it.
It is only as she is sliding off her gloves after a brawl that got out of hand, that she spots the tell-tale sign of black ink on her skin. Her knuckles are bloody from throwing a few too many punches – turns out people get rowdy when they realise they are about to die.
She pauses, tilting her head. As a little girl, she vaguely remembers the stories of soulmarks and destiny – it’s always somewhat bothered her that a person appears to have no free will when it comes to these things. Their path is already paved for one person only, and now their body will tick down the days until they meet. Learning the existence of the TVA only cemented the fact that every being in the world lacks autonomy, and that very idea infuriates her.
Angling her wrist, she glances down at the flashing numbers. They’re scrambling, counting up and down in what appears to be a random string. Occasionally a name flashes against her wrist, an old name she hasn’t used in many years, which makes her frown.
Running a finger up and down the blinking numbers changes nothing. Of course, ever since the TVA snatched her, she’s been running from her destiny – it’s no wonder her clock is broken now. A small, mirthless smirk plays on her lips as she pulls her sleeve down and begins to clean up her bruised and broken knuckles.
It didn’t matter who she had been destined for, she will never find a soulmate at the end of the world.