[ For a few seconds, Loki could do nothing but stare. Thor. That blasted buffoon had found himself here. How? When? Careless! He'll never be able to escape now. Thor no longer jumps at shadows and illusions.

. . . Or does he? Looking closer, the wear and tear of mending the realms has not settled on Thor's shoulders like a tattered cloak. He is younger, brighter, full of earnest hope. No, this was a Thor that changed, fresh from the press of young love and learning. Loki inhales sharply. A Thor he still hated, all the same.

All the same. What difference did it make if this . . . younger version parroted lines Loki already knew? Nothing. Nothing changes. Except the rules of the game.

So he flutters his eyelashes, coquettish and sly. ]

Really, Thor. I know you have no manners, but such a greeting paints you in such a shabby light.

What does it matter what tales I spin and tell? It sounds as though you've made up your mind.