Loki has been strangely constant in his attention. Even if Thor isn't in the Nexus, he's getting messages sent to his PINpoint like clockwork, at dawn and at dusk. A good-morning and a good-night-brother. They're never the same, of course. Sometimes they're jokes or a brief rambling rant about some inconsequential annoyance. Sometimes they're snapshots from around the Nexus. A concrete frog fountain. A patch of white and blue violets. A very angry pink duck honking to chase Loki away from its nest of rainbow ducklings.

He doesn't care if Thor doesn't reply, or if he only replies with a word or two. The relentless reminder that something other than pain exists is what's important. It's important for Loki, too.

The handful of refugees Loki has picked to stay at his side are now in a small house close to the Wilds. He's keeping an eye out for trouble, but when Thor lands he will certainly be able to sense the wards his brother has placed on the cottage.

Loki himself is not immediately in sight, but there's a girl on the porch with a mortar and pestle in her lap, listening to the radio as she grinds some sort of seed pods. If she aged like a human, she might be fifteen or sixteen, but because she is of Asgard, she is far older than that. And she's a little slow to note the arrival of her King, perhaps because the music is loud and energetic, but once she sees him she sets aside the mortar and pestle at once and stands, eyes wide, lips half-parted in relieved recognition.

No sound comes out, but it's clear she knows who she's looking at, and she hastens to hop off the porch and come to meet him at a light run.

"Prince Loki said you were alive," she says breathlessly, forgetting protocol for the moment.