There will be time later, Loki thinks to himself, watching his brother struggle with his emotions. Time to hold the baby, or play with the children. Time to sit in silence together over tea or mead. He will make it happen whether Thor wants to or not. The problems of the living are not meant to concern the dead. Perhaps he should have died and let that be it, let his world and those like it turn on their own and fend for themselves. But if he had, it's possible that most of the people in this house would be dead, too.

What is this story you are telling, O Norns? he wonders, and trails after Thor into the healer's makeshift infirmary.

"My Prince, if you would?" Fǫnn's first words are addressed to Loki, who closes the door behind him, and then sits at the desk next to her computer as if he's done this already.

"My dear, there is no one whose secretary I would rather be." He's making light, trying to put Thor at ease, and his bright smile doesn't reach his eyes, but he's trying.

He gets a mild glare from the healer for his trouble, although she blushes at the same time. She wastes no words on scolding him, though, sitting beside Thor and putting her hands not on the arm itself but on the muscles of the shoulder and neck, pressing gently. "There is much to do here, my king" she warns Thor with only the briefest of glances at the stump. "Muscle, bone, blood vessels...all need to be addressed lest complications arise later. Tell me when I touch any place especially tender."

Loki is staring a little, smile gone and replaced by glassy-eyed grimness The idea of Thor being torn apart sits ill with him. He almost looks a bit pale. Who did it, he wonders. Corvus Glaive? Perhaps even Maw, with his telekinesis?

For a second he can smell flesh burning, and he starts visibly, shakes himself and taps keys on the computer in front of him, rapid-fire clicking. The sound of soft, distant rainfall emerges from the speakers, and Fǫnn looks surprised, but makes no objection.