There are some physical states that sheer stubbornness cannot allow a man to power through. Not even the mighty Thor. If this were not the case, he might be able to regrow his own damn arm with enough determination. After hearing what happened at the forge of Nidavellir, Loki wouldn't put it past him.
Magic or no, he cannot imagine there has ever been anyone so strong and determined and courageous, and utterly idiotic. That's Thor. He ruffles his hair idly, lips twitching into a smirk at the thought. And then that smirk fades into a warmer look once again at just want you to be happy. Loki isn't sure anything has ever been or will ever be so simple as just happy, but it's the kind of thing Frigga would have said.
"Sentiment," he teases, and pats Thor's head. "But I'll tolerate it this time around."
And if he wants to cry just a little bit because of that tender echo of their mother, and because he feels like a proper brother once again, he'll tolerate that, too, even if he prefers not to show it just now.
The procedure takes another half hour, in the end, but Loki stays next to him through it, even after his seidr is no longer required. Fǫnn seems very tired afterward, and a bit stiff, but she cleans the stump and lets him look it over before binding it in soft gauze to ease any lingering inflammation. There are no stitches; no need for them. Everything is tidily reshaped and open edges healed together, sealing out any potential for infection. It might be sore for a while, but it should be much better than before, at least.
Loki does not seem to have suffered from the expenditure of his seidr. He gets up and insists Fǫnn go watch up and then rest, and takes care of cleaning up the surgical towels and sponges, then brings Thor some hot tea with milk and honey to drink before he'll let him get up and go anywhere. When they do emerge at last, Solvi is peaceably watching her baby's cradle in the common room, while the little girl from before, a toddler boy, and an older boy with dusky skin and hazel eyes, sit in a little circle on the floor stacking blocks. The point of the game seems to be for the older two to get the tower as high as possible before the little one gleefully knocks it over.
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Magic or no, he cannot imagine there has ever been anyone so strong and determined and courageous, and utterly idiotic. That's Thor. He ruffles his hair idly, lips twitching into a smirk at the thought. And then that smirk fades into a warmer look once again at just want you to be happy. Loki isn't sure anything has ever been or will ever be so simple as just happy, but it's the kind of thing Frigga would have said.
"Sentiment," he teases, and pats Thor's head. "But I'll tolerate it this time around."
And if he wants to cry just a little bit because of that tender echo of their mother, and because he feels like a proper brother once again, he'll tolerate that, too, even if he prefers not to show it just now.
The procedure takes another half hour, in the end, but Loki stays next to him through it, even after his seidr is no longer required. Fǫnn seems very tired afterward, and a bit stiff, but she cleans the stump and lets him look it over before binding it in soft gauze to ease any lingering inflammation. There are no stitches; no need for them. Everything is tidily reshaped and open edges healed together, sealing out any potential for infection. It might be sore for a while, but it should be much better than before, at least.
Loki does not seem to have suffered from the expenditure of his seidr. He gets up and insists Fǫnn go watch up and then rest, and takes care of cleaning up the surgical towels and sponges, then brings Thor some hot tea with milk and honey to drink before he'll let him get up and go anywhere. When they do emerge at last, Solvi is peaceably watching her baby's cradle in the common room, while the little girl from before, a toddler boy, and an older boy with dusky skin and hazel eyes, sit in a little circle on the floor stacking blocks. The point of the game seems to be for the older two to get the tower as high as possible before the little one gleefully knocks it over.