"My brother, always such a terrible strategist," Loki says, his tone of voice annoyed, and his mouth scowling; yet there is something wistful and lost in his eyes.

Sylvie firmly shuts down that idea, turning away from the variant and his reminiscing, checking over her weapons (again). His melancholy is his own business, and she will not dwell on it, nor allow herself to even think of chasing one's brother through never-ending mazes, and laughing in the golden sunlight of mother's gardens.