If there's anything Loki can sympathize with, honestly, it's being forced to be something you don't want to be. He flexes his fingers idly, thinking as Micolash vents, rubs his forehead where under layers of illusion the skin is blue and oddly ridged.

"No," he says after a moment. "I do understand, I think. The physical can chafe the psyche. Knowing that you---mn. Feeling the awareness of your body, can be a kind of torture."

Is it any weirder to be dependent on a cage than to use a thousand-plus-year-old illusion as a security blanket?

...well, it's a little bit weirder. But not so much so that Loki feels compelled to point it out any further.

"That is what I said," he tells the man with a shrug. "There are gods, and then there are gods. I am not of the kind you adore, but that I am a step beyond humanity in strength, power, longevity, and intellect is unquestionable. I have had, and continue to have worshipers."

He's so modest.