That kind of magic does leave an invisible mark, and now that he's been made aware of it, Loki can't shake the awareness. He eyes the axe warily as Thor sets it aside, and there's a moment of stilted, uncomfortable stillness. There is so much to say, and so little of it will be pleasant. Loki has never been one to struggle for kind words. Either they come easily because he has a purpose in speaking them, or they do not come at all and he flings verbal barbs, instead.

A cut from the sharpest knife is the least painful, severing tissue neatly without tearing. "I heard what you said a moment ago," he lets Thor know. "That you had him, but wanted to hurt him. And I do not entirely trust your analysis, in the state of mind you are in, but even if that is the case just as you say, you will hear no reproach from me. It matters not, just now. Later, we will examine and learn from it. We will save what can be salvaged, avenge what cannot be saved, and rebuild what can be rebuilt."

And if none of those things can be done, they will burn the remnants of the Nine to the ground, as far as Loki is concerned. Pain like this does not deserve to exist, and certainly not in his brother's eye.

"I am not of your world, but I am here, and you are not alone."

He turns and makes a gesture at one end of the open floor, and what appears to be a tub emerges from it, flowing up from the wood in the same way the other furniture seems to exist. "The water will be cool," he says, "but if you will bathe, it is available. I can put up a screen."

He's not leaving him alone, though. Not until he's asleep or until Loki is sure he's stable.