Loki is angry. It's a quiet, even, chilly anger that stabilizes rather than maddening him. The Nine should not have come to this, any version of them. It's deeply unnatural, the kind of destruction Thanos has wrought. An apocalypse is meant to be all or nothing, not half of all life with surgical precision. But seeing Thor's fire and lightning extinguished like this is more painful, and even more profoundly wrong.

This is not the order of things. His brother is unconquerable.

...maybe that's part of the problem. He's lost his identity. At least that's something Loki can understand. His expression is hard to read now, dark worry in his eyes, but he gives Thor a light kiss on the temple, in a space as clear of ash as he can find, and moves away to set up a screen in front of the tub. He eyes the newly abbreviated arm as he finishes that, reaching out to tuck his hand under the spot where what remains joins Thor's shoulder. "...A surgeon should look at that. When you are ready."

An Asgardian lord is in little danger of infection and no danger of bleeding to death at this point, but Loki suspects that amputation is ragged at best.

If only Eir had made it to safety here. But: "One of the healers' apprentices made it to the Nexus. Her name is Fǫnn. Perhaps later."

Much later, if Thor's emotional state is any guide. "In the meantime, I will make broth and you will drink it whether you want to or not. And then you will sleep."

It's Frigga's authoritative sick-day tone he's taking now, somewhat desperately, but with his brother wounded and pliant he thinks it will work.