That anger in her veins is familiar, because it burns hotter than his Loki's cold resentment; in fact, it's more like Thor's, that kind of steadily-stewing rage, that gutting grief which turned to anger which threw him against Thanos even when it was futile. Thor has been so fixated on the loss of the battle against the Titan, and yet he hadn't even known there was this entire other war happening in the cracks between the universe, a space existing out of time.
The brother she shows him is a Loki who both is and is not his Loki: so similar, just scooped up from the timeline when they were carting him back to Asgard in chains. That isn't how it happened, Thor recalls; he didn't slip away like an eel or a cockroach scurrying away, but now he's seeing the repercussions of the one that did.
And ultimately, Sylvie's Loki is closer to the Loki that Thor eventually knew. A wiser one, who sacrificed himself in another futile battle, snapping at Thanos' heels in an effort to do the right thing. One who cared. One who finally prioritised the rest of the world over himself. Her Loki — who has these weary, wise vestiges of his own — seems to be lost, scattered somewhere, shoved through a door and vanished across who knows how many timelines.
The Asgardian king doesn't know how her magic works. It could be a lie. It could be a trap. It could be an illusion spun up for his benefit, convincing in its realism.
But Thor has a habit of believing Lokis, and so he turns to Sylvie — realising now, fully, exactly who she is — and he seizes her arm again.
"Let's go find him," he says. Voice firm, resolute. "Those doors— that equipment, what do you call them, Time Pads?— there must be a way to get a hold of another. To keep moving between timelines. I know a time wizard we could consult. We could try."
Three-quarters of Asgard is still dead, as is half of the universe, and there's absolutely nothing he can do about that bleak canvas of despair, but perhaps they can do something about fixing this. Just this. One brother, one almost-lover, one man that they both adored.
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The brother she shows him is a Loki who both is and is not his Loki: so similar, just scooped up from the timeline when they were carting him back to Asgard in chains. That isn't how it happened, Thor recalls; he didn't slip away like an eel or a cockroach scurrying away, but now he's seeing the repercussions of the one that did.
And ultimately, Sylvie's Loki is closer to the Loki that Thor eventually knew. A wiser one, who sacrificed himself in another futile battle, snapping at Thanos' heels in an effort to do the right thing. One who cared. One who finally prioritised the rest of the world over himself. Her Loki — who has these weary, wise vestiges of his own — seems to be lost, scattered somewhere, shoved through a door and vanished across who knows how many timelines.
The Asgardian king doesn't know how her magic works. It could be a lie. It could be a trap. It could be an illusion spun up for his benefit, convincing in its realism.
But Thor has a habit of believing Lokis, and so he turns to Sylvie — realising now, fully, exactly who she is — and he seizes her arm again.
"Let's go find him," he says. Voice firm, resolute. "Those doors— that equipment, what do you call them, Time Pads?— there must be a way to get a hold of another. To keep moving between timelines. I know a time wizard we could consult. We could try."
Three-quarters of Asgard is still dead, as is half of the universe, and there's absolutely nothing he can do about that bleak canvas of despair, but perhaps they can do something about fixing this. Just this. One brother, one almost-lover, one man that they both adored.