Fifteen hundred years essentially alone - allies unreliable at best, enemies at a word at worst, constantly on guard, too conscious that displays of real feeling were nothing more than an invitation to attack - had rendered the idea of doing it again a horror. Loki hadn’t been exaggerating when he’d tried to explain that death seemed the best option, months before. It had already been too much once.

This future, though, with at least one unshakable ally, peace and what Loki tentatively identified as happiness settling around them? It was entirely possible fifteen hundred years wouldn’t be enough. Looking forward didn’t hurt, when they could fundamentally stay right where they were. “Thank you. My love.”