He has been called a villain, a god, a weapon, and a prince — sometimes in the same breath. None of it is wrong. None of it is the whole picture.

Loki Odinson is a thousand years old and, in the ways that actually matter, still figuring out who he is. He is brilliant, devastating to look at, and exhausting to know. He lies reflexively, loves selectively, and has spent the better part of two years in a Tower in New York City trying to prove — to the world, to the Avengers, to himself — that the man and the monster are not the same thing.

He is not looking for redemption. He is not looking for someone to save him. He is looking, without knowing he is looking, for a mind that can keep up with his. For someone who looks at him and sees the tapestry, not the headlines.

He has almost stopped believing that person exists.