A knife.
You wonder how he believed that, believed that a knife would be enough.
(Enough.)
(Loki, enough. Enough of this.)
Sufficiency and your brother have never been well-matched.
.
Slicked-tongued, treacherous always to someone, his eyes finding yours with a truth you didn't want to believe, for once.
(No, Loki. Not you—I am the warrior. No, Loki, not the knife—)
Is Valhalla also for those who damn themselves?
.
You knew him when he was young.
Younger.
Loki has always seemed to brittle at the edges to be fully grown, but that is the nature of ice and ice is all that Loki has ever truly been. All that he could have rightfully laid claim to, though he claimed that and everything else. He has always thirsted for glory, for shadows to cast or hide in. He has always been a shadow to you.
Except—
A knife. By all the gods, gone in death and twilight, why did he risk it with only a knife?
It was almost as though he was no longer your brother. Your brother, your Loki, would have betrayed.
(And maybe he did. Maybe Thanos only found you because of the Tesseract. Maybe—)
Maybe Loki knew he wouldn't save you, but wanted to try.
When Asgard has fallen, when Heimdall lies sightless, when Loki is crumpled and not so very much colder than he has ever been, you think that Thanos wanted blood.
Loki gave it to him.
In so doing, saved you.
Saved you, then, with that knife.
(It is enough.)
(He was.)