A shadow cannot exist without something to cast it. When a shadow is cast, attention is not paid to the shadow. All it is used for is to find what is right and good in the caster, the contrast sharp and unavoidable. In all eyes, a shadow is useless.
If it has nothing to cast it, the shadow is banished to the corners of the room. Forgotten, as the blinding light pushes it away.
And whatever is in the shadow is cast to the limelight.
Every single detail, flaw and fault cast into sharp relief. It is scrutinized, judged, and if not found satisfactory it is cast out like the shadow it hid in.
The thing shedding the golden light cares not. It is not required to care. It is his job to search, to find every single thing wrong with the thing that dares to let itself be seen.
The eye searches, even when closed. The shadow is afraid, and hurries to cast a shadow of its own. It pushes itself to live up to the previous caster.
But, in the end, it cannot, and the glory that so eludes it passes once more to the one who belongs in the light, who basks in it. He who is always worthy.
The shadow is broken, but it has tasted power. And it wants more. So it flees. It runs, not willing to be shoved back into his position of unimportance, where he is ridiculed and if not that, ignored.
So it flees, and awaits the moment when it is cast back into the limelight.
Loki waits for his time.
He will make Thor see.
He will make them all see.
The shadow is angry.