[ there's a pause while Loki examines Thor, the hand offering it, and the mead itself. with some resignation, he receives it, pressing the bottle to his lips and downing the last of it without so much as a wince. it's good mead, but Thor never had anything but good mead. the tastes roll over his tongue, the story of the bees and pollen collected from Idunn's apples, the hands that collected the honey, and the barrels made from the ships covered in northern frost. ]

Ouch—you wound me, that's a wound.

[ and as if in retaliation, Thor receives the empty bottle. ]

Perhaps I was contemplating how long it's been since we've been like this, better times forgotten, like so many myths.

[ Loki doesn't seem to know exactly how he feels about that. it's always been erasing one myth for another, building new and changing perceptions and expectations; he hardly ever thought about what he had lost in a life prior. ]