“They can't both be correct?” Loki turns his head to look at the boy – young man, whatever he is by his own assessment – with mild curiosity. A return from death isn't surprising; he's known it to happen before. The response, however, is.

“Perhaps I deserved my punishment.” Not like that, he knows. Not like that. Even given the scope of his crimes it's extreme. Such is the lot of a traitor to a community as tight-knit as Asgard's. Long lives ended, old bonds broken... there may be little value to any of them, little real worth in something as nigh-eternal, but there is so much capacity for pain. Emotional and, as Loki has learned, physical.

He turns his gaze back out to sea. His eyes are better, he can focus on shapes now, but they're still doubled and blurry and there's a comfort in that. In near-blindness, for a time.

“I've lived through worse.” A lie. “I'll carry on living. Long after you and your friends die, I'll still be alive, so I'm afraid you'll have to forgive me if I can't see why it should matter to you.”

He pauses, and a faint smile rises to his lips. “Nemesis -- whom, I wonder? I wonder also: do you know the meaning of the word?”