I wish you were the warrior and I, the sorcerer, so I could conjure you, concoct a ritual to extract the truth from you, even from beyond the grave. The Mighty God of Thunder is powerless against the crippling doubt of whether the God of Mischief loved him or not. It seems petty and selfish, yet here I am, hoping the sun will bring me the answers you might not have yourself. Where are you, Loki? Niffelheim? Hell? Can you even hear my call? I fear now the only place you exist in is my heart.