Recent events had Loki somewhat... unsettled. The incidents with Dark (the second, especially; the inability to speak of what he knew, the inability to help; the helplessness he felt just feeding the control over him, making it stronger, an unending loop of darkness) had made him wary; Maleficent had made him cold. (Before even that, there had been Ares, the trust he should not have given broken, making him uncertain, unsteady.)
He was not completely ruined - he still cared. He cared for his friends and his brother and Darcy, for even those he didn't know, in his own way, as a collective; he still had no desire to become something more cruel - but he was damaged. Each betrayal or failed attempt to draw someone away from the dark left its mark, and put holes in the fragile faith he had been trying to nurture. Loki was not a creature of faith, of hope; his own path was not guided by faith or by fate, but sheer force of will. That was all he had, now, the cold solid willpower that slotted nicely behind the smile he put on.
While he was recovering from the energy he had expended assisting in the fight against Maleficent, the cracks had been more visible; he was grateful that only Darcy was there, and even more grateful that she did not seem upset, or distressed, just concerned.
The first few hours after, once he had awakened (embarrassed; collapsing in the street had not been part of his plan), once he'd been taken home (he was not certain how he had made it home, had not wanted to ask; the indignity of the idea of someone carrying his limp form back to his home had been answer enough, true or otherwise), he'd considered refusing to move from their bed, from her arms, ever again. It had likely been the exhaustion speaking, when he'd drowsily murmured the suggestion against the warmth of her neck, breathing her in and drifting, the sound of her laugh carrying him to his much-needed rest.
Now, he was ...better. The weariness had passed, and with it, the irrational impulse to seclude himself away; he was, for all intents and purposes, himself once more. There were too many things he needed to protect, too much to do, to remain there. The cracks were hidden again; he wished he could be certain they were healing, but it was difficult to tell, too soon. Much too soon.
Loki had several things he needed to turn his attention to, now. There had not been enough energy in him to see to them any sooner, but now a tendril of magic led him towards the conflicted brightness that was Morgana. She was upset; he had just enough magic on certain individuals in Lawrence to be able to find them, to sense when he was needed. It was easier, with someone who also carried magic - it was almost as if her magic met his in the middle and allowed him to find her. He imagined that, eventually, if she wished to hide, that same magic would make her impossible to locate, would lead his astray or muffle her entirely.
He was not entirely sure how he would feel, on the day it inevitably happened - if he would be proud that she had discovered how to do it, or if that sickening, hypocritical doubt would fill him once again.
The park was quiet, and his arrival made no sound; still, he doubted he would startle her.