Hel, the one word Loki could think of to describe is time on Vanaheim, and Alexandra was Hela herself. He despised it, all of it, even the fun parts, for he knew, every time he had fun, she would be there, or close by, to ruin it in the end. He watched one afternoon as she spoke to her masters, her teachers of sorts, in the small garden that was attached to the palace; it was pathetic, nothing as beautiful and enthralling as their own; it was a cheap imitation, nothing more.
He watched as Alexandra smiled and laughed, hearing her voice ring out as she pleaded with one of her handmaids to cease tickling her with a long feather. He looked at her with sheer scorn. She could be polite, almost nice when she chose to be, but with him, she was vicious of tongue, rude and conceited, reminding him all too much of his brother, without the jestful fun that they had intermittently between their arguments. He missed home, missed his rooms and his spell books, Hel, he even missed Thor, though that is something he was not going to admit to aloud. When he looked down at her again, he turned to face the far wall of his room; she had been looking up at him. He rose from his seat and made his way out of his rooms, not wanting to see her again.
“You know it is rude to spy on people.” He rolled his eyes as he turned to face the Vanir princess.