It stands three meters
tall, from hoof to shoulder. It is a little longer than a normal
horse, but that is to accommodate his eight legs. The coat is white,
shining like silver, eyes of the deepest blue and hooves of obsidian
black, standing tall and at attention as a tail of fine flaxen hair
like silk sways behind him.
It is perfect. The
horse, as the King inspects it, is perfect in every way. Strong,
obedient, intelligent. He can tell he is fast. He can tell he is
the fastest there ever was, is, or will be. Cupping the chin of the
horse, he locks his eye with the eye of the steed, and turns across
the throne room to his sons. His golden haired boy is smiling
brightly, a bit of the giant's head still splattered on his cape,
Mjlonir clasped in front of him.
Loki, on the other hand,
his other son, looks positively mortified. Shoulders slumping, face
drawn, bags under his eyes. He knows, thoughl. He knows why.
“So,”
Odin says, “You. You and-”
“Yes,”
Loki responds.
Odin
nods. All-father, Wodensdaeg, King of Asgard, stares silently at his
son for a long, long moment. In his infinite wisdom, in the
millennial lifespan he has stood upon the Nine Worlds, he has seen
such things come to pass. He had foreseen that someday, something
like this would happen. He is not sure if he foresaw it happening
like this.
“I
see,” he says, breaking the silence, “I see.”
He
turns, to the other present in the throne room.
“So,”
Frigga says, her first words since Loki arrived, with horse, “I am
a grandmother.”
And
with that, she turns and leaves.
Odin
nods, still cupping the chin of the steed.
“Sleipnir,”
Loki says, “His name's Sleipnir.”
“I
see,” Odin says, “He is a fine steed. Thank you, Loki.”
Odin
turns and walks out. The horse follows, leaving the brothers alone.
His helmet being cleaned of the central nervous system of a mountain
giant, Loki can see the gears of his brother's mind turning.
Eyebrows raising, mouthing a word, lolling back and forth on the
heels of his boots. Blinking, only lacking a audible sound of gears
clicking into place, he does not turn. Only keeps his eyes fixated
on the throne, and where the magnificent white steed was.
“Loki?”
“Yes,”
Loki says.
“Did
you...”
“Yes.”
“To
the horse?”
“No.”
“No?”
“No.”
Thor
raises an eyebrow.
“To
you?”
“Yes,”
Loki groans.
Thor
sucks his teeth. His face screws up, as if trying to swallow itself
as sees, in his minds eye, what must have transpired when Loki
executed his brilliant plan to distract the Mountain Giant's magical
horse. Silence hangs over them. Loki's shoulders slump further, the
shorter, lanky god reaching up to rub his temples.
“Why?”
Thor asks.
Loki
shrugs.
“For
Asgard,” he responds.
Thor
nods, placing Mjlonir on his belt and squeezing his brother's
shoulder.
“I...think
I am going to get a drink.”
“Have
one for me,” Loki sighs.
“Yes.
Yes. I think I will.”
Thor
leaves, stumbling the last steps of the way. Loki continues standing
in the same spot. He looks to the side, looking up as the bearded,
portly, jovial fellow god walks up next to him. Volstagg, the
Voluminous, smiles, patting Loki on the shoulder.
“Just
saw the King walking by,” he says, “That's a nice
horse.”
“Shut. Up.”
End.
tall, from hoof to shoulder. It is a little longer than a normal
horse, but that is to accommodate his eight legs. The coat is white,
shining like silver, eyes of the deepest blue and hooves of obsidian
black, standing tall and at attention as a tail of fine flaxen hair
like silk sways behind him.
It is perfect. The
horse, as the King inspects it, is perfect in every way. Strong,
obedient, intelligent. He can tell he is fast. He can tell he is
the fastest there ever was, is, or will be. Cupping the chin of the
horse, he locks his eye with the eye of the steed, and turns across
the throne room to his sons. His golden haired boy is smiling
brightly, a bit of the giant's head still splattered on his cape,
Mjlonir clasped in front of him.
Loki, on the other hand,
his other son, looks positively mortified. Shoulders slumping, face
drawn, bags under his eyes. He knows, thoughl. He knows why.
“So,”
Odin says, “You. You and-”
“Yes,”
Loki responds.
Odin
nods. All-father, Wodensdaeg, King of Asgard, stares silently at his
son for a long, long moment. In his infinite wisdom, in the
millennial lifespan he has stood upon the Nine Worlds, he has seen
such things come to pass. He had foreseen that someday, something
like this would happen. He is not sure if he foresaw it happening
like this.
“I
see,” he says, breaking the silence, “I see.”
He
turns, to the other present in the throne room.
“So,”
Frigga says, her first words since Loki arrived, with horse, “I am
a grandmother.”
And
with that, she turns and leaves.
Odin
nods, still cupping the chin of the steed.
“Sleipnir,”
Loki says, “His name's Sleipnir.”
“I
see,” Odin says, “He is a fine steed. Thank you, Loki.”
Odin
turns and walks out. The horse follows, leaving the brothers alone.
His helmet being cleaned of the central nervous system of a mountain
giant, Loki can see the gears of his brother's mind turning.
Eyebrows raising, mouthing a word, lolling back and forth on the
heels of his boots. Blinking, only lacking a audible sound of gears
clicking into place, he does not turn. Only keeps his eyes fixated
on the throne, and where the magnificent white steed was.
“Loki?”
“Yes,”
Loki says.
“Did
you...”
“Yes.”
“To
the horse?”
“No.”
“No?”
“No.”
Thor
raises an eyebrow.
“To
you?”
“Yes,”
Loki groans.
Thor
sucks his teeth. His face screws up, as if trying to swallow itself
as sees, in his minds eye, what must have transpired when Loki
executed his brilliant plan to distract the Mountain Giant's magical
horse. Silence hangs over them. Loki's shoulders slump further, the
shorter, lanky god reaching up to rub his temples.
“Why?”
Thor asks.
Loki
shrugs.
“For
Asgard,” he responds.
Thor
nods, placing Mjlonir on his belt and squeezing his brother's
shoulder.
“I...think
I am going to get a drink.”
“Have
one for me,” Loki sighs.
“Yes.
Yes. I think I will.”
Thor
leaves, stumbling the last steps of the way. Loki continues standing
in the same spot. He looks to the side, looking up as the bearded,
portly, jovial fellow god walks up next to him. Volstagg, the
Voluminous, smiles, patting Loki on the shoulder.
“Just
saw the King walking by,” he says, “That's a nice
horse.”
“Shut. Up.”
End.
