What Might Have Been

Chapter XII

Velvety sleek, coal black and proud as his second son, Slepnir was a mount worthy only to a King. That is why Loki, Second Prince of Asgard bestowed it to his father, King of all the Nine Realms eight centuries ago. Odin knew better. Loki gave him this horse, a truly magnificent horse, because he loved his father and worried for him ever since his previous mount fell in battle nearly taking him to Valhalla. Young as he was, Loki held an intelligence beyond those millenniums older than he, magic unlike other magicians had seen in generations, enough cleverness to outwit a fox or three and a soulful heart known only to kin. 

It was the latter that led him to blend magic and the finest stallions to sire a colt of eight legs and black as the gates to Helheim. Loki poured over every scroll on interbreeding magic and life-forces, horse lineage and the histories of the finest mounts, their qualities and characteristics to sire Slepnir. He presented the beast to his father that next season during one of the feasts, one where it was not unusual to give the All-Father gifts and well-wishes for his health. The crowd parted, tittering and whispering rumor and speculation over the grand beast. It snorted and reared in the handler’s care, only becoming docile under Loki’s cool touch. 

No longer a colt; this was a war horse. 

Odin stepped down from his throne, his one eye grooming the horse and all it’s fine qualities. The horse stared down the king, huffing hot breath at him and dared the Aesir to be a rider worthy of him. The silence dragged on, Odin occupied by examining the stallion, and the crowd’s mutterings swelled. Loki’s face pinched into dismay and hesitation, his fingers betraying his nerves as they clenched and unclenched in spastic measures. One of Thor’s friends from weaponry training, the swordsman, guffawed a callous joke and his son flushed red from anger and embarrassment. Thor’s laughter boomed across the room and others joined in the joke. 

Gungnir reverberated over the throne room, muzzling their voices and slapping away their unkind smiles; Odin’s one eye was fierce and protective. 

“This stallion, eight legs tall, black as the gates to Helheim and hot-blooded with the lifeblood of warriors is fit for a King. Tis justifiable that my son, so well versed in magic and savant to subjects outside of battle could create such a majestic beast. This is the greatest honor a son could give a father, that a man could give his King.” Odin hugged his boy for all to see. Loki looked more shocked than those in the room but reciprocated Odin’s affection when Odin did not immediately release him. Odin clasped him again on the shoulder and went over to stroke the horse’s nose. Asking questions and running his hands over the stallions sleek countenance. That night was a feast with most of Asgardian society but that night little existed outside of Odin, father, and Loki, his youngest son.  

All-Father, Ruler of the Nine Realms and King to Asgard, sighed as he fed Slepnir another carrot. He had duties today, headache-causing duties involving the Jotunns, and he sought a few moments of peace in the stables. Despite his warlike posture, Slepnir had the pacifying effect of a good cup of mead and friendly company. This horse saved his life more times in the passing centuries than his generals could count. His son saved his life more times than he could count by breeding this stallion. Frigga chided him for throwing out his hip that first time, and Thor, after that one battle, joked he should lead their soldiers into battle from now on. Only Loki, distraught and worried over the sight of his father in the medical wing, used his abilities to better Odin’s chances of survival after that one battle. 

Loki. His son.

Odin grimaced at the coming diplomats—the Frost Giants. 

He should have Loki locked away in his chambers as he ordered with Jane, but he couldn’t. He couldn’t favor Thor over Loki, not his sweet little boy who loved magic and whom Frigga spoiled with extra kisses and hugs. Loki who was always better at wizardry and words than weaponry and war. His little dark-haired heathen who terrorized the servants with snakes and illusions as he aged—which hasn’t really changed—and who was a brother, a true brother to his blood-born son. Loki. Loki who changed over the years, fighting more with his brother, acting a little more cruel and vengeful against attacks, verbal and otherwise, to his person. A little darker. His heart a little harder. The fights that expanded from just Thor to himself and on rare, very rare occasion Frigga, his mother. She he apologized to. Not always to he and Thor. What was once a line in the sand cracked into a rift and from a rift into a chasm. Who was Loki now?