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.
"Yes," Loki says.
"To the horse?"
Thor raises an eyebrow.
"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.
"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."