It was uncharacteristically rainy. It had been for the last several days. Frigga watches with her hands braced on the window sill as the wind races through the trees, making the leaves dance among the rain. With a bit of sadness in her thoughts, she reflects on how the rain truly embodies her life for nearly ten months that have past.

Her husband absent due to war, of course Frigga had been miserable. Understandably so. No one would guilt her for this, for many other wives too felt the woe of missing lovers. But Frigga can't help but chide herself for this. She should hold the Queen's composure; the Queen's strength. And strong she had been, for she would not be weak for her newborn. Though the tidings of war so soon after birth had been an unlucky one. She had the help of maids and servants, but still she felt like she had raised her son quite alone during most of the last year. Frigga sighs, running her hands through her hair and sighing. Weakness is not becoming of a Queen, no. Nor of a mother, for her son looks up to her even now. But the babe sleeps in a room attended by her most trusted maid, and the public knows nothing of a custom that is to be broken on this night.

As the sky grows dark and the storm grows stronger, Frigga comforts herself with the knowledge that of this night, she need not be a mother or a Queen. She just has to be a wife.

But even this comfort comes with self-inflicted scorn, for she cannot say she loathes to be a Queen or a mother when it is in fact the opposite. She was happy to be a symbol of hope for the people of Asgard for the past ten months, even though she felt little. The faith of the people gave her great outlook. For certainty, her son did bring her peace and happiness at well. It included restless nights and long hours, and she certainly gave thanks to her seemingly infinite amount of patience, but her newborn son brought much sunshine in her life. It was reflected in his smile and his wheat colored hair. But it was akin to holding a candle in a rainstorm. Beautiful light but little amount enough to truly count. But her King was returning; the darkness would fade.

By tradition, the men of war were not to be reunited with their families until the public ceremonies tomorrow. It brought much joy to the people to see a husband reunited with his wife, a father reunited with his family. Most of all, it brought much happiness to see a King reunited with his Queen. To see the royals gaze with elation, to run into each others arms, was indeed a sight to see. But eight centuries and two wars ago, Odin had broke this sacred custom by visiting Frigga a night before the reunion so that he may lose composure in privacy, for it is a highly emotional ordeal to see the ones you love after so long away, and the royals must hold at least some composure in front of the public.

Such strict social limitations did Frigga carry on her shoulders. She was to cry, but not to sob. To smile, but not to laugh with giddiness. To embrace, but not too intimately. So many lines she had to toe around. She was very thankful that Odin had broke this custom, and in turn created this new one, for a few hours with her husband did give comfort to her and she was always able to handle the public reunion with an easier smile.

She also knew it did her husband well to see her in this sense of privacy, away from the public eye, before the grand ceremonies. A soldier carries a piece of the war home with him, in both demeanor and in the palace of their eyes. This night, Frigga can take some of the weight off of him. Not entirely, of course, because to break such an ancient tradition is a scandal, so Odin and Frigga did put limitations on this forbidden visit. He was only offered meager food and denied the spoils of war (that of wine, meat, and the intimacy of his wife). They were to speak in this poorly lit and heated room, similar to that of a stable. But still, the opportunity to speak of his horrors and of their love for each other was a precious one.

Frigga reaches out of the window slightly so that she might feel the rain drops on the palm of her hand. The coolness against her skin is welcoming. It serves almost as a reminder of the time, that the opportunity to see her love after months apart isn't but a dream. That is he returning home and to her once more. She shuts her eyes, savoring this realization.

With a knock on the door, the moment is forgotten, for it is time to see her King.

She turns, eagerly staring so that she might gaze upon the love of her life. He enters.

Odin looked significantly worse for the wear, but not as terrible as she had seen him before. No blood matted his hair, little dirt smeared on his face. He looked exhausted, but not as if he might fall over. Yet, when he looked upon his beloved's face, it was as if he were seeing the sun after months of winter.

"Frigga," He whispers, hungrily drinking her image in. "My Queen."

They stare at each other for a long moment, for staring is all they have. There is no embrace, no kissing, no other pleasures of the flesh to be had. Not of this night. But tomorrow, after the ceremonies and the feast to follow, they would retire to their chambers and enjoy each others in ways they could only imagine.

It is only after a long moment that Frigga realizes Odin holds a bundle in his arm and for a moment, she thinks it is a large loaf of bread. But it is a bundle of furs and pelts, with something wrapped in the middle.

"What is that you hold there, my dearest?" She asks. "Not a trophy of your battles, is it?"

Odin smiles softly, his cheeks warming as an all-too-familiar guilty look passes over his face.

"Only the most precious jewel that war could offer me," He says in a low voice and steps further into the room. "Look at him, my darling."

As Frigga steps towards her husband, she realizes with a jolt of shock that he holds a sleeping infant in his arms, wrapped in the furs of bears and wolves. It has pink cheeks like rose petals and ink black hair, thin and fine against his fair skin.

"From what cradle did you rob this babe?" Frigga asks, partially in jest but also in horror.

"I robbed it from the cradle of an all too early death," Odin responds gravely. Frigga quickly looks up at her husband before looking back down at the infant.

"You joke," She says in a hushed voice, reaching to stroke the cheek of the baby. "With a face like that? A mother is sure to be missing him."

"For his beauty? I think not," Odin says with a frown. "Twis his beauty that cast him out in the snow, nearly to send him to an icy tomb."

Frigga notices the references to winter and she drops her hand, melting Odin's gaze and feeling a pit of dread in her stomach. Odin's look carries a storm not unlike the one outside.

"Oh, sweet love of mine, what have you done?" Frigga asks, her eyes darting between her husband and the sleeping babe in his arms. Odin meets her level gaze with an iron look of his own.

"I've done nothing to this child but she compassion," He says. "The child was cast out by the Frost Giants, due to his size and delicate features, I suspect. I found him weeping in the snow. Had I not taken him and wrapped him in my robes, I'm certain he would have frozen."

Frigga stares at the child with disbelief and a slight twinge of disgust.

"This is a Frost Giant?" She asks. Odin nods.

"Aye, but a runt of one." He says.

"A runt he may be, but a giant he still remains," She says quietly. "What are we to do with this stolen child?"

"Abandoned!" Odin corrects her sharply. "Not stolen!"

Frigga inclines her head slightly, softening her gaze toward the child.

"What is your proposal?" She whispers. "Do we find a family to take him in?"

"Nay, I should say he already has one," As Odin says this, Frigga looks up and sees adoration in his expression toward the child. It makes her chest feel like its tightening, her heart turning to ice.

"You left four days after the birth of your son," She says, her voice stern. "And you want to add another?"

Odin sighs heavily, moving to sit at the bench near the window. He adjusts his hold on the baby, his movements gentle. He reaches forward, gripping the wooden pitcher on the table in front of him and pouring himself a glass of water.

"I did not go to battle with the aim of gaining a son," He says quietly, lifting the cup to his lips and taking a drink. "Nor did I save this child to try and fill the void that leaving you and Thor created. What am I to say? I found a child. I saved him, clothed him, fed him. Gracious, I named him. I've cared for this child, near to the degree that I felt when I first gazed upon my own son. I can't help but feel charged with the duty to care for him as a father would, as his father would if he hadn't abandoned him."

Frigga pauses and then sits next to Odin on the bench. She stares out into the stormy night for a moment before turning and extending her arms for the baby. Odin, gently but carefully, hands him over. The Queen cradles him, brushing her fingers across his forehead and touching the tip of his nose.

"He has a name?" She asks.

"It is Loki," Odin replies. He watches his wife hold their hopefully adoptive son. The sight pleases him to no end, and it feels like his heart swells in his chest.

"You ask much of me," Frigga sighs. "But even as he sleeps, the child has convinced me more than you did."

She looks up to find Odin beaming at her and she fights it hard to bite down a smile of her own.

"I will try," She says. "This is all I can offer."

Odin nods respectfully.

"You'll need no more, for the child is charismatic even more so when he is awake. You will see," He replies. Frigga laughs, but turns her gaze back toward the child. Her gaze soften and she grows troubled.

"He looks no more than a few weeks old," She muses.

"I suspect he can't be older than that," Odin agrees. "He was cast out on the day of his birth, I imagine."

Frigga makes a noise of discontent, for that anyone could cast out a babe into the snow was a distressing thought to her. Such an act could only be done by those with the blackest of hearts. She touches Loki's soft hair once more.

"So young," She murmurs. "But at the same time, too old. Thor was four days old when you left. How do you expect people to believe that he is our natural born son?"

"When people see him, they will see no more than the results of a husband reluctant to leave his wife's bed for battle. They will be told that the child was born earlier than expected, and that your silence throughout your pregnancy and the birth was due to reluctance to celebrate life when you were unsure that your husband would return home to you," Odin touches his wife's shoulder once more. Frigga closes her eyes, nodding slightly.

"And I am to introduce him to the people, and to you, at the ceremonies tomorrow," She nods. Odin touches his wife's arm.

"No one will question us," He says reassuringly.

"Such a large fiction to carry," Frigga sighs.

"The benefit of being seen as trustworthy is that no one would dare believe that we would utter a lie," Odin quietly murmurs. "If they say otherwise, we shall see how easily their tongues will wag once I'm through with them."

They share a quiet and intimate moment as they stare down at their new son.

"Thor will be pleased to have a playmate," Frigga admits. "The boy is full of life and sunshine. He is strong."

"Loki can easily step up to the challenge his older brother shall present," Odin smiles fondly. "A runt of a giant is still a giant, after all."

"No," Frigga murmurs. "No, I think not. He will be strong, to be sure, but not in the same way, I think."

"Whatever do you mean?" Odin asks.

"A lion is strong. It is brave, courageous, and noble. It charges into action. It protects the one it loves." Frigga says. "But a snake is equally strong, for it is cunning, thinking through obstacles rather than charging through them. It is quiet, but has a deadly bite."

She rocks the sleeping child in her arms ever so slightly.

"Dearest Thor is a lion," She murmurs. "But I believe Loki shall be a serpent."