Metanoia: The journey of changing one's mind, heart, self, or way of life.
"Mama, I don't like dese fwowers," Modi complains, even as soft yellow streams of magic are spilling from Loki's palms to coat the wall with golden tulips, blowing softly in an imaginary breeze. "Too giwly," he protests. Loki only smiles and ruffles his son's hair.
"Look, I'll put a horse here," Loki offers, pointing to the as-of-yet blank blue wall beside Modi's crib, which he's moved a little bit to the side. "Or whatever you like," he remedies, as Modi pouts even more at this suggestion. Clearly he and Sleipnir had not been getting along. Jory had no complaints to voice about the redecoration of the nursery. The little snake in question was currently jockeying for a later bedtime. Loki had firmly told him no, and that had been the end of that discussion.
"A boat," Modi says, even though logistically that would make absolutely no sense. Whoever heard of boats smack in the middle of the meadow? But Modi was not budging, the stern set of his lower lip something that Loki had clearly passed on to him. "I want a boat."
Normally Loki would have applauded his son's quite-proficient use of grammar, but, really? A boat? He opens his mouth to protest, but Modi glares him down, and Loki frowns before sighing and acquiescing to his son's demands.
"How you know baybee like fwowers?" Modi demands, and Loki massages his temples, trying to rub away the beginnings of what promises to be a rather vile headache.
"Because your baby sister whispered to me one night that she liked flowers," Loki says firmly, as if this explains everything. "And you want to make the walls pretty for your baby sister, don't you?"
Modi purses his lips, looking for an instant the spitting image of Loki, before looking at the flowers on the wall by the window, where his crib had so recently stood.
"Make the boat big, Mama," he proclaims grandly before picking up Jory and running out of the room.