Odin came into the old range. It was dim here, and cool, caught in the shade of the overhanging trees even now, during the heat of the afternoon. The stone was cold to the touch, poc-marked and eaten away by the mosses that clung to it. One of the vines that spilled down the back left corner had blue flowers peeking out of it, shining coldly in the shade, filling the space with their sweet scent.

This was the range where Odin had trained as a boy, before the new sections of the palace had been added, and the larger, more open range made.

The place was usually abandoned, which was likely why Loki frequented it.

Odin had visited him, twice, in the time when he was healing. The first had been that second day, before Loki had woken from the sleep that had claimed him before the guards brought him in. Odin had sat beside him as Frigga went to take some rest from her vigil. The second time had been a week or so later. The boy had been asleep and Odin had not thought it wise to waken him.

He was practicing now with his knives, and, for all that could be told, had not sensed his father's approach.

Odin remembered when the boy had asked for knives. They were not a weapon Odin would have suggested, but Frigga had commented on it, and her promotion had decided the question. As she had largely been training the boy – as much as Odin disliked that situation – she knew best what he was suited for.

There was a bench by the side of the courtyard opposite the target, close to the door he'd come in by. Odin sat down and watched quietly.

Loki was aiming his last knife. Odin knew that because the set he'd bought him had twelve, and there were eleven down range.

There was a glitter of patchy sunlight on the white-silver blade of the knife, and then it was turning through the air and struck the target, cutting deep.

"It was well thrown,"

Loki whirled around, another knife caught suddenly to his hand. In the same movement, he realized who it was that had spoken to him, straightened and tried – unsuccessfully – to cover his surprise.

"Father," he twisted his hands and the knife vanished. Then, "Thor's not here."

"I know. Even I am not so blind as that."

Loki flushed. He didn't seem to know what to do with his hands and clasped them behind him. He said nothing.

"Is it so surprising that I might want to see you, Loki? It has been over-long since you have darkened the doors of my halls, and I have been too busy of late. Come here."

The boy came forward, shrinking the space between them. The speckled light played across the scars. Scars Odin wished he could have prevented. But he was the AllFather, and Loki was no longer a child. Exceptions could not be made. Not for anyone. Especially one of his sons.

"Let me see your knife,"

He twisted his hand, plucked the blade from the air, and offered it to his father. All without a word or nuance of expression. Odin wished that things with his second son could be easier. If Thor was angry with him, he would act on it. If he was pleased or flattered or excited, that too would be obvious. Not so with Loki. Anything could be happening behind those eyes.

Odin took the knife and looked it over. Not only was it a thirteenth, it was not of the set that he had procured for his son.

"Where did you get this?"

There was a pause then, "I made it."

Odin looked up at him, "You made this?"

Loki was looking away, face flushed, whether with exercise or something else. He jerked a nod.

Odin surveyed the knife. Even princes – especially princes – needed to learn some trade. Odin had apprenticed both Thor and Loki to the palace sword-smith. Frigga had suggested that perhaps it would be better to at least assign them different teachers, but Odin had said that no, they would benefit from further opportunity to work alongside one another. As it had turned out, Thor had the strength – and more than the strength – for the job, but lacked the patience. Often he would leave before his time was spent, or refuse to come at all. Loki also often neglected to show himself, and when he did, they told Odin, he was not over-eager to work himself, but mainly watched.

Now that Odin was thinking about it, it had been quite a time ago that he had enquired. Chances were that both of them had chosen to re-think their prior decisions.

The balance of the blade was excellent, and the design beautiful.

"Who showed you how to do this?"

"Grimna taught me most of it."

Ah, yes. The old elf who assisted the smith. That would explain much of the design. It was too delicate for Jorgan's taste.

"And the rest?"

Loki shrugged, "I guessed."

Odin handed him back the blade, "It was well done."

Loki took it and hid it once more, hands moving more quickly and less surely than they had the first time. Still he seemed unwilling to speak.

Odin indicated the seat beside him, "Come, sit."

The boy perched on the edge of the bench, uncomfortable and ready to fly at a moment's notice. It was hard to tell if he meant it that way, or if that was normal for him. Frigga would know. Somehow, Frigga always knew these things.

Odin raised a hand and touched the boy's chin, tipping his head back to survey the scars more closely.

"Do they still pain you?"

"No."

Odin thought that might be a lie. They had not been allowed to heal undisturbed, that much his trained eye could tell by looking, but they were closed now. Loki grew uncomfortable with the examination, and turned his head away.

"Do they make for a good tale?"

There was a pause, then, "I don't talk about it."

"Then why not hide it? I know your studies have progressed that far at least."

Loki shrugged, almost grinned, "It hadn't occurred to me."

The light way he said it, the sharp change of mood, Odin once more suspected a lie. But why press? If the boy wanted to lie to him about his personal inclinations, that was fine. Not as Odin would personally have had it, but not his choice. He remembered his own father, and how his father had wanted to know every part of his son's lives, to the point of setting spies. If Loki didn't want to tell him the truth, he didn't have to.

"They should fade with time," Odin stood up. The day of a king was never restful. "You may return to your practice."

As Odin passed under the stone arch, he heard something hit the target, and hit it with a great deal of force.

He didn't turn around.