To me
On the anniversary of Loki's birth, a feast is held in Father's hall. This, he thinks, is as it should be: this is as it is every year, with lively music on the harp, with men and women dancing, with all his favorite foods. Except this year the foods are not the ones he prefers, after all, but those favored by his brother. And the music is not harp music but the blaring of horns. And when Father calls attention to the assembled throng to give a speech for the occasion, he does not mention Loki at all.
He proclaims the meal in honor of Thor's prowess as a warrior. He announces that the firstborn prince has bested his training instructor this day.
The boar meat, spicy and rich on Loki's tongue, is suddenly tasteless. He puts his fork down amidst the wave of applause that floods the hall; he watches as his brother, golden and triumphant, stands to accept his congratulations. The child thinks, perhaps, that this is some ruse. His family, too, scold him for his pranks, and perhaps they have decided to show him what it is like to be on the receiving end.
But the jest, if jest it is, grows long.
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