Idun spoke of strength and she did not speak falsely. Perhaps it would make them stronger, to be mostly feared among their people. Perhaps the slights and the stares and the whispers would foster a deep strength in them that could not be broken. Maybe, they would bond together, as siblings often did, in ties so strong no one could or would dare break them. That, Loki could hope for.
“Strength,” he said aloud and plucked a handful of grass and tossed it aside. “That's what I can hope for.” He didn't go back to her question about Angrboda. It wasn't a question he felt he was qualified to answer. He assumed that all mothers loved their children, but there had been so much fighting between she and Loki when they were married. So much fighting. Some of it about their children.
Then he went to a more sensitive area. “But what about physical strength, not just emotional and strength of will?” Loki sighed and looked at his feet, stretched out before him. “You know how Hel is, I've told you as much.” He looked up and remembered what had happened only hours before. She was hurt again. A broken arm, this time. Nothing ever seemed right. She was always broken or bruised or damaged in some way.
It was a terrible shame because Loki loved his daughter very much and he feared for her well-being. “What if she doesn't make it, Idun? What do I do if I lose her?” It was a constant fear of his. Hel was so fragile and perhaps even in ways she didn't yet understand. “Every night I stand vigil by her door, just waiting in fear....” There was never any question of he felt about any of his kids, but these were the first he was actively trying to raise. Eisa and Einmyria were about two when he'd left their mother and divorced her. Sleipnir was given to Odin. These three were his first try at actual parenting, and he was doing it alone.
And one of them was constantly hurt. “I can't lose a child. It would kill me inside.”