nathanialroyale:

If Loki is a perpetually moving force, Sigyn is the immovable object.  Where He flits to and fro, She stands still.  Where His loyalties shift like the seasons, She is steadfast — standing by Her husband and Her children both.  How could They not love one another? –  Ljot Lokadis

nathanialroyale:

She sits on a rock while a cold wind blows her knotted hair
and the tattered, filthy remnants of her once lovely gown.
Before she was the fairest of all the Ásynjur;
now hardly anyone would recognize her for the lines of sorrow
and ache that etch her pale face like cracks in stone,
like threads of a spider’s web.
Before there was feasting and song and gay laughter
while her flame-haired husband poked fun at the gods
and said the things they most needed but least wanted to hear
— now all she knows is the cup of bone she holds in her strong hands,
a cup carved from the skull of her son Nari.
She hasn’t had time to mourn him properly,
he who was mauled by his brother, he whose heart was devoured by wolfish Váli,
he whose guts bind the son of Laufey beneath the venom-dripping serpent.
All she does is hold that heavy cup in place to relieve the agony of Loki
until it fills and spills over, burning his face.
Every time he wails it’s like a knife through her heart
but it’s unavoidable — the cup must be poured out
so that she can hold it over him and collect the deadly dew of of the wyrm of Skaði once more.
In his raging pain-fueled madness he curses her, blindly lashing out at what’s nearest.
His words strike like fists, wound where none can see
but she does not waver in her task, remains ever by his side,
his steadfast shield in time of greatest need.

–  thehouseofvines

nathanialroyale:

Sigyn, will you sit here awhile with me, while I
Lay, bound to a boulder by frigid black fetters,
Wounded beneath the world? This dark cavern, crawling
Under the earth like a serpent, envelops us
In its dark womb. Worry not, Sigyn, though the snake
Drips poison, powerful venom to wrack me; wroth
Were the gods who gave this sentence to me, Sigyn.
You did not ask for this; the burden mine to bear,
This anguish like an ague that saw me splintering,
Quivering and quaking against the bonds, buried
By sorrow. Sigyn, you descended with me, down
To this abyss, laid by me, stroked my hair, whispered
To me in the dark: “Dear are you to me, my heart;
Even in the black vault beneath the world I will
Stay, standing beside you.” With your bowl, you bought me
Relief from the rain of gall; the gods could not know
You would shield me: sugar to the bitter bile I
swallow. I sweat beneath the serpent’s dribbling fang.
Do not leave me, my love. I am hoarse with howling,

Each moment torment when you empty your bowl, full
Of venom meant for me. I chafe against the chains,
Writhing, wracked and weeping, my own mind against me
Like a black serpent, coiled and dripping corrosion;
Sigyn, the seconds you turn aside and toss your
Cup of toxins, trembling to hear my teeth clenching,
Are interminable. Beneath the world, we are
Both burdened: me by bile, my Sigyn, then, by me.

– Loki and Sigyn by Edward M. Lisovicz ‘13