We imagine Loki's punishment in the mouth of the cave. After all, He is the god of many mouths, Hveðrungr, Gullveig's last stop, and Stitchlip. Why would he not be in the mouth?
Because you don't put out a fire by giving it, O Loptr, fine mountain air, sunlight, or wind.
You don't squelch a light with more light. You leave it in darkness to rot.
O, that dark primordial Thing. That cold-blooded Prometheus of the frozen north. How do you kill the deathless? You torture it to finality. Liver meet eagle. Sisyphus get happy. Loki, meet hole. (tale as old as time)
You leave him as deep as you can get him. Deep as the quick, that Blood Gave Loðurr.
And you leave that Goatballed Jester without the only thing he ever wanted. An audience. The sound of laughter. Good company.
And you leave that thrice bound sucker there to rot, wrapped round with the promise that your children, too, will be snuffed out like votive candles. Rot with them now and crawl home to your daughter. Crawling King Snake, welcome home.
That's what makes Sigyn so compelling. Sigyn, Victory Woman, The Thing With Feathers -
Rabbit says; "Joy To The Fettered,"
She flies down the tunnel, she comes heartbroken, she comes alone.
This is an Oubliette - who would choose to come but the Victorious?
This isn't Orpheus come to find her blushing bride.
This is Persephone making her bed with the mother of Monsters.
And she comes out again, from the depths which grant no mercy, with neither light, or joy, or wind, or sky. Just a bowl of poison, thirstier once emptied.
Sigyn, The Thing With Feathers, comes out of the cave and the stink and the rot. And does she stop a moment? Does she breathe the alpine air and sigh and maybe, just maybe, weep?
We know just this. She goes back.
Sigyn, The Thing With Feathers, knows that Nothing Lasts Forever. And someday, we know, all hell breaks loose.
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