Liesmith: Book 1 of the Wyrd

Twelve

And finally, Point the Fifth: Sigmund didn't want to die. Gods were cool in theory (or video games), but in actuality they seemed to be accompanied by a lot of screaming and violence. Sigmund had read the account of Loki and Sigyn's imprisonment and had just sort of stared at the wall for a while afterward. He wasn't sure if time worked the same way for gods as it did for mortals, but Lain had said he'd escaped during World War II. The actual age of the Vikings had been around 800 to 1100 CE. So that made, what? A thousand years imprisoned in writhing agony, chained by the entrails of his son, held beneath the dripping poison of a snake's fangs? Sigmund couldn't imagine a thousand years of anything, let alone unspeakable suffering. It was astounding Lain was, well . . . Lain, and not some seething mass of hate and resentment, raging violently against the universe.

Maybe that's why Sigyn had done it. Or was that too trite?

Point being, Sigmund was gaining a newfound appreciation for his boring, normal life. With his boring, normal (if extremely nerdy) hobbies and his boring, normal job and his . . . okay, Em and Wayne were neither boring nor normal but they weren't marauding gods of supposed evil, either.

Just, apparently, former valkyries. Sigmund tried to imagine Em in a horned helmet and bustier, serving mead to dead Vikings, and not only failed miserably but received an extensive mental lecture on the objectification of women for his efforts. Even imagination-Wayne drew the line at serving mead, though she'd been okay with the bustier so long as it had been adequately goth.

That was all an awful lot to think about and, by the time Monday morning rolled around, Sigmund still wasn't sure what he'd decided the answer to it all was. At least he understood the question better. Maybe.

—

At work, Sigmund caught up with Em in the parking lot. The first thing she asked him was, "What happened to your hands?" For someone with only a passing interest in other people, Em could be alarmingly observant.

"Oh, uh. I fell," Sigmund said, trying not to rub at the wounds. It was true, in a sense, though the edge of obfuscation still itched. It occurred to him that having a god for a boyfriend might get complicated.

Em seemed to accept his explanation, however, and ribbed him for a while on his clumsiness. They exchanged some small talk and then, as they crossed the wide-open expanse of the LB foyer, Sigmund asked, "What do you know about Sigyn?"

"As in, the god Loki's wife?" Norse mythology was one of those things Em did. Had done, ever since Sigmund had known her. Saga (née Gangleri) wasn't based on it for nothing.

Sigmund nodded. Google hadn't brought up much, but Em read all kinds of tediously dry books on the subject, so . . .

Except she just shrugged. "That's about all there is to know," she said. "She's an ásynja, a goddess. Her name means something like, 'victorious girlfriend.' Some of the main kennings for Loki are along the lines of, 'Sigyn's burden.' They had two kids. She stuck with Loki through his imprisonment. That's about it, really. She might've been more important at some point, but any other stories about her have been lost."

All of which Sigmund already knew, care of the magic of Wikipedia.

Em took his silence as permission to continue. "There've been a few modern incarnations of her, but not many. Some paintings. A few comics. Mostly she's misguided, long-suffering, and ignored."

"What about Loki?" Sigmund asked. "I mean, he's supposed to be, like, evil or something, right?"

Em rocked her hand back and forth in a maybe motion. "The thing you have to understand about Loki," she said, "is that the stories we tell about him today have probably changed a lot over the centuries. Like, you know why Loki got imprisoned?"