The cave is dark and gloomy, with only a tiny glimmer of natural light sneaking in, just enough to be able to almost see. Outside the sea rushes, cashing against the tall cliff walls in deafening clashes that throws the taste of salt into the air and leaves everything constantly feeling damp. The cave walls are rough, the sun never quite reaches the inmost depths of the cave, and the only sound there is, is the echo of the monstrous sea outside.

In the middle of the cave lies a naked man, tied to the walls of the cave by long, thin chains. He looks old. His hair is grey, his face is wrinkled, his hands are boney and his fingers limp, but it’s more than that. It’s not his body or his face as much as it is him. There is no hope left in his eyes, no life left in his hands, no strength in his legs. He is not just old, he is all but dead inside.

Next to him stands a woman. She has long, white hair which falls in a braid down her back. But the braid is messy, with loose strands here and there, and yet the hairs seem to have been bent into shape, as if it has been years since the braid has been loosened. Her clothes are grey and dusty, as if she hasn’t moved in ages. Her arms are stretched up, holding a bowl above the man’s head. A soft, dripping sound echoes around the cave as a new drop lands in the bowl. Perched on a shelf above the man lies a giant snake, its venom dripping slowly, but steadily, into the bowl. The sound of the drip is hollow, as if the bowl is almost full.

The chained-up man is Loki, the Jotun blood brother of Odin of Asgard, chained up and tortured for his involvement in the death of Baldur, Odin’s most beloved son. The woman is Sigyn, Loki’s wife, who has stood by him, holding the bowl to catch the venom, for a thousand years - or however long it has been, no one quite knows.

An earthshattering howl resonates within the cave walls. Sigyn has lowered her bowl and is stepping away from her husband. The myth states that every once in a while, she has to leave the cave to empty out the bowl before it overflows. In theory, a simple task, but as the ground shakes and a scream so seared with pain and agony echoes in the cave walls, one has to wonder if the task really is so simple after all. The earth rumbles and Loki’s cries become like a sea of pain washing over and engulfing everything it touches. For a thousand years it has been like this, first the damp quiet of the cave, a hush so intense it feels almost like drowning, and then the shrieks, the screams, the tormented, choked sobs. They keep coming. Scream after scream, until the whole world seems nothing but the projected agony of the withering man in the cave, until the shrieks drown out even the crashing waves and paint the whole of existence in their horror red. And still Sigyn doesn’t come back. The earth keeps shaking, the screams wash over one another like a constant flood, and there is no end to it. How long can it take to empty a bowl? Certainly not this long. All sense of time is washed away by the shrieks. All there is left of it is “long” and soon “too long”. And then, finally, a shadow blocks out what little light the cave walls allow in. She is back. But when she steps into the cave one thing is clear: her hands are empty. She has no bowl of any kind with her.

But the shadow on the entrance stays, even as she enters. Never before has a shadow awoken such hope as now, and yet, it hesitates. For agonizing seconds, it waits at the entrance. Sigyn does not seem bothered by her husband’s shrieks. I suppose, after a thousand years, one shriek more or less doesn’t register.

A heavy footstep, and then another, carries the shadow down into the cave. Now is the time, it is certain, change is brewing.

The shadow turns out to be two men, both young and handsome, fit and athletic. The shorter one, Ian, looks about ready to pass out at the sounds coming from Loki, held up only by the steadying hand of the taller, ginger man, named Max. As soon as their eyes adjust to the dim light, as soon as the scene in front of them becomes clear, both men jump into action to remove the chains. In a matter of minutes all four chains are undone and tossed aside, and Loki is pulled off the stone that has been his bed since the day he was caught. The next drop of venom falls on the stone, and a hiss of smoke rises up.

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“Barbaric,” Max mumbles, but even his quiet words are drowned out by the deafening silence, as if Loki’s screams have lost everyone their ability to hear. Even the crashing waves outside, so deafening before, seem mute now. For a moment that is all that matters. The quiet, the peace.

“Loki,” Sigyn says, her voice a mixture of commanding and worried. The seemingly half dead man raises his head just off the ground, but offers no other response. “Time is short.” She offers no other words of explanation, but Loki seems to understand her. He hold up a palm, as if to say “just give me a moment to get my bearings again.” Max looks to Ian with a raised eyebrow. Five minutes ago, a crazy old woman had come running up to them, begging them to help free her husband, promising even eternal youth as payment. They had thought her out of her mind, but had agreed to go with her, just in case someone really was in need of aid. But now, standing in a cave prison, with a man who responds to the name Loki… there is something eerie about those two, something that doesn’t quite fit, or maybe just something that doesn’t quite fit this world.

Is it possible, could it be, that they just freed the actual Loki, god of mischief?

Neither of the men speak a word of this out loud, but in the gloomy, damp cave, it seems not just possible, somehow it seems likely, seems true. Max quietly reaches out and takes Ian’s hand. Ian gives a squeeze, probably meant to reassure, but not doing much to relieve the gloom of the single thought lingering between them: Did they just free the trickster god of his prison?

But then Loki moves. He pushes himself up to a sitting position, not fully standing up yet, and reaches up a hand. Sigyn walks around the stone bed and takes his hand in hers. Loki pulls her down to him, and she wraps her arms around him, as if to sooth a crying child.

“Who are you people?” Ian demands in wonder, seemingly asking the universe as much as the actual people in front of him.

“Loki,” a rasp voice says, barely audible. “Of Jotunheim.” The second time the voice is a bit louder, bit clearer, bit stronger.

“Sigyn,” the crazy woman says. “Of Asgard. And yourselves?” The two men look at each other again, a glint in both their eyes, as if this unbelievable thing happening in front of them is really kinda cool.  

“Ian Cornwell,” Ian says. “Of Texas.”

“Max Cornwell,” Max replies. “Of New York, Midgard.” Ian can’t help but smile at that addition.

“Such strange names,” Loki rasps. “Has time passed so far they have made new cities and run out of names for them?”

“Never you mind that, we won’t be staying here for long,” Sigyn interrupts. “As for you two, your reward lies ahead, if you will walk to it.”  

“Reward?” Max asks, for a moment forgetting everything outside the cave.

“Youth,” Ian replies. Their eyes meet, and though not as old or married as long as Sigyn and Loki, they understand each other. Eternal youth. There is no way they are passing that up. Not unless… But Loki can barely stand, he is so weak, and Sigyn did not have the strength to undo his chains herself - there is little chance Max and Ian won’t be able to fight them off, should “eternal youth” turn out to be death. Even if it is, the chance is worth the risk.

“We will walk with you,” Max says and Ian nods. It is like a gift from the gods, this chance - even if it is from the trickster god, it is worth taking.

“Can you transform?” Sigyn asks. Loki straightens up so he is no longer leaned against her, and with a groan of effort the naked man disappears. Sigyn stands up and looks around the cave. With a delicate care she picks up the chains that once bound her husband and rolls them up neatly. For a second, she presses the cold metal to her lips. “I will make this right,” she whispers. “I will set it straight.” Then, with as great care as a mother putting her infant in the crib, she lays the chains down on the stone and straightens up. “Soon,” she promises, her voice no longer a whisper. She turns back to where Loki was moments ago, and crouching down picks up a small snake and lets it slither up her sleeve.

“Let’s go,” she says, determination blocking out everything else from her voice.

“Where to?” Max asks cautiously.

“You’ll see,” she answers. “You never know who might be listening in down here.” Heimdall is said to be able to hear the grass grow and see a flee on a dog in Midgard. If he were to turn his attentions towards the cave, their plan would be far less likely to succeed.