O dolorous Sigyn I pray, you who have endured
what no soul should ever have to – the laying to rest
of your parents and your children both.
The latter sorrow has oft been on the lips of poets,
but even the precious names of those who bore you
have disappeared from among mortal men.
The High One may have seen what happened,
Heimdallr may have heard, and the Queen of the Gods,
Frigga too may know, but if so she will speak not a word
of the matter, for it is too covered in grief and bitter tears
to revisit. Instead your story begins
with a child of astounding beauty, hair in tight braids
and clutching a stuffed wolf doll to her tender breast,
staggering into the Vanic lands with her linen dress torn
and stained with soot and blood. So Njörðr found her
near the shores of the great sea, and scooped her up
in his big, strong arms. He stroked her back and whispered
kind things to her as he carried her home
and placed her in the care of his daughter lovely Mardöll,
close to being the girl’s agemate. She made her laugh and shared
her pretty dresses, dolls and other playthings with the girl
while Njörðr armed himself and went out to investigate
what had happened to her parents and if need be
to avenge them. Whatever the Terror of the Deep discovered
he kept it to himself and raised the fosterling
as his own adored and true daughter, naming her Victory Girl
for what she had gone through to join his clan.
These mysteries are yours, Sigyn,
and teach us why family is so dear to you.