For seven hundred years, he cries and begs her forgiveness. He tells her to leave him to his fate, to free herself. He wails in grief. He apologizes for all he has cost her, cost them. He tells her he loves her. "Say you forgive me, Sigyn," he sobs, "please."
She says nothing. How can she speak when the smell of offal still lingers in her nose, from the entrails of their son? When she can still hear his screams as he begged his brother-turned-wolf for mercy, for remembrance? How can she speak of forgiveness? Of love?
For nine hundred years he rants. Why will she not speak? Is she to be part of his punishment as well? He curses her, orders her to leave, that her silence is more unendurable than the serpent's venom. He screams that she does not love him. That if she loved him at all, she would speak.
In her mind she speaks. She speaks to her sons, to Nari, ripped apart, to Váli, his wolf-form dragged away in chains, madness in his all too human eyes. She asks them to forgive their father. She asks them to forgive her for loving him beyond all else, beyond all reason, beyond them.
For twelve hundred years there is near silence, broken only by the hiss of the venom as it sears his skin, and his howls of pain. She moves through the endless, identical days, without words, almost without thought, emptying the bowl and returning to his side.
For more than one hundred years she considers what she will say. When she speaks her voice is like rust and sand in a once fine machine. She can barely move her cracked lips. The withered muscles of her face protest in pain. She exhales one word, "Revenge."