Locks and doors don't matter to a being like Horus. They're passing things, here now and nothing but dust in the tides of time. A flap of wings and they're only rust and open spaces again.

The snow is numb against his feathers as he sails over the world; Thoth had asked through clicking beak, or so it had been once upon a time in warmer days. There is a door, one without lock and key, one flesh and blood and shuffling coils of mortality make pilgrimage to. It was unattended, and the bearded viking lord had warned that it had been too long so. Chance risked too long not to watch the door. It was cold and wet with nothing to eat, no warmer breezes to drift on, no bright shining orb to watch his progress. He was tireless and could wrap the world in a single flap of wings but still it was long and difficult without the warmth of the life-giving ball in the sky to guide his progress.

Hawks are not meant for snow and ice, and old gods who forget themselves when away too long are not the most efficient of guides.

He finally finds the sack of heat and meat, landing in an unco-ordinated heap of feathers and snow a few feet in front of it. Cold and wet, wet and cold; he shakes himself off, ruffling feathers and hopping in place, then stares up at the manshape and shrieks at it.